Ghostwritten
David Mitchell
I so enjoyed Mitchell's Cloud Atlas that I had to read more of his work. Fortunately, I was not disappointed by his first novel, Ghostwritten.
Ghostwritten employs the same structure as Cloud Atlas; that is, each "chapter" involves a specific character that somehow relates to the remaining, seemingly disparate, characters. The characters in Ghostwritten span the globe, and each of the nine "chapters" takes place in a different country. Unlike Cloud Atlas, the novel does not span hundreds of years, but rather all the stories occur at about the same time.
The first story, set in Japan, centers on "Quasar," a doomsday cultist who has just carried out a gas attack in a subway. The second story moves to record-store employee Satoru Sonada, also a resident of Japan. The other stories involve a haunted Hong Kong lawyer; an old Chinese woman who runs a tea shop on the Holy Mountain; a nomadic, disembodied intelligence that can "transmigrate"; a Russian art thief; a British musician and ghostwriter; an Irish physicist running from the CIA; and a late-night radio-show host in New York City. While some may find this setup to be somewhat gimmicky, I found it innovative and interesting, especially because each chapter's voice is truly unique and different from the rest. I didn't feel as if the same voice were being used for a "new" character.
I'm sure there were a lot of connections that I missed, since from what I can tell there are numerous, subtle threads that connect the various characters. It's definitely a book that's worth rereading to catch all those "ah ha! I missed that the first time!" moments.
My only beef with the book is its ending; I'm just not sure what Mitchell is trying to say. I *think* he's saying that we are all controlled by something greater than us that we are unaware of and ultimately cannot comprehend, that we are all animals in a zoo, unaware that the zookeeper is even there. I'd like to think he is implying God is the zookeeper; that would at least be somewhat of a comfort, but I don't think that's what he's saying. Rather, it seems the world's "zookeeper" is a mish-mash of technology, world powers, and capitalism. Which really sucks. But, as I said, this is a book that bears rereading, and, as such, my understanding of it will likely change over time.
In a nutshell: A fun, entertaining read that is definitely literature. Stylish and innovative, yet not schlocky or trite.
Bibliolatry Scale 5 out of 6 stars
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
The Monk, by Matthew Lewis
The Monk
Matthew Lewis
Now THIS is a good book!!! This is another in the way of Lolita and Watership Down, in that I’ve read it several times already—but it's another book that demands rereading every couple years. It’s just so damn good! Because of its high scandal factor I've wanted to teach it, but considering I teach in a Catholic school, the idea of a monk turned rapist and devil worshipper may not be such a good idea.
Oh please! I say. It’s not like it’s not relevant. Sometimes people are so uptight. This is classic literature, folks! And great literature at that.
The book’s main character is Ambrosio, who, as an infant, was abandoned and given to the order of the Capuchins. Raised by the monks, Ambrosio showed great promise even at an early age, and he soon took his orders. He becomes a figure of great piety—easy enough, when you’ve spent your entire life within the walls of a monastery. The only time he ever leaves is every Thursday, when he delivers a sermon to the massive crowds who come to see what they deem a living saint. During one of these sermons, his eyes light upon Antonia, a young girl of fifteen, who just so happens to be the most beautiful, most pious, and most innocent girl in existence. Filled with lust, Ambrosio vows to have her, and he will stop at nothing to do so. And that’s only the beginning!!
Yeah…so probably wouldn’t go over well in a Catholic school. Which sucks, because this is a book I can really get behind. First, it’s a Gothic novel, so there’s lots of creepy, crazy stuff. I also find it amazing that a book this scandalous was written in 1794. Also noteworthy is that Lewis wrote it before he turned 20, which of course makes me feel great that I’m a bit past that age and have nothing this awesome to my resume. The book is not all scandal and sensationalism, however. The book also raises interesting points on the true nature of piety. You cannot be truly pious if you hide from sin. Rather, you must face it daily and refuse it.
Granted, the book can be a bit melodramatic at times, but it's all in keeping with the genre. The melodrama can easily be overlooked in the presence of everything else that is so great about The Monk. On my now fourth read, I'm finding lots of ironic, funny lines I previously missed. And I never cease to be amazed at the depths to which the monk will sink so that he might have his desires. This is definitely a book that gets better with age.
