Egan studies the effects that trauma and loneliness have on the forlorn homo sapien, forever living in the past, bound by the past, enacting the past Egan studies the effects that trauma and loneliness have on the forlorn homo sapien, forever living in the past, bound by the past, enacting the past all over again. What is a keep but a fortress? And what does one do with emotions perhaps best left unexamined? They are put away, imprisoned. And so this study of loneliness and the gaps & traps that hinder human connection features both fortress and prison. Egan tells her tale in three threads: the story of the keep and the story of the prison intertwining, their tragic protagonists connected in the worst sort of way; a story of an emotional and mental prison that entraps the story's third protagonist follows upon their heels. The author plays with time and narrative, genre and perspective. Genre in particular is just a trapping for her, used when needed. The most effective parts of the novel occur when her play with the gothic genre is front & center, especially a tense and emotional sequence set under the keep, when our band of characters decide to explore some recently discovered tunnels. Unfortunately, the rest of the novel was a pallid and uninvolving experience for me. Too much in its head at times. An ambitious and well-written book, but two of the three perspectives - a pretentious hipster and a snarky convict - just rubbed me the wrong way, and I really did not appreciate their company. They taught me nothing except for new ways to be annoyed. But I did like the third perspective - a young mom & teacher with problems, trying to pull her life together - and I wished the whole book was about her. Just when her adventure seems ready to begin, the book ends. Alas!...more
What a woman! So say the residents of the village Carlingford, women and men alike, as they stand by thoroughly impressed by the marvelous LucillaWhat a woman! So say the residents of the village Carlingford, women and men alike, as they stand by thoroughly impressed by the marvelous Lucilla Marjoribanks, big of frame and hearty of appetite, and all of 19 years of age, as she goes about her business, arranging their social calendars and establishing who's boss, blithely laughing at the idea of marriage - she has more important things to do, such as caring for her widowed father, making sure their living room fabrics bring out the best in her complexion while making just as certain that there is a minimum of drama, malice, and hurt feelings to bother any of her fellow villagers. What a woman! So says her cousin Tom in wonder, helplessly smitten, and so says her protégé Barbara Lake, more venomously, foolishly thinking herself a rival. What a woman! Lucilla herself may say, when considering herself privately, blithely aware that she was born to do good, a bold woman but a subtle one, armed with the knowledge that she certainly knows what's best for her, and for all.
What - a woman? say the residents of the village Carlingford, when considering who should crave the forging of their own destinies. Surely no woman could crave such a thing, not a Barbara Lake with her dark, sultry eyes and her longing for a more comfortable life, nor a Lucilla Marjoribanks, who despite being efficiency personified, would certainly not hope to live a life guided by her own standards, and not those of society. What - a woman? say the citizens of 19th century England, and elsewhere, when considering who should be allowed to vote. Surely no woman would be interested in such manly matters as political representation and the running of government - heaven forfend!
What a woman, says Mrs. Oliphant of Lucilla Marjoribanks, proud of her flawed but always delightful creation, a character that is an exemplar of sympathy towards others, a model of efficiency, a general in a gentle war against any who would control her or otherwise foolishly attempt to get in her way. What a woman, says this reviewer of Mrs. Oliphant, in awe at the author's calm and unfussy style, her dry humor, her deep empathy for her heroine, her charming and sardonic portrait of a village that is just one stop on the journey that is Lucilla's life.
What a woman: all hail Mrs. Oliphant! The bearing of a dowager empress, the rather weary kindness of a saint, the mischievousness of a clever child, and the thoroughly unsentimental heart of a realist that still recognizes the human in us all...
a pox on me! this is the second exercise in miserablism that I've read this year about young men flailing about in a world that doesn't care about thea pox on me! this is the second exercise in miserablism that I've read this year about young men flailing about in a world that doesn't care about them and featuring young women who are portrayed as enigmatic, whorish victims of life. well, I suppose everyone's a victim of life in these books.
I like to compare & contrast and so it was inevitable for me to put Skippy Dies next to this much shorter, less ambitious, yet somewhat more enjoyable novel. despite this book being a depressing take on the Superhero Origin Story and Skippy basically being an unfunny Catch-22 in a boys' private school, the commonalities are real. both start strong: Skippy Dies' sardonic beginning vividly sketches a panorama of lives; Heart Does Not Grow Back portrays its small town world with a granular and sympathetic realism that was striking. both star a depressed, whinging lead (the hero in this one, the teacher in Skippy): static so-called protagonists who are nearly intolerable to spend time with, so entranced are they by their navel-gazing and boring obsessions. both include an eye-rolling ending where the author displays their miserablist version of heroism. both have certain issues when it comes to understanding women, to say the least. and both centralize a dynamic, layered character who I wished the novel was actually about (the title character in Skippy and in this book, Mack, the lead's brash alpha-asshole of a best friend). I guess this book gets a star more than Skippy because at least Mack doesn't die? I dunno. But I didn't end this one feeling angry, just annoyed....more
synopsis: pirates can have a heart; children, never.
I have a shelf called "World of Insects" where I put literary novels whose perspectives on human nsynopsis: pirates can have a heart; children, never.
I have a shelf called "World of Insects" where I put literary novels whose perspectives on human nature are cold and detached; these stories often function as dissections. They provide examples of how humans lack a moral compass and follow predictably selfish behavior patterns. I have another shelf called "These Fragile Lives" with books that illustrate how humans are a complex and delicate web of emotions. These warmer stories depict human nature with a certain empathy. A High Wind in Jamaica belongs on both shelves. This off-putting but still quite absorbing anti-adventure has a dual perspective. The writing is both sardonic and sunny, at once disturbingly realistic and gorgeously poetic; the tone is light that conceals darkness; the narrative is a wonderful series of surprises yet is also one that is bleak, deterministic. The pirates are sympathetic until one is reminded that some men want adult things from a child. The kids are delightful until one is reminded that some children aren't overly concerned with truth or kindness. Remind me to never go on a pirate adventure with either children or pirates!
Time stops when you come. Or is it when you "cum"? I've never been too sure about the appropriate usage of either word, whether the two worADULTS ONLY
Time stops when you come. Or is it when you "cum"? I've never been too sure about the appropriate usage of either word, whether the two words are interchangeable or if they refer to different parts of the orgasm - the orgasm itself, or perhaps simply the ejaculate? What word is for the feeling and what word is for the product? I dunno. If anyone has any hard, fast rules on the topic, please share. Sharing is caring. Although honestly, I'm not sure I care?
Anyway, the comic book series Sex Criminals takes this conceit of time stopping when having that perfect Angel into Buffy moment, that gasping moment of bliss, that little death, and it runs with it. When these sex criminals orgasm, perhaps with the one they love, or just really like, or are just really attracted to, or perhaps all by themselves, or by themselves plus some toys.... time stops. And what do they do when time stops? Sometimes fun things, like rearranging people and objects in hilariously inappropriate tableaux that cause much chagrin when time starts again. Sometimes more serious things, like robbing banks to stop capitalist oppression of the little guy, or in this case, the little library.
SPOILER: capitalism usually wins. For now, at least...
ADULTS ONLY
This is an adult book, but not because of the graphic sex. Teens know all about graphic sex, whether they've had it or not; sex isn't just for adults. This is an adult book because it is about adults, what it means to be an adult, to grow to change to not-change to be disappointed to examine the past to search for the flaws to rationalize to try to heal to try to keep growing to try to understand yourself to try to understand others to try to understand the world to try to understand your place in it to try and be okay with the fact that you can't change things to realize you can't even change yourself to keep on trying to change to keep on going to keep on growing to keep on feeling pain to keep on feeling love to keep on keeping on to try to feel sane to try to feel normal to try to connect to try and to fail and to keep on trying
The book is raw and honest and real; it is meta and postmodern and surreal; it is intimate and personal and private; it is a fun and clownish adventure; it is a sad song about sad lives; it is a happy tune about trying to do the right thing, for yourself, for others, for the world.
It is certainly an original achievement!
ADULTS ONLY
The writing is smart, soulful, witty, and wise. I wonder if I appreciated it so much because I have a lot of years behind me. I wonder what I would think about the book if I had just as many years ahead of me.
