I've not quite finished reading it yet, but I know already I'll read it again.
"Innocence always calls mutely for protection when we would be so much w...moreI've not quite finished reading it yet, but I know already I'll read it again.
"Innocence always calls mutely for protection when we would be so much wiser to guard ourselves against it: innocence is like a dumb leper who has lost his bell, wandering the world, meaning no harm."
"Death was the only absolute value in my world. Lose life and one would lose nothing again for ever. I envied those who believed in a God and I distrusted them. I felt they were keeping their courage up with a fable of the changeless and the permanent. Death was far more certain than God, and with death there would no longer be the daily possibility of love dying. The nightmare of a future of boredom and indifference would lift. I could never have been a pacifist. To kill a man was surely to grant him an immeasurable benefit. Oh yes, people always, everywhere, loved their enemies. It was their friends they preserved for pain and vacuity."
I wonder if Cormac McCarthy ever read this book...the sparse prose made me occasionally think of his writing, especially of The Road.
I read this as my...moreI wonder if Cormac McCarthy ever read this book...the sparse prose made me occasionally think of his writing, especially of The Road.
I read this as my sister and I tend my mother on her deathbed, and last night after I finished the last chapter I had a terrible nightmare about a serial killer who chased me out of the company of my friend Luke. Which probably means nothing except too much stress at the moment. Luke is easygoing and would just stick out his foot and trip a serial killer. We will never be in love; we are better than that.
This book will stay with me a long time but I don't think I'll read it again. The scariest parts are mercifully short and withheld until the end which roars defiantly with the vehemence of all good endings: true love for true love's sake.
It's difficult to remember NOT being able to read. If I concentrate, I vaguely recall at four or five years old the mystified excitement I felt looking at books and starting to understand that those marks under the pictures RELATED to the pictures, told the story that went with them.
The anticipatory feeling that all those stories and information and thoughts were all just WAITING out there to be taken in hand and head. Ingested.
Reading The Giant's Fence evokes a similar childlike excitement. A visceral feeling that the story is just beyond grasp, but with focus and imagination, a meaning may emerge. Or may not. Either way, you keep looking. Ingesting.
The folkloric primitive but meticulous images look like they could have been chiseled as inscriptions on ancient vine-covered stone ruins, lost in the jungle. Keeping the title in mind, a three word poem really, I felt like an explorer, marveling, wondering. Imagining.
The Giant's Fence maintains a notable rhythm that not simply reinforces the images, but provides the book's structure, pace, its movement. Perhaps a less suggestive review would be more in order, but I cannot resist noting that The Giant's Fence rhythm brought to my mind the drumbeats in the original King Kong's Monster Island scene.
Ingested line by line, or whole pages at a time, this book pleases the eye and mind of the reader with the mystery and aesthetics peculiar to asemic writing. (less)