In a nutshell: A fabulous, page-turning classic that gets better with every reading. You must read it, if you haven't already.
Bibliolatry Scale: 6 out of 6 stars
Matthew Lewis
Now THIS is a good book!!! This is another in the way of Lolita and Watership Down, in that I’ve read it several times already—but it's another book that demands rereading every couple years. It’s just so damn good! Because of its high scandal factor I've wanted to teach it, but considering I teach in a Catholic school, the idea of a monk turned rapist and devil worshipper may not be such a good idea.
Oh please! I say. It’s not like it’s not relevant. Sometimes people are so uptight. This is classic literature, folks! And great literature at that.
The book’s main character is Ambrosio, who, as an infant, was abandoned and given to the order of the Capuchins. Raised by the monks, Ambrosio showed great promise even at an early age, and he soon took his orders. He becomes a figure of great piety—easy enough, when you’ve spent your entire life within the walls of a monastery. The only time he ever leaves is every Thursday, when he delivers a sermon to the massive crowds who come to see what they deem a living saint. During one of these sermons, his eyes light upon Antonia, a young girl of fifteen, who just so happens to be the most beautiful, most pious, and most innocent girl in existence. Filled with lust, Ambrosio vows to have her, and he will stop at nothing to do so. And that’s only the beginning!!
Yeah…so probably wouldn’t go over well in a Catholic school. Which sucks, because this is a book I can really get behind. First, it’s a Gothic novel, so there’s lots of creepy, crazy stuff. I also find it amazing that a book this scandalous was written in 1794. Also noteworthy is that Lewis wrote it before he turned 20, which of course makes me feel great that I’m a bit past that age and have nothing this awesome to my resume. The book is not all scandal and sensationalism, however. The book also raises interesting points on the true nature of piety. You cannot be truly pious if you hide from sin. Rather, you must face it daily and refuse it.
Granted, the book can be a bit melodramatic at times, but it's all in keeping with the genre. The melodrama can easily be overlooked in the presence of everything else that is so great about The Monk. On my now fourth read, I'm finding lots of ironic, funny lines I previously missed. And I never cease to be amazed at the depths to which the monk will sink so that he might have his desires. This is definitely a book that gets better with age.
In a nutshell: A fabulous, page-turning classic that gets better with every reading. You must read it, if you haven't already.
Bibliolatry Scale: 6 out of 6 stars
Friday, April 14, 2006
The Portrait, by Iain Pears
The Portrait
Iain Pears
Well now this was an entertaining little book! And I don't mean this in a belittling way; The Portrait takes only a sitting or two to read, and is highly entertaining.
I have to say that I liked this book a lot better than Pears' Instance of the Fingerpost, which I found much too long and ruined by its dumb and unbelievable conclusion. In contrast, The Portrait was short, believable, and smart. Can't beat it! The story is told via a dramatic monologue; an artist speaks to his critic after a long absence. It's clear something bad is going to happen. Animosity drips from each page as the artist paints his critic's portrait.
Unfortunately, the idea that something bad will eventually happen is given to the reader long before one opens the book, so long as one is observant enough to read the cover comments. I'm giving nothing away here. To be fair, there is enough not-too-subtle foreshadowing along the way that will guide the reader to this same conclusion. (Ironic that the learned critic would miss these clues.) Fortunately, there were a few surprises that were not indicated by either the cover comments or the un-subtle foreshadowing, so I wasn't entirely let down.
The book also raises some interesting questions about the interplay between art and criticism. Does the artist make necessary the critic? Or the other way around? I'd like to think both artist and critic are necessary to one another, a symbiotic relationship of sorts. Pears, however, seems to see the critic as a parasite that feeds off the labors of the artist. Undeniably the critic has great powers of influence. Does that mean the critic deems what is True Art while the dumb masses follow blindly? Perhaps, if he uses his powers of discernment correctly. He might, however, toy with the public, as the famous Ellsworth Toohey did in Rand's The Fountainhead. In this case, the critic might elevate trash and watch the masses lap it up, believing trash to be True Art. Perhaps, as Pears also seems to assert, True Art is so compelling, so disturbing, that it cannot even be shown to either critic or audience, but exists solely for the artist himself? Pears offers no explanations to these questions, although his sympathies surely lie with artists. In fact, one is almost lead to wonder if Pears himself hasn't been burned by a critic's acid pen one too many times. He seems to be drawing from personal experience. Hopefully, not too personal.