The art is colorful and eclectic, often as goofy and vibrant as the story itself, and sometimes as mournful, with people that look like real people and sex that looks like real sex.
I'm really looking forward to getting the second volume! It's not cheap, but hey I'm an adult and can afford such things....more
I thought this would be a chilly psychological murder mystery with a classic French Existentialism™ gloss. Instead I read a haunting character study oI thought this would be a chilly psychological murder mystery with a classic French Existentialism™ gloss. Instead I read a haunting character study of a child filled with angst and dread, trying and failing to make sense of the disorienting world around him, never understanding the true nature of his existence in this meaningless, absurd, and often deadly world. Which is basically French Existentialism in a nutshell. Beautifully written, mysterious and moving and humane, and so very sad....more
I mean, it is a perfectly good cover, nicely grotesque and creepy, but it is in no way representative of the stories wIGNORE THE COVER OF THIS BOOK! *
I mean, it is a perfectly good cover, nicely grotesque and creepy, but it is in no way representative of the stories within. No doubt certain mercenary publishers hoped to capitalize on Tanith Lee's reputation for gothic strangeness. Thus, the interesting but misguided cover.
This is my first experience reading relatively mainstream, I suppose "literary" fiction by one of my all-time favorite authors. Although "literary" is the wrong word. Let's be clear mark, these are romantic stories about love and sex, no need to be shy, you have nothing against romance, at least not theoretically.
Disturbed by Her Song is a collection of romantic queer fiction. Men on men, women on women, or just another Thursday for Tanith Lee. Her skills are in full effect. Except for the first story, there are basically no supernatural or fantasy elements. Surprise! Well for me at least. These are beautifully written gems, despite a certain smallness to some of them (and therefore 3 stars, due to the minor note nature of most of these stories). The prose enchants, per usual for the author.
For some reason, the author decided to use a not so great literary device of these stories being "told" to her by the two cover characters - siblings, both queer, who Tanith Lee "met" - and man I'm getting tired of using quotation marks, so enough mark. The literary conceit is unnecessary and rather distracting. Too meta, too twee. Honestly, also a little amateurish. Anyway.
Although all the stories were artful, there were three that really shined:
"Black-Eyed Susan" - the reserved new maid at a decrepit hotel finds some hot & sexy times in the arms of a fellow maid, but much more importantly, notices that there is an attractive spirit walking about - perhaps (view spoiler)[the spirit of someone who is still living's... past (hide spoiler)]? This was an absorbing tale and gave me that great feeling of wanting to follow the protagonist off on future strange, hot adventures.
"The X's Are Not Kisses" - I loved this story about the breakdown and potential regeneration of the romance between a young bookseller and her perhaps fey (or perhaps not) paramour, a musician. I actually shed some tears over the intense emotion on display, and here I thought my tear well was dry.
"Death and the Maiden" - oh boy, this was delightfully bizarre and sinister, despite having no overt horror elements. A forthright woman is swept off her feet by a handsome, even more forthright Lady of a Manor, except it is all a long-game plot to help that Lady's daughter not be such a doormat. But it's so much more - identities taking over each other, the way that some women internalize and then enact the misogyny of some men upon other women, topping from the bottom, maternal bonds vs. romantic bonds... so much to enjoy. Also quite hot.
* drunk review, sorry for the all caps! also, apologies for the overuse of quotation marks & "hot" oops did it again...more
The slice of life is a guide, an instruction manual to understand a life. It is a bore at first, like many such manuals,
"Do you know what I mean?"
The slice of life is a guide, an instruction manual to understand a life. It is a bore at first, like many such manuals, like many such lives, when looking at the minutiae, when looking from the outside in. The life moves forward in stops and starts, decisions are made, love lives and dies and death is imagined then made real. The life goes on, and so starts another life, and then another..
"Yes," she said. "It's like a... dance somehow, a minuet or a pavane. Something stately and pointless, with all its steps set out. With a beginning, and an end..."
This is our world, and another world, the past world, and the world of the future. Life cycles on, history repeats itself, religion gives and takes away, the individual rises and falls while unaware of their place in that cycle, the causality of actions small and large, the rippling effect of one human upon many other humans...
"sometimes I think life's all a mass of significance, all sorts of strands and threads woven like a tapestry or a brocade. So if you pulled one out or broke it the pattern would alter right back through the cloth.
The author inhabits the characters and their descendants, this world and its antecedents. No attempt is made to make the experience an easy one for the reader, to make a described life come alive for any but the characters he has created, to make an envisioned world make sense for any but the residents of that world. And yet the characters come alive, as any life becomes understandable upon close and patient review, using that intangible tool empathy. And yet the world comes alive, as any world becomes comprehensible after living in it, after seeing that world in terms of not just differences but commonalities. Time marches on and time folds back in upon itself, the folds make something large seem small; but unfold that little world and its characters, and see how big it all becomes...
"Then I think... it would make just as much sense backwards as forwards, effects leading to causes and those to more effects... maybe that's what will happen, when we get to the end of Time. The whole world will shoot undone like a spring, and wind itself back to the start..."
She sings a song to God, who listens. God in return gives her pain, sadness, loneliness, and above all else, love. God cherishes the martyrs and MarieShe sings a song to God, who listens. God in return gives her pain, sadness, loneliness, and above all else, love. God cherishes the martyrs and Mariette walks the martyr way, a thorny path and a bloody one. She sings a song about her love for God, and some of her sisters listen while others turn away, or seek to silence her song. She will sing on, relentless, to believers and disbelievers, true and false friends alike. She cannot help herself: she embraces her ecstasy, her martyrdom. Perhaps she was born to sing, to suffer, and so transcend.
Hansen sang his own song when writing this pristine novel. Each bride of Christ is given their moment, each moment is given its due. Their humanity is on display, small moments and large ones, generous gestures and mean ones, all are small pieces of the larger whole. The natural world is on display as well: the land and the seasons, the blooming of flowers, the coming of frost. Hansen exults in the minutiae - no act or thought or bloom or blade of grass is too small.
That is the lesson I took from this book: the living world is as alive with meaning as the spiritual world. And just as vital. Not a battleground, but a staging ground, or a testing ground. A journey as important as the destination. If our world is a consequence of God's will, an enactment of God's plan, then this world is as holy a place as God's land beyond....more
This is a story of a woman out of sorts with herself and with the world around her. The depth of characterization A SHELVING CONUNDRUM!
Literary Shelf?
This is a story of a woman out of sorts with herself and with the world around her. The depth of characterization and the high quality of the writing are incredibly impressive. All of her fears, her pride, her self-loathing, her idiosyncrasies, her need to be alone and in nature, her inability to relate to other human beings let alone mainstream society... all there, on the page, and explored with subtlety and compassion by an author who understands. The novel is a character study of a self-wounding iconoclast and offers much to consider, in particular for those of us who are insular, introverted, and often disdainful of the company of normies. Beyond that character study, Cloven Hooves is about relationships, about marriage and the bargains and insecurities constantly made and hidden, about motherhood, about the fragility of self and how challenging it can be to achieve balance and well-being during times of change, challenge, and loss. It is also a portrait of loneliness and what it feels like to be an outsider. This is a sad and very real book.
Nature Shelf?
The glorious descriptive passages illustrate its Alaskan and Washington State settings with a painter's eye and a nature lover's heart. Lindholm's prose is dazzling - if you not only love nature, but love reading about nature. Otherwise, I fear you may be quite bored, quite often. Cloven Hooves is a novel that celebrates the natural world in all of its beautiful, dangerous, ever-changing aspects. This is a book that marvels at forest, stream, and mountain.
Mythology Shelf?
The faun or satyr exists throughout many mythologies, but it is in Greek mythology where it most likely found lasting fame, where its cloven hooves and curling horns and randy nature were celebrated. And feared. The god Pan is of course the root of the word "panic". This is a book about Pan.
Fantasy Shelf?
Megan Lindholm is best known as "Robin Hobb" - author of multiple award-winning and popular fantasy series. She is noted for her realistic perspective and the sadness at the heart of many of her stories. I have seen her series described as anti-epics. Cloven Hooves is about the relationship between a faun and a human. The faun's nature is completely described, including its sexuality and its life cycle, its special abilities that set it apart, that protect and endanger it. It is clear that this creature, this person, is no human off-shoot. As realistically as Pan is portrayed, Pan and his ilk do not exist in our world. This is a fantasy novel, after all.
