Though sometimes classified as science-fiction, there is no science in this book. It is more like an alternate present, if things had gone very wrong back in the 1980s. In this society, women are totally subservient to men, acting as slaves (including sex slaves) and controlled by a brutal power structure. Among many disturbing scenes and descriptions, the most memorable ones involve the ceremonies for conception and birth, in which a sterile wife frames the body of her proxy womb (the forced surrogate mother) in a sick, symbolic portrayal of the Biblical story of Rachel and Leah.
The use of first-person narrative is effective here, but I sometimes tired of the wistful memories of the character's previous (normal) life, and sometimes her analysis of the new world order seems too on-point to be realistic. She talks about how her mind is being warped by these new rules and brutalities, but it doesn't come through authentically in how she tells the story or interprets certain events. Nonetheless, it's a very good morality tale and satire about women's rights and, really, human rights. ]]>
Jonathan
read and liked
Sherry's
review of Speaker for the Dead (Ender Wiggins Saga):
"One of the most intricate, thought-provoking science fiction books I've ever read. "
"One of the most intricate, thought-provoking science fiction books I've ever read. "
bookshelves: currently-reading
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The Remains of the Day -- in Japan. This book is similar to Ishiguro's better known story of a reserved English butler, but the context is totally different. An elderly, retired painter is looking back on his life, deconstructing his own angst over what he believes to be grave mistakes that contributed to the downfall of traditional Japanese society after World War II. The narrator is, by his own admission, not to be trusted for accurate transcripts of the dramatic conversations and events that shaped his life. We readers are left wondering what, if anything, he says can be trusted. This uncertainty forces you to examine the main character's emotions and motivations more directly than usual, because the subtext is the actual story; the plot is merely a framework. But this is not a challenging book in the vein of Joyce or Faulkner. Ishiguro's writing is smooth and natural. The conversations, between characters or between the narrator and the reader, are often riveting not for what is said but for what is left unsaid. ]]>
I began reading Swann's Way in July 2006 and finally finished it on October 19, 2009. I picked it up many times in those three years, often reading only a few pages before moving on to other, more interesting books. Reading Proust felt like a challenge, an ordeal, yet oddly satisfying. I would liken it to reading the Bible, but the Bible is easier.
Swann's Way is not what I could call a "good book". There is no plot to speak of; characters do nothing, for dozens of pages at a time. Even the descriptions, which are all that remain, seem cobbled together in a framework that perhaps only Proust and his devotees can explain. Never have I read anything that required so much force of will from the reader. There is absolutely nothing here to pull me along, to keep the pages turning. You know the scene in Half-Blood Prince where Dumbledore has to keep drinking the poison until it's all gone? That's how I sometimes felt reading Swann's Way.
However, it is at times a beautiful poison. You'll get no argument from me about Proust's genius. His writing is lethargic, meandering, obsessed with seemingly useless details of observation and emotion. Yet not infrequently, he will drop a turn of phrase or a certain poetic description, or on the most treasured occasions, a keen truth of human nature, that will leave you breathless.
I can't say whether reading hundreds of pages of Proust is really worth those nuggets of joy. It isn't for me, but clearly there are generations of readers who are sufficiently fascinated, or perhaps perpetually confused, enough to drag themselves through this literary swamp.
It seems unlikely that I will ever torture myself with the next book, Within a Budding Grove, much less the rest of the canon. For one thing, I'd like to get through the Bible again before I die. ]]>
"Finally, the home stretch."
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A friend described this as McCarthy's most mainstream book, even calling it a "sell-out". I agree that it is easier to read than Blood Meridian (my only other McCarthy experience, so far), but The Road is hardly a feel-good beach read. A man and his son limp from one meal to the next, in search of a better life that they both know does not exist. The post-apocalyptic world, destroyed by unnamed forces, is a gray shadow of human civilization and a presumably self-imposed destruction that demolished not only humanity but nearly every living thing on the planet. I love the irony that the scant survivors must rely on processed, preserved food, remnants of the lost world. In McCarthy tradition, there are some truly horrifying images as the father and son encounter the depravity of a starving mankind. But in the end, the story manages to be hopeful and even sweet in the face of oppressive conditions and an uncertain future. ]]>
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I haven't read many mystery novels, and you don't need to be a fan of the genre to enjoy this book. Sam Spade is a man's man, inscrutable and extremely tough, and he's also excellent at his job. Never do we readers leave his presence, yet he is able to weave through the complex plot developments while we remain mystified until he spells out what has really happened. The expertise and wild unpredictability of this character keep the book exciting and tense throughout. Now I can't wait to see the film again (which is unusually faithful to the source material). ]]>