In a nutshell: The Portrait is highly entertaining, short novel even if it doesn't shake the ground a reader walks on. Dramatic monologues are not often used in novels, and it was refreshing to see one here. Not the best book I've ever read (it was rather cold for that, as was necessary), but it did give me a pleasant way to pass an afternoon.
Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars
Iain Pears
Well now this was an entertaining little book! And I don't mean this in a belittling way; The Portrait takes only a sitting or two to read, and is highly entertaining.
I have to say that I liked this book a lot better than Pears' Instance of the Fingerpost, which I found much too long and ruined by its dumb and unbelievable conclusion. In contrast, The Portrait was short, believable, and smart. Can't beat it! The story is told via a dramatic monologue; an artist speaks to his critic after a long absence. It's clear something bad is going to happen. Animosity drips from each page as the artist paints his critic's portrait.
Unfortunately, the idea that something bad will eventually happen is given to the reader long before one opens the book, so long as one is observant enough to read the cover comments. I'm giving nothing away here. To be fair, there is enough not-too-subtle foreshadowing along the way that will guide the reader to this same conclusion. (Ironic that the learned critic would miss these clues.) Fortunately, there were a few surprises that were not indicated by either the cover comments or the un-subtle foreshadowing, so I wasn't entirely let down.
The book also raises some interesting questions about the interplay between art and criticism. Does the artist make necessary the critic? Or the other way around? I'd like to think both artist and critic are necessary to one another, a symbiotic relationship of sorts. Pears, however, seems to see the critic as a parasite that feeds off the labors of the artist. Undeniably the critic has great powers of influence. Does that mean the critic deems what is True Art while the dumb masses follow blindly? Perhaps, if he uses his powers of discernment correctly. He might, however, toy with the public, as the famous Ellsworth Toohey did in Rand's The Fountainhead. In this case, the critic might elevate trash and watch the masses lap it up, believing trash to be True Art. Perhaps, as Pears also seems to assert, True Art is so compelling, so disturbing, that it cannot even be shown to either critic or audience, but exists solely for the artist himself? Pears offers no explanations to these questions, although his sympathies surely lie with artists. In fact, one is almost lead to wonder if Pears himself hasn't been burned by a critic's acid pen one too many times. He seems to be drawing from personal experience. Hopefully, not too personal.
In a nutshell: The Portrait is highly entertaining, short novel even if it doesn't shake the ground a reader walks on. Dramatic monologues are not often used in novels, and it was refreshing to see one here. Not the best book I've ever read (it was rather cold for that, as was necessary), but it did give me a pleasant way to pass an afternoon.
Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars
Thursday, April 13, 2006
I Am No One You Know, by Joyce Carol Oates
I Am No One You Know
Joyce Carol Oates
For years I’ve been ambivalent to Joyce Carol Oates; I recognize her as a good writer, but most of what I’ve read from her over the years was really nothing memorable (with the exception of Zombie, a book that scared the crap out of me) in my mind. Willing to give Oates another try, I picked up two collections of hers. So far, I’ve read I Am No One You Know.
I’m so pleased to find a collection of stories which doesn’t contain a story or two that just lets you down. Usually in a collection of stories, there are about 2 stories (if I’m lucky) that “wow” me, about a lot that “okay” me, and a few that “wtf” me. Blessedly, I found zero wtf stories in this collection, and more than a few that wowed me.
The stories are all disturbing in their own ways. There is something of the grotesque in them, as well as a little something that makes the grotesque appealing. There is beauty in her sparse prose, which illuminates even the most horrifying scenes.