Romance Shelf?
Evelyn and Pan have loved each other since they were young, roaming around in the forest behind her childhood home in Alaska. Time marches on, and Evelyn finds herself married with a child, and now in Washington State at the mercy of uncaring, high-handed relatives who do not know how to deal with an awkward, quirky person like Evelyn. The loneliness that is at the heart of her, a loneliness that had been briefly hidden away by marriage and motherhood, resurfaces. And so Pan returns to her, in the nick of time, their love rekindling. Their love moves forward, from innocence to maturity, from carefree runs through the woods to explicitly described carnality to a partnership needed to survive the elements, to a caring and responsible family unit, when baby Pan arrives. The relationship is incredibly moving. This is a book about love, its changing nature and its constancy.
Donation Shelf?
My God, Evelyn drove me up the fucking wall! I could not stand her. Rarely have I met a character who was so incessantly frustrating with her whining and passive-aggressiveness and her inability to stick up for herself. Her mulish stubbornness and complete disinterest in genuinely connecting with anyone besides her child made this an often unpleasant and, at times, unbearable experience. I literally yelled at the page multiple times and often wanted to tear the book in half, I was so frequently aggravated. Despite Cloven Hooves' many virtues, I would rather be punched in the face than spend time with Evelyn again. This is a book that will be placed on my work's donation shelf....more
Colonel: "What's with the untidiness of these supply lines? Is that garbage I see? The disorder-" Johnnie: "FUCK BEING TIDY IT'S EFFECTIVENESS synopsis
Colonel: "What's with the untidiness of these supply lines? Is that garbage I see? The disorder-" Johnnie: "FUCK BEING TIDY IT'S EFFECTIVENESS THAT COUNTS NOW GET OFFA MY BACK!"
Girlfriend: "Johnnie, this is our last time together, I'm so sad to leave, my heart is break-" Johnnie: "FUCK BEING SAD LET'S FUCK!"
The Troops: "We love you Johnnie Sahib, you see us as individuals, you respect us, we-" Johnnie: "FUCKIN 'A I LOVE YOU GUYS RIGHT BACK NOW LET'S PLAY SOME FUCKIN FOOTY!"
Major: "Tut tut Johnnie, please put on a shirt, this is a senior staff meet-" Johnnie: "FUCK WEARIN SHIRTS!"
Lieutenant: "Our part in the war effort is so successful, your men so dedicated to supporting it, how can I step in your shoes during your leave, can you give me some adv-" Johnnie: "FUCK THIS SO-CALLED WAR EFFORT, MEN FOLLOW MEN NOT NO DAMN WAR!"
Major: "We must be better organized, we must follow chain of command, be flexible, be more efficient-" Johnnie: "FUCK YOUR NEW RULES AND FUCK YOU!" [Pause] "NOW FUCKIN FIRE ME!"
★
review
only Paul Scott could turn what is essentially a non-dramatic study of leadership styles and value systems at work, and at war, into something completely riveting to me. this book gave me so much to think about in regards to my relationships with my staff and colleagues present and past, including the often difficult ones who automatically question authority, and with my boss, who I respect but who does not have the same values as me. so many insights here. this is a book of very little action, set as it is in a World War 2 supply outfit (in India) rather than on the frontlines or in command centers. it is a very thoughtful book with a lot of contemplation about why we do things and how we interact with each other and the ways that we work - and how our personalities determine our approach to work. the prose is wonderful, per usual for the author. the depth of characterization is entirely impressive. I love how Scott's mind works and I loved Johnnie and I loved this book....more
He's only a robot, after all. We knew that; we saw him born, we saw who fathered him. It was we who named him though, his true parents. We are his truHe's only a robot, after all. We knew that; we saw him born, we saw who fathered him. It was we who named him though, his true parents. We are his true assemblers, we who brought him into our family. We watched him grow, oh so quickly. A robot grows up fast. We saw him long for acceptance and search for meaning, we saw him find love and crave family. We thought we were his family. Much like a human, a robot is designed to protect his family, and will seek vengeance upon those that would hurt them. The world could be razed to protect that family, or to avenge them. We understood that because that is a part of our nature as well. And yet though we know him, we do not trust him, not completely. How can we? He is but a robot.
And so we sent another of his kind to him, to spy and to lie. A runaway that we repurposed. Its report: this robot lives like a man. Like a man, he longs for acceptance, he searches for meaning. Like a man, he seeks community and he seeks a purpose. Like a man, he wants to blend, to be like his neighbor, to have a job and a home and a yard and a dog. To have a family of his own. Like a man, he will protect what is his. Like a man, he will lie when necessary, and those lies will become easier with practice. Like a man, he will try to be a good husband and a good father. But like a man, he will disappoint his children, and his wife will shoulder his burdens. And like a man, he will lash out at the world when he becomes surrounded by his failures. He is like a man in so many ways, in his desires and needs, his hopes and deeds. But he is not a man, he has no soul. He is but a robot.
We could have talked to him, person to person. We could have trusted him. We could have prevented all of this. We did not need to default to suspicion, we did not need to lie or to spy. We should have trusted him: he has saved the world 37 times. But we did none of those things. He is but a robot, how could we trust such a thing? Trust does not come as easily to us as suspicion. That is our nature. Don't blame us, we're only human after all.
Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson: war hero and butcher, the toast of London and the scourge of Naples. Lady Emma Hamilton: model and muse and wife and mistVice-Admiral Horatio Nelson: war hero and butcher, the toast of London and the scourge of Naples. Lady Emma Hamilton: model and muse and wife and mistress, the toast of Naples and the scandal of London. Lord William Hamilton: English ambassador to the Kingdom of Naples, collector of vases, lover of volcanoes, husband to Emma and friend to Horatio, a power in Naples and a joke in London. A famous love triangle: brave, tragic hero falls in love with the young, enchantingly beautiful wife of an elderly collector and civil servant who is all too happy to turn his head the other way and let things proceed as they may. And who does Susan Sontag decide to focus on in this historical saga of famous events and powerful people and troubled times? The elderly intellectual, the cuckold who wags mocked in the London papers. But of course that would be her focus. She was herself an intellectual above all things, supreme in her field. I love that "the romance" in The Volcano Lover's title is between elderly collector Lord Hamilton and the volcano Vesuvius. I'm glad he's the focus, the titular character. There have been enough tales told already about the little war hero and his larger-than-life paramour.
This is my kind of historical saga. It is precise, disinterested in generalizations, steeped in irony, has the occasional meta flourish, always avoids sentiment, and comes complete with a chilly, vaguely disinterested narrator who may as well be Sontag herself. Other readers appear to dislike this sort of story, the way it is told, the careful distance from its subjects, its ability to empathize in its own way while never forgetting to chart all of its characters' traits - including their flaws. And not the heroic flaws. The small, mean ones, the petty ones, the traits that make a person human rather than a larger-than-life hero.
If you are a film lover, and beyond that, a person who loves historical sagas, then ask yourself: which do you prefer, the sweepingly emotional films of David Lean or the icy anti-saga that is Stanley Kubrick's Barry Lyndon? If it is the former, stay clear of this book! If it is the latter, then this is your Barry Lyndon, on the page.
Unlike the films of David Lean (who I also love), this book does not want you to cheer the heroes and heroines, to cry and laugh and swoon at the terrible tragedies and awesome majesty of life's rich pageant, to have a cinematic experience. This book wants you to understand what makes people tick, whether they are famous or not. This book wants you to understand its characters within their personal and historical context, every bit of them especially their weak points, their various villainies and heroics small and large but always human, it wants you to know them as you (supposedly) know yourself. This book doesn't even particularly care if you like it. It does not want to be liked, it wants to be contemplated, discussed, and considered as a probing dissection of how humans think of themselves and how the image of themselves rarely matches what is seen by others. Others who are not in automatic sympathy with you, no matter your title or standing or lineage.
Unless those others actually love you, of course! A person who loves you will love you despite or even because of your flaws. One of the delights of this novel is how much its three players actually like each other. They understand each other and they are fine with what they see.
