David (nullnvoid) - South Bend, IN (357 books)

David gave

to:

After the Apocalypse by Maureen F. McHugh

After the Apocalypse: Stories
by Maureen F. McHugh

read in February, 2012

My rating:

Maureen McHugh has a knack—and I say 'knack' because it's even more elusive and intuitive than a talent—for investing each of her short stories with an immediately recognizable humanity, even when trafficking in genre tropes or the wantonly fantastic...moreMaureen McHugh has a knack—and I say 'knack' because it's even more elusive and intuitive than a talent—for investing each of her short stories with an immediately recognizable humanity, even when trafficking in genre tropes or the wantonly fantastical. In the premiere story 'The Naturalist,' the trappings of a traditional zombie story are elevated by an eminently human protagonist named Cahill whose thoughts and concerns aren't those of a caricatured horror movie hero—caught in a dumbshow of hide-and-kill—but those of a naturalistic everyman. Cahill's cunning and practicality are matched by his moral ambiguity. He doesn't correspond either to the prevailing notions of heroism or villainy. He's a muddy character. And it's precisely this psychological muddiness which engages the reader and allows the story to transcend the rote of zombie survivalism tales. McHugh's precise and truthful rendering of what it means to be alive at the beginning of the twenty-first century similarly enlivens all of these stories with an unmistakable sympathy. All of our fears and failings are registered here, along with our doggedness and hope.

I suppose the unifying theme of the book is 'apocalypse' in a very broad, metaphorical sense. Only a few of the stories allude to a literal global cataclysm. Some of the apocalypses are only personal, but devastating in their own proportionate ways. Themes include economic collapse, artificial intelligence, pandemics, dirty bombs, and amnesia. The highlights are 'The Naturalist,' 'Useless Things,' and 'Kingdom of the Blind.' McHugh's only misstep here is the (thankfully) very short story 'Going to France'—a ditzy oddity about flying people. Or something. It's a conspicuous dud among the other eight very accomplished stories included here.

I suppose I ought to thank Gottlieb for badgering me into reading this with his typical spittle-flying hyperbole, but I just can't bring myself to. He said it was the best book of last year. He's probably right, but don't tell him.(less)

David is currently reading:

The Elementary Particles
by Michel Houellebecq

My rating:

David gave

to:

The Postman Always Rings Twice
by James M. Cain

read in January, 2012

My rating:

Adjust your expectations because there are neither postmen nor ringings (of any frequency) in this novel. Even though I didn't much care for the 1946 Lana Turner-John Garfield film adaptation, I decided to read this because the new cover was visually...more

David gave

to:

Hope: A Tragedy
by Shalom Auslander

read in January, 2012

My rating:

The title of Hope: A Tragedy alludes to the philosophy of a radically cynical character in the novel named Professor Jove. In lieu of malice and misfortune, Jove blames human misery simply on hope: despite continual evidence to the contrary, humans s...moreThe title of Hope: A Tragedy alludes to the philosophy of a radically cynical character in the novel named Professor Jove. In lieu of malice and misfortune, Jove blames human misery simply on hope: despite continual evidence to the contrary, humans still foolishly hope for the best and believe a good, reasonably happy life is somehow attainable. In this theory of hope, Hitler becomes an optimist. Although his methods strike us as cruel and—yes—certainly draconian, he believed a better life was in fact possible (i.e., by the elimination of the Jews and other undesirables and a subordination of inferior cultures to the German way). Hope begets disappointment; recurring disappointment begets misery. Had Hitler survived, we wouldn't expect him to be happy. At least, not without meds.

The inside jacket plot description of Shalom Auslander's Hope: A Tragedy is somewhat misleading. It seems to suggest that the main thread of the novel is about a maniacal arsonist who terrorizes the town of Stockton, New York, and its environs by setting farmhouses ablaze. But no. The central plot is about Solomon Kugel, an exurban who moves his family to this bucolic setting only to discover that the aged, decrepit, cantankerous Anne Frank is living in the attic of his new home—defecating in his forced air registers and writing a smutty novel. (This is not a spoiler. The revelation occurs on page 25.)

In other words, the novel is a tragical farce. Now, some people aren't able to deal with farce—and I understand that—in so far as it traffics in the most implausible and outlandish plot points imaginable. (Anne Frank in the attic is really only the tip of the iceberg.) Many contemporary readers are willing to suspend disbelief, but only to a point. Once that line is crossed, they shut down and begin an adversarial relationship with the book. If this is you, avoid this book. Please. I don't want to read your whiny, idiotic review about how completely unrealistic this book is. It's a farce! Farce is not Stephen Crane.

