Kyle's Reviews > Vertigo

Vertigo by W.G. Sebald
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Jan 12, 10

bookshelves: shelved
Read in January, 2010

I was laying in bed reading this "novel" when I finally became enraged at page 150something and threw it six feet down to the floor. The sound it made when it hit the floor, that quick accordion "floap" a thrown book makes was one the most joyous sounds I have ever heard. I was finally released from the "novel's" grasp.

The book does have a pull to it, something that draws you to read and keep reading, but the fact that I could not recall what had happened after reading any part of the book and that he skips points almost mid-sen, the book is a dream. Thats all, a dream in written form. I can never remember my dreams except for a piece here and a part there and I have no idea how I transition from one part of my dream to another, somehow I am just magically riding a hockey stick like a pogo stick making effortless 100 yard jumps down a dirt road in the middle of Hollywood/Las Vegas looking for my cousin's friend's neighbor's house in order to go home/Disneyland. There is no point to my dreams, just as there is no point to this book But I might be wrong, as I did not actually finish the book. In my mind, torturing myself by reading this nonsense collection of words, commas, commas, commas, commas, and commas just to see if whatever the hell is going on in the "plot" comes together to make an actual point just was not worth anything.

Which brings me to an important part of books, movies, plays, any kind of entertainment really, the PLOT. Every good book has a plot, every bad book has a plot, but I have never read a book with no plot (seeing as I did not finish Vertigo). I understand all the talk about Vertigo is about memory, but its just a collection of memories. I could sit and tell you memories that happen to dance across my mind, but that would be boring to you and to me. Wait, thats how I fall asleep. I will end with a quote from F. Scott Fitzgerald that I believe explains what this book really is,

"But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot. The most grotesque and fantastic conceits haunted him in his bed at night. A universe of ineffable gaudiness spun itself out in his brain while the clock ticked on the washstand and the moon soaked with wet light his tangled clothes upon the floor. Each night he added to the pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace. For awhile these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing."
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01/05/2010 page 25
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