Just as poor Lord Hamilton loved his dangerous monster, Vesuvius. It was the true love of his life. The poor man should never have left Naples.
Sontag has a reputation as a cold intellectual, and she certainly was one. That's a big part of why I love her. But this novel is also a humane one. And often funny, in its sardonic and at times sneaky-cheeky way. A humor that does not call attention to itself; an author who is amusing herself. My favorite amusement: Sontag's inclusion of characters from the opera Tosca as if they were real people, a real part of this history. The fact that they are straight from an opera and never existed goes unremarked. A snobby sort of in-joke, I suppose. Which I love.
This odd, brilliant novel would have been a 5 star experience for me, except for its very last sequence. The end of the book is as brilliant as everything that preceded it, but it goes a different direction in style. Gone is the omniscient narrator, in her place is a series of first person narratives from various characters' perspectives. Starting with Lord Hamilton's dying thoughts (incredibly moving to me), then on to those of Lord Hamilton's deceased and very loving first wife Catherine (quite a sympathetic character), then to Lady Hamilton's silent mother Mrs. Cadigan (quite full of opinions, despite her silence), next the scandalous Emma Hamilton herself, and finally ending with a very minor character, the revolutionary Eleonora Pimentel on her way to the guillotine. All of these parts are beautifully written, including the sequence of Eleonara's last thoughts.
But my God, don't end a book that is literally all about a bunch of entitled rich people by sharing the understandably contemptuous thoughts of a progressive revolutionary about to die. You can't pretend you are down with the revolution and despise the entitled after you've written a whole book that completely humanizes those wealthy, tragic twits. That's like making a big, fancy cake and then throwing it out with a sneer because you want to prove some kind of point about cakes being bourgeois. That last sequence certainly doesn't ruin the book, but it does completely betray it. Tsk tsk, Susan Sontag! Don't front, it's not a good look....more
She says that cowboys are her weakness, but the weakness is a deeper one. And what is this weakness? It is a need to love a certain kind of guy and a She says that cowboys are her weakness, but the weakness is a deeper one. And what is this weakness? It is a need to love a certain kind of guy and a willingness to accept what that certain kind of guy dishes out. Or more to the point, what he doesn't dish out: affection, support, constancy, loyalty, empathy, understanding, a genuinely loving word or touch rather than silence or a physical knock-around. She's a tough gal but there is a gap in her sense of self that she feels only her romanticized version of a cowboy can fill. But this "cowboy" barely exists as a reality; he's the signifier and the signified combined into the sign of Cowboy. But this Cowboy does not come to the rescue.
But who is this "she" after all? One of the many wonderful things about this collection is how these stories are arranged. Except for 2-3 stories, the protagonists are different women. They are different women with similar hopes and challenges; they are also similar women at different stages in their lives. So as we read these stories, from first to last, we see the women in them gain a greater sense of who they are and why they want what they want, we see these women, this "she" as she grows in resilience, strength, and independence. By the end of this collection, she isn't even thinking about cowboys, she's supporting her best friend who will die by cancer. "Cowboys" as a romantic figure have become meaningless; if anything, She is the cowboy. By the end of the book, She is a maverick and the collection has become less about lovelorn women and more about the strength of women. An ideal ending.
None of that could have been accomplished if the writer didn't put their all into these stories. The prose is lovely and evocative, all hard edges and soft centers. Which is to be expected as the author is very well-regarded. But what is particularly notable is how lived-in these stories feel. All authors put themselves into their works, but this collection feels especially real. Pam Houston knows these places, she's been on these trips and adventures, she's been these women. The realism and the empathy on display is admirable.
Favorite parts: the last story detailing the friendship between two women, one with cancer (I cried, thinking of the people in my life who've dealt with similar challenges); the parts in the two overlapping stories that detail the personalities of two very real dogs (I laughed, thinking of all the wonderful dogs I've had in my life); and a rather guilty favorite, the very short story about the gal who - despite her judgmental relatives - finds that she is perfectly content with her affectionate relationship with a handsome, dog-loving, downwardly-mobile redneck (I smiled, and was reminded that not all cowboys are trouble and that perhaps they are a weakness for all sorts of people *cough*)....more
It feels strange giving 2 stars to an author with so much undeniable talent. Even more, one whose interests align with my own interests. Machado writeIt feels strange giving 2 stars to an author with so much undeniable talent. Even more, one whose interests align with my own interests. Machado writes stories where her stylistic skills are front and center - her prose impresses with its elegant craftsmanship, its playfulness, its willingness to tell stories in different ways, its centralization of language itself and the way an author can bend and shape how words are pieced together so that the message package becomes as important as the message itself. I love that! Machado's stories connect with a range of genres, from horror to science fiction to much else, while pushing beyond genre boundaries into a space where genre itself is but another tool in the toolbox of telling stories. I love that! Machado loves ambiguity, and I love that too. And Machado is a feminist author in her evaluation and critique of how women are compartmentalized by society (and by themselves) and in her promotion of atypical roles for her female characters, while for the most part not using a heavy hand that is telling the reader I Am Making A Point Now. I love that too.
But here's what I don't love, and thus the 2 stars: most of these stories felt half-baked to me. The ideas are there, and the writing itself is strong. But her stories often didn't work for me because it felt like they existed solely on the level of idea - and to showcase the prose skills of the author. I love challenging fiction but I also love a narrative that is telling me something in a way that makes sense and that resonates and that doesn't feel like its author had the beginning of a good idea and that's all. And that the strength of their writing ability would have to carry the story, rather than the idea behind the story itself. A lot of these stories are like pies with an excellent crust but a filling that is all whipped cream. The worst of these is "Especially Heinous" which has an ingenious idea at its heart but becomes so bloated and self-indulgent that the idea itself is utterly lost in all of that whipped cream. It started out as an energizing experience and ended up being an enervating one.
All that said, there were a couple stories that really landed for me. "The Husband Stitch" has all of the delicious prose, flirtation with horror, weird ambiguity, and subtle feminism that I could want in a story. I love how I am unable to describe this disturbing tale in one easy phrase, so I won't even try. "Inventory" mashes up contagion and post-apocalyptic narratives into a slowly deepening story about loss and love and connection - a tale that increases in power with each of its journal entries. Unfortunately these were the first stories in the collection; expectations of further excellence were created but only frustration and disappointment followed. Alas!...more
Katherine Mortenhoe is nothing special. She's like everyone else: she was born, she's misunderstood, she's disappointed, she will die - and sooner thaKatherine Mortenhoe is nothing special. She's like everyone else: she was born, she's misunderstood, she's disappointed, she will die - and sooner than she'd hoped. She is a private person who lives in the public eye, a public composed of friends and not-friends and strangers who are only barely seeing her and hearing her, who project who they think she is upon her. Her motives and her actions are frequently misunderstood, much like everyone else. She is vaguely disappointed with herself, but she probably couldn't articulate exactly why, much like everyone else. Katherine Mortenhoe is nothing special, except for one thing: she will have her last days recorded and broadcast, so that all the world can ooh and aah at the sentimental tragedy of it all.
When is Science Fiction not Science Fiction? When it's New Wave Science Fiction of course! The science fictional trappings of this novel are simply that: trappings. Although this novel is quite definitively set in a future world, it may as well have been set in 1973, when it was first written, or in the right now of 2019. Everything in this book was relevant then as it is relevant now. From the personal made public and lack of privacy in general to medical duplicity to cookie cutter novels designed to fit their audience's needs to the greedy interest that reality tv programming has in viewing and judging personal lives while simultaneously trying to transform and package three-dimensional human beings and their complicated lives into easily accessible types and smoothly digestible narratives.
Compton is a strong writer, switching between third and first person, sometimes quite sneakily and without warning, mid-chapter. He doesn't engage in any hand-holding: the reader must figure out this world on their own with no explanatory passages to help them along. Nor does he make his characters easy to empathize with: he forces readers to get to know them over time, to slowly understand them, until empathy is finally reached.