Shalom Auslander is obviously a funny, highly irreverent (read: wonderfully offensive), and witty writer, but it's not all just for laughs. There are some hard truths about life, death, and the burden of history here. The second chapter, for example, is a profound monument, scaffolded in humor, to the death neurosis. Maybe part of my appreciation of the novel is my strong identification with its fixations:

Should I be worried? Kugel asked.

You should only worry, said Sergeant Frankel, about the things you can control.

If I could control them, said Kugel, they wouldn't worry me.

Exactly, said Sergeant Frankel.

Exactly, said I. People who don't worry about death disturb me. There's something defective about them. There. I've said it. I've judged. There is something wrong with those who cling to its inevitability as a reason not to worry about it. No, that's precisely the reason to worry about it, idiots! Anyway, Kugel is an extreme exaggeration of many of my thoughts and feelings. Distorted though they may be, I recognize them easily here. And yes, I laugh at them. What else can you do? (I mean, when you're not hyperventilating into a paper bag.)(less)

David gave

to:

We Think the World of You
by J.R. Ackerley

read in January, 2012

My rating:

I had some problems with We Think the World of You—some of which aren't exactly J.R. Ackerley's fault. For one, this is a novel depicting low-class British scum who neglect and sometimes abuse a wonderful German shepherd named Evie. Anyone who knows...moreI had some problems with We Think the World of You—some of which aren't exactly J.R. Ackerley's fault. For one, this is a novel depicting low-class British scum who neglect and sometimes abuse a wonderful German shepherd named Evie. Anyone who knows me even a little will realize I will be bothered by this, even though Ackerley himself and his narrator both love, champion, and celebrate dogs, particularly Evie. Ackerley was a misanthrope devoted to his own dog in real life, apparently, so there is a strong affinity in that respect, but I have to lay my predisposition out on the table: in general, I don't want to read books about imperiled or suffering animals—even if the writing is good (as it is here), even if the point of the work is the defense or celebration of animals, and even if it ends happily ever after (view spoiler). This aversion will necessarily color my appreciation of this book.

We Think the World of You tells the story of Frank, an irritable gay man, in a longterm relationship with a married working class man named Johnny, who has just been put in prison at the outset of the novel for theft. Johnny needs someone to take care of his puppy Evie while he's in prison, but Frank, peevishly, refuses. The responsibility then falls to Johnny's parents Millie (a blithe dingbat) and Tom (a cruel old grouch). Also saddled with one of Johnny's kids, Millie and Tom take little interest in Evie—keeping her shut inside all day with little or no attention or love. After Evie charms Frank during a visit, he becomes obsessed with the plight of the dog, trying to rescue her from her fate, but he is regularly blocked in his efforts by Millie, Tom, Johnny's jealous wife Megan, and—to some circumstantial extent—by Johnny himself. Evie is, of course, a barking, put-upon symbol in the lives of these characters, and as such she must suffer neglect, loneliness, and the effects of superfluity in the lives of her 'family' while the ever persistent Frank works for her salvation—and, in so doing, his own.

Postscript: I've just been reading reviews of J.R. Ackerley's My Dog Tulip, an autobiographical novel about his own relationship with his German shepherd. According to multiple reviewers, Ackerley becomes obsessed with breeding his dog (twice) and then both times considers drowning the puppies. Fuck you, J.R. Ackerley. If there is a hell, I hope you're in it, you miserable crank.(less)

David is currently reading:

Blood on the Forge
by William Attaway

My rating:

David gave

to:

A High Wind in Jamaica
by Richard Hughes

read in January, 2012

My rating:

Where has this book been all my life? I've been dreamily gazing out my window all these long hot summers, yearning for just the novel to fulfill my every need—to take me in its sweet-lovin' arms and say without ever quite saying, 'I'm the one. And I'...moreWhere has this book been all my life? I've been dreamily gazing out my window all these long hot summers, yearning for just the novel to fulfill my every need—to take me in its sweet-lovin' arms and say without ever quite saying, 'I'm the one. And I've brought the hot oils and penicillin.' It seems a little cruel, or at least irresponsible, for A High Wind in Jamaica to have hidden in the shadows of literary obscurity for so long, forcing me to waste precious hours of my life reading dreck like V.S. Naipaul and Auster's Brooklyn Follies, but why bemoan the past when in fact we're the lucky ones? Some poor saps read all their lives without meeting their literary soulmates and then die with that nagging dissatisfaction pursuing them to the grave. Not me. I've found Salinger, Proust, Bernhard, Krasznahorkai, Richard Hughes, and the rest. (Okay—so I have a lot of soulmates.) This is my orgy of destiny, and the Do Not Disturb sign is on the doorknob.