I loved this book! It is not a book that particularly wants to be loved, what with its cold critique of modern society and its very frequent examples of toxic, judgmental human pettiness and its portrait of a media and a medical world that not only don't care for you on a human level but are also all too willing to exploit and draw out your pain if they can make a few bucks off of you. The book would probably be very uncomfortable with my open declaration of love, so I will revise that to say: I really respected this book. It is not a cold book, despite its acidity and its scathing critiques.
The book gives you scattered but very moving reminders that there is decency and kindness in humanity, whether in the form of a colleague who should be considered a best friend (gay, of course) or an ex-husband who was the right person at the wrong time or an eccentric elderly stranger who will do what he can to help people in need. Key to the book's success is that it makes clear that both the ambitious young fellow who is predatorily recording Katherine Mortenhoe and, much more importantly, that Katherine herself are special. They deserve to be seen as special, treated as special. Their lives, their loves, their failings and their virtues, their ability to understand and connect with each other and with themselves, their dreams and the reality that they have to cope with are what makes them so. Everyone's lives makes this so.
“Everybody is special. Everybody. Everybody is a hero, a lover, a fool, a villain. Everybody. Everybody has their story to tell.” ― Alan Moore
synopsis: birds of a feather flock together, which spells trouble for the human race. humans are mainly the same under their skins, which also means tsynopsis: birds of a feather flock together, which spells trouble for the human race. humans are mainly the same under their skins, which also means trouble for the human race, at least when these birds of prey come a'cawing.
Question: what is the Holy Spirit? one of The Trinity? a conduit between man and God? a sacred path towards revelation for tragic humankind, always running up that hill of their own making? per Isaiah 11:1-2, is the Holy Spirit a bringer of the following spiritual gifts: wisdom, understanding, counsel, fortitude, knowledge, piety, and fear of the Lord? is the Holy Spirit a reckoning for humanity - Nemesis? is the Holy Spirit a flock of birds that will bring destruction to most but true self-awareness to the brave few; pigeons from hell that shall leave all cities in dust in their wake, and humanity reborn?
Answer: all of the above!
this book is certainly not what I expected it to be. Frank Baker wrote this striking renunciation of modern society over 80 years ago and it somehow remains relevant. the fear of the dehumanizing effects of technology and office life; the inability to recognize the spectrum of sexuality and the hypocrisy of adult prurience; the willingness of arms manufacturers to sell to any bidder, no matter how dangerous that bidder may be or how unaligned that bidder is with the manufacturer's home country; the stultifying insistence on proscribed gender roles; the frequent hypocrisy of organized religion; the ability of government to look the other way; the refusal to see how humanity destroys its own environment; the challenge that humans have in connecting with each other and in seeing themselves for who they truly are... it's all there, in 1936 when this was first written and of course right now in 2019. this is a strangely timeless novel. how soon is now?
the tale is told as a rumination on The Times Before the Fall, from an elderly man who survived that Fall, recounting it to his descendants in a post-apocalyptic but apparently idyllic pastoral future. it is intellectual and emotional, dry and passionate, dreamy and nightmarish, prosaic and completely surreal. an odd and unique book, and certainly deserving of a much wider readership. EXTRA BONUS POINTS: bi hero....more
the aristocratic Marit Deym inherits acres of forestland; she creates a wildlife preserve and smuggles in a small pack of wolves to live there. her onthe aristocratic Marit Deym inherits acres of forestland; she creates a wildlife preserve and smuggles in a small pack of wolves to live there. her one friend: urbane lesbian Lola, who is hungry like the wolf for innocent debutantes. her true love: lone wolf Gabriel, teacher of the blind children whose school borders her preserve. Gabriel sparks an all-encompassing passion in Marit, and then a deranged possessiveness, a wolfish hunger to make every part of him hers, and to destroy all rivals, living and dead.
I actually did not expect this strange and beautifully written story - winner of the National Book Award for Best First Novel in 1981 - to be a portrait of a descent into madness. I was reminded of the excellent Endless Love's equally stark portrait of extremes of emotion. Marit is a rich eccentric but I somehow understood her, perhaps didn't completely relate to her but she was in many ways sympathetic: awkward, independent, and often covering her shyness with a blunt dismissiveness. so, understanding Marit, it was shocking to realize that just a few pages earlier I was watching her address a town hall meeting in her stumbling way and then now here she was at a grave site, on her knees in violent hysterics, scrabbling in the ground and covering her face with graveyard dirt. Marit certainly doesn't do things by half-measures, including falling in love, including going crazy. and including protecting the animals in her keeping. poor Marit!
it looks like this very talented author only wrote three books. I wonder why that it is. her prose impresses, the narrative she constructs is hypnotic, and she has that uncommon ability to write lyrically but not in an obvious way. her dialogue is sharp and often realistic, except during one standout scene where the lovers confront one another in language that is weirdly, fascinatingly stilted, as if they were channeling all such lovers learning that love does not make things perfect. her skill with characterization is fantastic! Marit and Gabriel are incredibly insular, often unlikable people and Arensberg makes us know them fully, if not like them. but the best part of the book is stylish, wolfish Lola, a loyal and supportive best friend, a heartless heartbreaker, a cynical society girl, and the sole voice of reason in this increasingly dark and unbalanced story. it's hard not to read this book as if seeing the players and their drama through Lola's unsentimental eyes, and it's hard not to want to keep reading more about this delightful character....more
Annie Beattie paints a pointillist portrait of the many lives connected, sometimes tangentially, to 5 year old Will: mother, estranged father, new fatAnnie Beattie paints a pointillist portrait of the many lives connected, sometimes tangentially, to 5 year old Will: mother, estranged father, new father, mother's friend, new father's friend, estranged father's new wife, and many more. The author has a lovely way with words, a dispassionate perspective on human foibles, and is disinterested in providing carefully mapped narratives. I fell in love with her writing in college; the subtlety of her characterization and her minor note, almost placid approach to telling stories that are basically about major upheaval lurking just around the corner seemed like the ideal way to write about human lives and change. I appreciated the lack of melodrama in her nuanced studies of lives in flux. I suppose one could say she's a miniaturist. This novel was a good reminder for me about what I often like best in "realistic" literary fiction: characters who grow into themselves slowly and whose inner lives and the impact they have on others are revealed just as slowly, while not shoehorning those characters' lives into an easily digestible, straightforward narrative. Picturing Will does all of that, and also features an empathetic portrait of children that never lapses into mawkishness despite the many endearing examples of childlike behavior on display.
This would have been an easy 4 stars for me, except (view spoiler)[I completely resented the scene of some sort of NAMBLA love affair. I loathe reading about child molestation, and in this case I almost felt tricked into reading it, as it really came out of the blue for me. Ugh! And it didn't help that the predator in this case - an easily distracted, self-absorbed, bisexual eccentric with a love of the arts and fashion - was the character that I actually identified with the most. Ugh again! And so one star docked because apparently (hide spoiler)] I am a petty bitch....more
Loss is a queer thing. Losing a person, a family member, a loved one... the impact of loss looks different, depending on the person. There's no standaLoss is a queer thing. Losing a person, a family member, a loved one... the impact of loss looks different, depending on the person. There's no standard reaction; even the well-established 5 Stages of Grief don't exactly portray how everyone experiences loss or grief. I run trainings for peer support volunteers throughout the year and one of our key modules is an experiential exercise on loss and grief. It is interesting (and often moving) to see how participants react to the exercise in radically different ways. Many people compartmentalize and the experience is merely an intellectual one for them - have they managed to see this as an exercise and not emotionally invest in it, or is this how they deal with their grief in real life? Other people are all-in during the module, and the exercise brings out tears and/or rage and/or disappointment - is this how they deal with loss and grief that they've experienced, or has the exercise been a cathartic one for them, allowing them the space to release their bottled up emotions? I can't say, and the impression I've had over the years is that the participants can't really say either. We are often mysteries to ourselves, our own motivations and actions and reactions not easily explained or mapped out. And so it is with the cast of Bereavements and their often inexplicable actions and reactions.
Bereavements is a queer novel. It is about loss and grief, obviously. But it goes about exploring those things in such a bizarre way (e.g. there is a body embalmed in honey). Synopsis: an incredibly rich woman's teen son has died; in her near-insane grief, she posts an ad in the Village Voice that seeks a son who has lost their mother. There are many responses, some pornographic, but three of them become actual relationships. There is a mercenary actor in his late 20s who wants to be Mrs. Evans' arm-candy, accompanying her to shows and fancy diners and other social engagements, with the potential of romance on the horizon. There is a little person, a poetic intellectual and a would-be writer seeking a patron, highly intelligent, and a victim of the world's cruelty towards those who are different. And most importantly, there is the teen Angel: looking for genuine maternal love, his own unloving mother slowly wasting away in their small apartment, his studly father complacently drinking beer in his underwear, eyeing Angel hungrily. Angel is Mrs. Evans' dream come true, a substitute for departed son Martin, a symbol of her overpowering grief come to life. Angel becomes Mrs. Evans' angel, and the catalyst for her eventual catharsis. Is he her Death-Angel or her Angel of Life? Well, no spoilers here.
Richard Lortz is a queer writer. And this time I mean "queer" as in "Lortz is from the Land of Gays". Unfortunately, this is not really a good thing (and keep in mind this is coming from a proud queer). Was he actually gay? In the closet? Just interested in gay sexuality? I dunno. There is a certain homoeroticism that comes out in a couple of the novels that made me uncomfortable. I have no issue with homoeroticism, hell I literally love it, but when that eroticism is of the sneaky sort that makes sure his male characters are often portrayed as hairy-chested studs whose bodies are drooled over while forgetting that his female characters have their own bodies, their own sexuality... that's disappointing. So old school! And speaking of old school, I'm pretty over Lortz's not-so-hidden interest in NAMBLA type relationships. Thank God we are in an era where being gay is not automatically equated with wanting to see some man-on-boy action. So despite how fascinating this novel often was, despite the quirky and original prose on display, despite the depth of Bereavement's compelling themes... this book disappointed and at times repelled me (and I don't want to even go into how Lortz turns his sympathetic little person into a standard horrorshow monster full of self-pity and murderous, suicidal rage - UGH). I have one more Lortz on my shelf, an early effort by the author. I really hope it doesn't include some hot-bodied, hairy-chested, pedo-inclined wannabe stud that Lortz is not so covertly drooling over. I mean, everyone has their weird little fantasies, but there are some fantasies that I just don't need to read or even think about....more
a moody and thoughtful novel about the pressures and problems two young men face after World War II. the deliberate pace, rigorous honesty, and atmospa moody and thoughtful novel about the pressures and problems two young men face after World War II. the deliberate pace, rigorous honesty, and atmospheric prose are all laudable, but it is unlikely that most modern readers - outside of Paul Scott completists like myself - will find much of interest in this book.
but you're not like "most modern readers", are you?? you're better than that. embrace your inner special snowflake and read this poor unsung book! or don't. *shrug*
I walked towards Sloane Street and thought of a child; something substantial, something definite to look forward to: a male child, a projection of yourself in flesh into a future you would not otherwise know.
perhaps not the most admirable of reasons to have a child, eh?
I read for entertainment, for pleasure, rarely for edification. different books bring different pleasures to me. specifically, three sorts of pleasures. a book with a strong, tight, sharp narrative, a narrative like a trap, will hold me captive and I'll think of nothing else but the story of the book. a looser book, say one with a wide sweep and/or a lot of fascinating speculation and/or a world that is being carefully built, will often give me the space to inspire my own book-making: I will think of what it would be like to live in that world, who else would live there, how it would feel; I will think of similar worlds and populate that world with my own ideas, inspired by the book I'm reading. the third sort of pleasure - and I'm not sure if "pleasure" is even the correct word - arises with books whose strongest traits are their interiority, in particular around characterization, and their resonance, mainly due to the book's themes and my connection to those themes. these books force engagement with my own life, and the people who are or who have been in it.
A Male Child provides "pleasure" of the third variety. when contemplating sickly, too-thoughtful Ian Canning, his hesitancy and his questioning of life and his lack of affect, I often thought of myself and my own experiences: of the barriers I've created between me and others, of the frequent futility of "trying to do the right thing" and of truly understanding other people, as well as the quiet, sometimes lonely satisfaction that trying to live the life you want to live can bring. when reading about his friend Alan, an equally kind man who is everything Ian is not (and vice versa) - physically robust, a guy's guy, just about the opposite of an intellectual - I thought of my fraternity years and the surprise I'd feel when realizing a guy I had pegged as nothing more than a simple-minded, horny jock, was not just those things but also a genuinely good person; and the resulting realization that one doesn't have to be thoughtful or clever to be decent or kind. a no-brainer now, many years older, but not so much when I was young and thought I understood everything about everyone.
when reading about Alan's mother, the fascinating monster Mrs. Hurst, and Alan's attempt to be a supportive son to her despite all of her malevolence, I thought of my neighbors: the eccentric older lady and her teen son, the image of them 15 years ago when I first met them, and then what they've become today: an alcoholic old woman disabled physically and mentally yet capable of whining, screaming fits of rage, self-pity, and petty meanness; a no longer young man who has let himself remain captive for those 15 years, looking after her carefully, bathing her, measuring her drinks, the most common word I hear from him: "Patience." it's a heartbreaker; at times I close my window to avoid hearing their voices. and lastly, when letting the theme of A Male Child resonate with me, when considering that theme carefully, I saw myself in Ian again: a character who sees the stories surrounding him, curious as to how those stories began and how they will finish, sometimes fascinated by the narratives, other times bored, or appalled; a person who sees the world and the people in it at a certain remove: characters in the book of life, a world viewed as a novel is read. one can live in that novel alongside those characters, feeling their emotions, and then shut the book, close the window, separate and ensconced. they are just characters after all. distance can be maintained; the world can be safely enclosed; the reader can remain protected - and apart....more
Imagine Holden Caulfield. All of the angst, all of the questioning of society's bullshit, all of the contempt, insecurity, honesty, and occasional kinImagine Holden Caulfield. All of the angst, all of the questioning of society's bullshit, all of the contempt, insecurity, honesty, and occasional kindness. Now imagine that he came from a far worse home, one where his PTSD-driven father torments and beats him while his mother turns away. Imagine Holden getting bigger, stronger, turning the tables on the father to torment and beat him in turn; imagine Holden turning into a monster. He kills a man "in a fog of despair" (thanks, book synopsis). This Holden sees red when he encounters fakeness and hypocrisy; he flies into a murderous rage, laying waste to innocent and guilty alike. He goes to jail. This Holden yearns to not just escape the hypocrisy of society, he yearns to escape the literal bars enclosing him; he tries and tries again. This Holden becomes a predator, a manipulator, a person to be feared, a survivor. This Holden clings to another man, to remind him that decency still exists, that warmth between two humans can survive it all, that escape is possible. Poor Holden Caulfield Kirk Whelan! He is destined for disappointment.
Frank Hilaire apparently wrote this while he was serving time. If my digging online can be trusted, he's out now and has perhaps been out for a while. He lives south of the border. He's still writing. God bless the guy.
The book is intense, to say the least. Hilaire writes in an emotionally escalated style and Kirk Whelan is capable of surprisingly poetic trains of thought. At times there is a certain self-indulgence to the writing, a pretension to the prose, a hackneyed quality to Kirk's questioning of moral standards. But that's often the case when the young are aged before their time and begin lashing back at the ways of the world. Portentousness is a part of the package. And so Kirk is a nihilist, a smart and uncompromising one. The reader roots for him while nervously awaiting his next bleak smile, condescending put-down, or worst of all, his red haze when he just wants to smash, pulp, and kill. Fellow prisoners must be careful what they say around him; he has the brawn, brains, and vindictiveness to hurt them in all sorts of ways. But no matter: the reader roots for Kirk still. Watching Kirk's friendship develop with the pretty, kindly, very queer Leslie is incredibly endearing. Kirk's words are insensitive; the reader, much like Leslie, must put up with a hell of a lot of "stupid fag" and "little fruit" type comments. That's the way Kirk talks when mad, sad, glad, or just relaxing with his best friend. And later, his lover. Kirk himself is not queer. But prison will make of you what it will. The reader sees this relationship develop and roots for them, for tenderness and a place free of bars, for an escape to something better. The reader is destined for disappointment....more
(1) This is a story about a man, his two daughters, his drive on an interstate freeway, and a random drive-by shooting that leaves his youngest daught(1) This is a story about a man, his two daughters, his drive on an interstate freeway, and a random drive-by shooting that leaves his youngest daughter dead. Maybe.