Just now I said that A High Wind in Jamaica has been hiding 'in the shadows of literary obscurity.' That's not exactly true. It came in at number seventy-one (I believe) on the Modern Library's ridiculous best novels of 20th century list. But still—it doesn't exactly have widespread name recognition like Hemingway, Orwell, or Joyce. It should be just as well-known, of course, but this isn't a fair world. Remember that the Kardashians are celebrities. (That's my current back-to-reality incantation. It quickly counteracts any tendency to expect justice in this world.)

A High Wind in Jamaica is a wickedly unsentimental portrait of childhood and the innocence thereof. It is a needful antidote to the prevailing sense that childhood innocence is the equivalent of moral goodness—because it clearly is not. Young children are largely amoral and, as such, are capable of nearly anything. From the vantage of our adult morality, children can seem callous, cruel, and perhaps even evil. This is a misinterpretation, of course, because they as yet lack the signal posts to act in defiance of a proscribed morality. What they are (to a certain extent) is unmoderated expression. This is a little terrifying to us once we've been fully domesticated by society. And Richard Hughes understands this.

The story is simple enough. In the 1800s, several children are shipped by their parents from their Jamaican plantations back home to London to avoid the environmental and climatic perils of island life. On the way, their ship is hijacked by pirates and they are unintentionally taken prisoner. Thereafter, they become accomplices of the pirates in their continuing adventures. Hughes embellishes the story with an astonishing gift for imagery and turn of phrase and a knack for the blackest kind of humor. I'm well aware that the vague synopsis above is likely to turn away as many readers as it will woo. Just let me assure you that it isn't what you think, and it's probably like nothing you've ever read. It may not be your literary soulmate, but its uniqueness of tone, vision, and temperament deserves to be read.(less)

David gave

to:

As a Man Grows Older
by Italo Svevo

read in January, 2012

My rating:

Italo Svevo's 1890s novel As a Man Grows Older is the perfect gift for people who have never experienced human emotions but are curious what they are like. So the next time you're wondering what to get that certain hard-to-buy-for humanoid for his I...more

David gave

to:

Monsieur Proust
by Celeste Albaret

read in December, 2011

My rating:

Céleste Albaret, Marcel Proust's majordomo and jacqueline-of-all-trades for the last ten years (or so) of his life, 'wrote' this memoir in the 1970s. And by 'wrote' I mean that she rattled off her memories to a ghostwriter, and then the ghostwriter's...moreCéleste Albaret, Marcel Proust's majordomo and jacqueline-of-all-trades for the last ten years (or so) of his life, 'wrote' this memoir in the 1970s. And by 'wrote' I mean that she rattled off her memories to a ghostwriter, and then the ghostwriter's book Monsieur Proust was later translated into English. So the NYRB edition of Monsieur Proust referenced here is really twice-removed from a first-person account. But probably another layer of removal is implied by the fifty years which passed between the events of the book and Albaret's recollections. I don't know about you, but I have a difficult time remembering what I did or said last week, so (to my thinking) an account fifty years after the fact necessarily implies approximation. Albaret, ironically, weakens her case for accuracy when she insists that she remembers (quite a few) exact quotations and precise details. But nothing is more damaging to her claim of nearly exhaustive knowledge of Proust during the final years of his life than her insistence that he was not a homosexual. Her arguments seem motivated by rationalizations and perhaps by her own preference that Proust not be homosexual, but who really knows? One of Albaret's lamest attempts to buttress her case is her claim that Proust told her pretty much everything, so he would have likewise told her of his 'indiscretions.' Either this assertion overstates her intimacy with Proust or vastly understates what it meant to be a closeted gay man in the very early part of the twentieth century. Without any hint of irony, Albaret maintains that Proust several times visited a male brothel but only for purposes of research. Of course, his observations at the brothel are featured memorably in Time Regained, but one tends to raise an eyebrow at the claim that his interests were solely educational. Albaret spends one chapter itemizing the 'loves of his life' (all of them women, all of them seemingly chaste) and discusses the 'real' Gilberte Swann, Duchesse de Guermantes, Madame Verdurin, and others (although these characters were amalgams of many real people). All of this is interesting, even if it belies the true objects of his affections.