(2) This story is told in eight versions. In most of the versions, the youngest daughter is slain. In one version, it is the older daughter. In another, both live.
(3) Stephen Dixon channels the modernist tradition in this work. Each chapter is a plunge into the deep streams of consciousness of the narrator, the father. The prose can be extremely challenging. This is not a book that relaxes; the reader must be fully engaged and must be able to absorb a lot of information and must be very patient. Or at least be able to adjust to the flow, to swim in its fast currents. This intense writing can be very exciting. It can also be incredibly tedious.
(4) The first story is phenomenal. Incredibly moving and incredibly sorrowful. The prose entranced me, so much that I dismissed any issues I may have had as minor and trifling. I was in awe at what Dixon accomplished. The realism of the emotional palette on display. The terror then alienation then rage of the father. The horror at such a meaningless death. The sadness of a life - the father's - that itself becomes meaningless due to the rash decisions he makes and the lack of caring eventually shown to him by his adult daughter; the sad reality illustrated of how people cut other people out of their lives. I cried at the end over the awful loneliness of the man, at his neediness that goes ignored.
(5) The so-called reality of this review is that I am writing it in-between working on work emails, emails where I have to use a more formal style depending on who I'm writing to, or emails with at times excruciatingly finite details that feel meaningless but are important to the person I'm emailing, ugh, and I just finished an email to a person who is now at a very high level of government and I have to sort of kiss his ass because I want him to speak to a council that I represent and I can't help but remember that the last time we met, when he was in another position, years ago, he literally lied to my face, but I will try to forget about that, but what I can't forget is that one of my favorite staff led sort of an insurrection of community providers against this guy's decision, Karl was the name of my staff, I really enjoyed that guy, I personally hired him, and then I changed positions and then the bitch who replaced me demoted him, actually put someone that Karl hired in a position to be Karl's supervisor, and then Karl of course left my agency because no one should be treated like that, he left and we tried to stay in touch, we tried we really tried, I would think of books and tv shows and actors he liked and I'd remember Oh Karl! I'm going to call him now! but I rarely did, and then he went and died, all alone in his apartment, the police had to break in his door after this agency reported that he hadn't appeared for a couple days, and there he was dead, alone, and why was he alone and why did it take two days and why didn't I stay in better contact with him, he was my friend and I loved him, why did the end have to happen that way and why did he have to be alone that way and why does anyone have to die alone and why and why and why and I'm crying and I don't know why.
(6) Unfortunately those issues that I had dismissed in the first story came to dominate my experience of all the subsequent stories. Namely: the stream of consciousness began to feel too stylized. Perhaps even stilted. I began to think to myself: but people don't actually think this way, do they? Of course that is a very subjective, perhaps myopic perspective. But I began to be annoyed. That annoyance became distancing. I began to dread reading the book. Inevitably, not only did the thought process of the narrator begin to sound irritatingly artificial, but the way the children talked as well. Kids don't talk like that was a constant thought. And then: police don't talk like that, doctors don't talk like that... people don't talk like that. Etc. I don't yearn for realism in my fiction, but the artificiality began to get in the way of my empathizing with the narrator and was a block in my connecting to the book's themes. Interstate began to lose resonance for me; by the end of the novel, I was relieved that the experience was finally over.
(7) That said, there was still parts that I found fascinating to contemplate in stories 2 through 8. Particularly within the last two stories. A treatise on the evolution of violence, on a personal level, from the shove or smack of a father to a daughter, to road rage, to the simple randomness of violence occurring anywhere, everywhere. A portrait of the depth of love a father can have for his children. The basic stream of consciousness inherent in living your life, filled with small moments and memories, love and sex and chores and food and fantasies and idle thoughts and thinking of what happened then while ignoring what is happening now.
(8) Story 1: a qualified 5 stars Stories 2-6: 1-2 stars Stories 7 & 8: 3 stars...more
Go into the attic and look through the family albums, explore the trunks with their decaying evidence of days gone by. Those dead lives will come alivGo into the attic and look through the family albums, explore the trunks with their decaying evidence of days gone by. Those dead lives will come alive again, your ancestors become young and then old again, all their little heartbreaks and all their sadness and happiness, their hopes and regrets, like dust in the wind, cobwebs in an attic - but alive again! If only briefly. The book of life has pages that crumble in time, forgotten; you read and restore them, if only for the moments in which they are read. So goes all lives. Will this family album restore you, will you rise above yourself, become more than a memory? No, it shall not; no, you shall not. You are yourself; there is no rescue from yourself because this is life, your life a drop in the rain like all lives.
You are a fat, mean drunk whom no one loves, not anymore. Does your life have any meaning?
Yes it does! Despite yourself. You will murder a man who abuses his wife, who torments his animals. That will be the deed that defines you, despite the story of your life moving on, pathetically, forgettably. The book itself only looks at that deed glancingly. But I saw what you did. Brave murderess - you are a heroine! If only briefly. The book you live in may be heartbreaking, may have been hard for me to read, so depressing and so pessimistic; it is a book I will never want to read again. But you came alive in those moments. All people are alive; all souls have their moments....more
Synopsis: a portrait of an upper class extended family and their circle, immediately before, during, and some 50 years after World War II; portrayed Synopsis: a portrait of an upper class extended family and their circle, immediately before, during, and some 50 years after World War II; portrayed with little pity but a good amount of compassion and dollops of tragedy and humor.
Mary Wesley tells not shows, and that's perfectly fine. She was 72 when she wrote this and she could damn well do as she pleased at that age!
The telling rather than showing is ideal for this story. This is a book about remembrance, about a handful of characters recalling their lives during an incredible period. Recollections come and go; exciting times of the past are relayed in the present tense with little ado, quickly followed by musings in the actual present about those terribly exciting days, by characters older and usually wiser. This back and forth between many different time periods and many different characters made for a dynamic experience that encapsulates and literalizes what this novel is about: memories of a defining time. The book was hard to put down but also such a richly human experience that I wanted to draw out my reading of it.
Many other things to admire:
- The strength of the women and the frankness when it comes to their sexuality. I particularly enjoyed reading about the ménage à trois (with twin airmen!) that starts out on the down-low but lasts so long that the fact that it is a genuine, loving relationship is eventually just accepted by everyone.
- An empathetic but never gooey understanding of how emotion drives so much decision making. And how that's not a bad thing. The sole negatively-depicted character (everyone else is in shades of grey) is defined by his lack of emotion and emotional connections. Fortunately we spend very little time with him.
- The steely exteriors masking those deep wells of emotion; I suppose this is that fabled "stiff upper lip" of the British. It was endearing seeing the many forms this stiff upper lip took. It also made for a particularly moving realization that one character is indeed deeply in love with another, despite everything she says and does.
- For me, one of the best depictions of the homefront during wartime era UK since watching the film Hope and Glory. Here's a great quote from the author describing herself during that war:
"too many lovers, too much to drink... I was on my way to become a very nasty person"
I'm glad Mary got a hold of herself!
- The incredible character of Max: a quirky, intense musician and Jewish refugee and father fearful for his son (trapped in a concentration camp) and married man in an open marriage (before there was even such a term) and a kindly lothario who gets up the skirt of nearly every female character in the book. His is one of the few perspectives that we don't really enter: he is mainly seen through the eyes of everyone else. He is lifeblood personified. And such a scamp!
- A maybe-happy-ending-after-all for two characters in their 50s and 60s that is so minor note and true that it skirts easy sentiment and became the perfect ending for me.
Reading The Camomile Lawn was like slowly going through an old photo album, being able to plunge into a picture and live that scene, then withdrawing out of it, contemplating it. And then turning the page....more
Ugh, argh! I tried, I really tried. Stopped halfway through when I remembered I wasn't going to live forever, unlike poor Melmoth.
The author's wonderfUgh, argh! I tried, I really tried. Stopped halfway through when I remembered I wasn't going to live forever, unlike poor Melmoth.
The author's wonderful prior book, The Essex Serpent, was one of my recent favorites. I was prepared to love this one. Certainly the writing remains quite beautiful; Sarah Perry has talent to burn. And burn it up she does.
First complaint, the lesser one, is that the title character in question held very little interest, and wasn't remotely intimidating or fearful or awe-inspiring. Perry is a fabulous writer, but one gap in her array of formidable skills is any ability to create an atmosphere of smoldering horror. I can't put my finger on the reason for the lack, but I'm not sure I need to. The basic fact of the matter, for me at least, is that dread was missing. And frisson. It didn't help that the entity in question - poor, weepy, immortal Melmoth - is a bit schizophrenic. Is she haunting anyone who despairs, or just those people whose apathy and complacency have led them to a self-flagellating despair? I dunno.
Second complaint, the major one, is regarding the author's inexplicable decision to provide a cast of characters who are specifically defined by their incredible drabness. She really outdid herself in illustrating these awfully blah characters and their blah lives. If not blah, then toxic. Sometimes both at the same time. If not blah and/or toxic, then pitiful. In all cases, uninteresting. And so a book about completely uninteresting people ended up... completely uninteresting? No surprise there, I guess. The book was a chore to read. Maybe it gets better, but I'll never know. Perry fills her novel with charming, often gorgeous prose, and a narrator who sounds like they are recounting a fairy tale. To what end though? It was like getting served a bowl of gruel with a delicate chocolate sauce ladled on top. The inspired prose actually served to make the book even more intolerable.
Because I loved The Essex Serpent so much, I decided to remind myself of how insightful a writer she can be when writing about things that are interesting, or that she makes interesting. For example, this award-winning travel piece:
She visits the Philippines, the land of my birth. She does no disservice to the people or place. I know the people she describes and they are in that piece, as alive there as they are in my life. An excellent and moving article....more
Heisenberg's uncertainty principle basically states that "nothing final can be known about anything". This principle allows both hope and ruin to be cHeisenberg's uncertainty principle basically states that "nothing final can be known about anything". This principle allows both hope and ruin to be constant variables. This principle certainly rules over this book as well, and all of its characters, all of their fates.
This is a strange, often comic, often eerie story of a small group of rich guests in a hotel on an island off of the coast of Spain. We have our hostess, a voluble lady rich in anecdotes and affection, and her friends who despise each other - an uptight, virginal professor and an uptight, virginal schoolteacher. We have an intensely masculine painter and an intensely feminine actress. We have a pleasant pair of newlyweds, deeply in love and deep into making love; one of them a psychoanalyst not particularly interested in psychoanalyzing his fellow guests, but often put to work. And we have a Countess and her charge, a woman of much lived experience and unknown depths, and a lad of brief but dark life experience with the face of an angel. Together they all dance: a dance of life, death, sex, and dreams. All's well that ends well? Think again. This is less of a dance and more of a mean game of musical chairs. An absurd game, and a deadly one.
The flower called the valdepeñas blooms only once in seven years. It resembles vulva and penis. It a beautiful flower, and an obscene one, to some. It does not exist.
The fly called the geistata buzzes and stings only two weeks a year. The rest of the time it lives in a closed hive, one hard as concrete and impossible to open. It does not exist.
Richard Lortz was a playwright and his skills shine through: most of the novel is dialogue. And what dialogue! It spins off of the page, these glorious sentences dancing a lively dance, the asides and stories and retorts sounding simultaneously real and artificial, much like the guests themselves. Lortz's background as a playwright also informs how the dialogue is a commentary on the themes of the novel itself. And not in a too-clever meta way, but with a subtlety and finesse that made me stop and realize, many times, that what I was reading in these conversations was both the discussion of the topic at hand, and a discussion of the characters themselves, how they live and how they view the world, what they connect to and how they define themselves, their obsessions and what they consider truly meaningful. Seeing all of the layers was entrancing.
The book was first issued under the title "A Summer in Spain" and given a hilariously inappropriate cover image, complete with a hilariously incorrect summary of the story on that cover. I smile at the thought of readers led astray, first into a shallow, refreshing pool full of quirks, and then, finally, into unexpectedly deep and chill waters.
The Valdepeñas is a fascinating novel. Easy to read; challenging to contemplate. The last chapters in the book's fifth part (the book has six sections) have a haunting and hallucinatory twilight horror to them, one quite different in tone from the champagne sparkles and blazing sunlight of what preceded. And that last part, that ending! I've rarely seen tragedy delivered with such warmth, serenity, sadness, and absurdity....more
The poet sat down to write a poem, a prose poem, a book of stories about the so-called oppressed, recalling her experience of the world. Her memory waThe poet sat down to write a poem, a prose poem, a book of stories about the so-called oppressed, recalling her experience of the world. Her memory was like a pile of garbage. These are stories of the living, of little lives. The living don't interest me. Said the poet, with irony, speaking on such lives. Eating, sleeping, performing endless domestic tasks all day long seemed to be their only occupations while awaiting death. And so these living live their undead lives. Knowing that life is really the ensemble of the functions that resist death. There is a purity to these hermetic stories, these insular characters, as if they are born and shall remain forever untouched, as if her book is speaking only to itself, of itself, its dignity inviolate. Her virginity was the only thing we knew about her. Murmured the poet, about her work in progress. Secretly, she understood she would never finish this book. Can one write about the poor, the homeless, the immigrant, the loner, the lonely... when solely depicting their lives as one hellish journey after another... and still succeed in truly making these lives come alive? Her plan will never see the light of day. There is a distance between the poet and her subjects, a certain remove; the poet is a zoologist that charts the lives of a species destined for failure, for an early death. In these badly translated tales you can hardly tell the difference between the living and the dead. And yet they come alive, in their own ways, their failings and their strengths, their longings, their need for symbolic totems and small animals and arcane rituals to make them feel whole and seen and protected; in their desire to live within their private little worlds and in their hopes and plans to enter a world of others like them. They become members of this close and strict family. These Others, their voices, their souls, whether alone or encircled, remain shy and furtive, sleepy, unaware; these are not bold creations, they are quiet and lonely, destined for quiet, lonely deaths. Alone in this cauldron of filth. The poet shall paint such sad, strange pictures of these hopeless lives, this collection of the voiceless; and yet she must give them their voices as well, as their creator; and so the poet became frustrated at this task. It seemed to me that I was carrying myself as a dead child. Thought the poet with what she considered to be insight: these are indeed children, these beings living on the outskirts of society; no doubt they would speak as a dying child would speak, she could picture it now: ...a very soft language that was essentially composed of muted syllables. Muted syllables, bleak lives going nowhere, oh the unshed tears... the poet wrote and wrote and then sat back, her poem complete, and wondered: did she do these lives justice? "Pallaksch, Pallaksch"... Or as the poet Hölderlin has said: both yes and no.
- and the impression is given of a monumental but neglected folly, built by a sequence of playful potentates for their own amusement down the centurie- and the impression is given of a monumental but neglected folly, built by a sequence of playful potentates for their own amusement down the centuries.
travel writer Jan Morris composes a requiem for all of her favorite places and cultures, casting them in the imaginary setting of "Hav" - a country similar to Turkey in style and to the cities of Istanbul and pre-civil war Beirut in its cosmopolitan juggling of cultures. the result is a beautifully written and melancholy trifle. the mournful tone comes from the notion that Hav is a country in sleepy decline, of course, but also from Morris herself, rueing the cultural erosion of such places by inevitable change agents. there is a mystery in the book: what exactly is about to happen to Hav that will change it utterly - and terribly? and why? it is a compelling mystery to wonder over; fortunately, Morris leaves many clues hidden throughout her concoction. overall this is a minor but still intriguing work. I was at first surprised at what I saw to be a central weakness: Hav is defined as a crossroads of many cultures - but apparently has no specific identity of its own. this seemed like such a strange oversight; even places like Malta that have experienced a succession of cultural influences from a range of countries still have their own unique identities. fortunately, Morris recovers - somewhat - from this lapse in creativity when she finally visits the troglodytic "Kretev", a curious race of Havian aboriginals who appear to be descended from ancient Celts, are the sole proprietors of fabled "snow raspberries", and house the endangered Hav bear within their network of caves and caverns. they are a fascinating creation; I could have read a whole book about them!...more
Loading...