Despite all this, Albaret's book is fascinating for Proustophiles. (And make no mistake—this book is only for hardcore Proustophiles. Dabblers need not apply.) Maybe Albaret didn't know all of the particulars of Proust's sexual tastes, but she certainly knew almost everything about his reclusive lifestyle during his final decade. After having read Monsieur Proust, I have a very specific, fully fleshed-out idea of a day-to-day existence that was only hazy and trivial before. The cork-lined walls, the nocturnal life, the phobia of germs and illnesses, the ascetic diet, the ritualistic behavior... the fabled bedroom on Boulevard Haussmann... It's all here, in vivid detail. Albaret, who is one of the models for the maid Francoise in A la recherche du temps perdu, is worshipful; she adores Proust, and she has almost nothing to say that is critical of him—except on those curious occasions when she reveals things she doesn't imagine to be damning but which—in the minds of most readers—will probably seem so. Is there evidence to support the many claims of Proust's snobbishness? Yes. Is he demanding and authoritative? Yes. Do we get the sense that Proust is emotionally cold, dryly analytic, as if he stands resolutely apart from the world he observes? That his melacholy is somehow abstract and unengaged? Absolutely. But he's also charming, generous, and funny—and unfailingly loyal to Céleste Albaret. There's an absorbing chapter on the notorious dandy Count Robert de Montesquiou, who serves as the primary model for the equally notorious Baron de Charlus. Montesquiou was a frightening kind of man capable of outrageously rude and spiteful behavior. Proust warned Albaret that if he ever received chocolates from Montesquiou, they should be thrown out; they might be poisoned. There's also a great section on Proust's (and Albaret's) atttitude toward André Gide, the famed French writer who rejected the manuscript of Swann's Way and later came to regret it. All in all, Monsieur Proust, faults and all, is a must-read for any diehard Proust fan, and I'm kind of shocked only twentysome people have rated it on Goodreads. If you've devoted a significant chunk of your life to reading all of A la recherche du temps perdu, then make time for the additional four hundred pages of Monsieur Proust.(less)

David gave

to:

Great Granny Webster
by Caroline Blackwood

read in December, 2011

My rating:

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David gave to: After the Apocalypse: Stories by Maureen F. McHugh read in February, 2012	My rating:
Maureen McHugh has a knack—and I say 'knack' because it's even more elusive and intuitive than a talent—for investing each of her short stories with an immediately recognizable humanity, even when trafficking in genre tropes or the wantonly fantastic...more
Feb 05, 2012 04:49pm · see review
David is currently reading: The Elementary Particles by Michel Houellebecq	My rating:
Jan 24, 2012 08:49am
David gave to: The Postman Always Rings Twice by James M. Cain read in January, 2012	My rating:
Adjust your expectations because there are neither postmen nor ringings (of any frequency) in this novel. Even though I didn't much care for the 1946 Lana Turner-John Garfield film adaptation, I decided to read this because the new cover was visually...more
Jan 23, 2012 08:39pm · see review
David gave to: Hope: A Tragedy by Shalom Auslander read in January, 2012	My rating:
The title of Hope: A Tragedy alludes to the philosophy of a radically cynical character in the novel named Professor Jove. In lieu of malice and misfortune, Jove blames human misery simply on hope: despite continual evidence to the contrary, humans s...more
Jan 22, 2012 07:02am · see review
David gave to: We Think the World of You by J.R. Ackerley read in January, 2012	My rating:
I had some problems with We Think the World of You—some of which aren't exactly J.R. Ackerley's fault. For one, this is a novel depicting low-class British scum who neglect and sometimes abuse a wonderful German shepherd named Evie. Anyone who knows...more
Jan 10, 2012 12:24am · see review
David is currently reading: Blood on the Forge by William Attaway	My rating:
Jan 06, 2012 04:24am
David gave to: A High Wind in Jamaica by Richard Hughes read in January, 2012	My rating:
Where has this book been all my life? I've been dreamily gazing out my window all these long hot summers, yearning for just the novel to fulfill my every need—to take me in its sweet-lovin' arms and say without ever quite saying, 'I'm the one. And I'...more
Jan 05, 2012 04:19am · see review
David gave to: As a Man Grows Older by Italo Svevo read in January, 2012	My rating:
Italo Svevo's 1890s novel As a Man Grows Older is the perfect gift for people who have never experienced human emotions but are curious what they are like. So the next time you're wondering what to get that certain hard-to-buy-for humanoid for his I...more
Jan 02, 2012 08:11am · see review
David gave to: Monsieur Proust by Celeste Albaret read in December, 2011	My rating:
Céleste Albaret, Marcel Proust's majordomo and jacqueline-of-all-trades for the last ten years (or so) of his life, 'wrote' this memoir in the 1970s. And by 'wrote' I mean that she rattled off her memories to a ghostwriter, and then the ghostwriter's...more
Dec 28, 2011 07:11am · see review
David gave to: Great Granny Webster by Caroline Blackwood read in December, 2011	My rating:
Dec 26, 2011 07:09pm

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