If I were pressed to name a favorite, I’m not sure I could. Of the nearly 20 stories, I found the most memorable to be “Curly Red,” about a sister who tells on her older brothers after they commit a horrific crime; “The Girl with the Blackened Eye,” about a girl who survives being kidnapped and raped; “The Instructor,” about a shy girl who begins to teach college and encounters as a student an ex-con who stalks her; and “Aiding and Abetting,” about a husband, who, fed-up with his emotionally unstable brother-in-law, talks him into suicide. The stories are so memorable to me that I regret only mentioning these stories, and not others. But I simply can’t do justice to them all with a quick summary.
In a nutshell: The writing is good; the stories are better. Or are the stories good and the writing better? It doesn't matter--even the most disappointing story wasn’t disappointing at all. Each makes you feel you are getting something new.
Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars
Joyce Carol Oates
For years I’ve been ambivalent to Joyce Carol Oates; I recognize her as a good writer, but most of what I’ve read from her over the years was really nothing memorable (with the exception of Zombie, a book that scared the crap out of me) in my mind. Willing to give Oates another try, I picked up two collections of hers. So far, I’ve read I Am No One You Know.
I’m so pleased to find a collection of stories which doesn’t contain a story or two that just lets you down. Usually in a collection of stories, there are about 2 stories (if I’m lucky) that “wow” me, about a lot that “okay” me, and a few that “wtf” me. Blessedly, I found zero wtf stories in this collection, and more than a few that wowed me.
The stories are all disturbing in their own ways. There is something of the grotesque in them, as well as a little something that makes the grotesque appealing. There is beauty in her sparse prose, which illuminates even the most horrifying scenes.
If I were pressed to name a favorite, I’m not sure I could. Of the nearly 20 stories, I found the most memorable to be “Curly Red,” about a sister who tells on her older brothers after they commit a horrific crime; “The Girl with the Blackened Eye,” about a girl who survives being kidnapped and raped; “The Instructor,” about a shy girl who begins to teach college and encounters as a student an ex-con who stalks her; and “Aiding and Abetting,” about a husband, who, fed-up with his emotionally unstable brother-in-law, talks him into suicide. The stories are so memorable to me that I regret only mentioning these stories, and not others. But I simply can’t do justice to them all with a quick summary.
In a nutshell: The writing is good; the stories are better. Or are the stories good and the writing better? It doesn't matter--even the most disappointing story wasn’t disappointing at all. Each makes you feel you are getting something new.
Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Watership Down, by Richard Adams
Watership Down
Richard Adams
I WANT TO BE A RABBIT. Dammit! Why, God, why was I born a person? I want to be Bigwig. Or Fiver. Or Thethuthinnang, so I can have a cool name I'm not sure I'm pronouncing correctly.
To quote the french, le sigh.
So, anyway, years ago, me mither once told me about her favorite childhood book. She gave it to me to read, and it was all yellowed and weathered, and I saw it was super long, and I was like, oh crap do I really have to read this? But I did and it became my favorite book EVER. I read it about once a year after that until giving the book to my grandmom to read; I haven't seen it since. I still feel bad asking gram for it back, so I haven't.
Fast forward to a month ago, when I finally bought meself a new one. I wasn't going to read it yet, but I'm plowing through Anna Karenina, and, guess what? I'm bored and need a distraction. I'm not even quite 100 pages in, so I'm hoping I'll still be swept away. But for now: rabbits.
So I put Anna down and read this book again for the first time in years. Not surprisingly, I think I loved it more than I remember. Only this time, I didn't cry. (Well, to be fair, I was reading parts of it in work--I couldn't put it down, responsibilities be damned--and students were near. It wouldn't look right to be seen crying over a book about rabbits, so I had to suck it up. But damn, it was close for a minute there.)
This time around, I caught on to a lot of stuff I missed as a child. But the beauty of the story hasn't changed. It's a simply told story of a group of rabbits in search of a better life. The characters make the story, however, and I still, after all this time, can't decide which one is my favorite. There's Fiver, the psychic ; Bigwig, the lovable tough guy; Hazel, their unlikely leader; and El-ahrairah, the mischievous rabbit of folklore.
Richard Adams
I WANT TO BE A RABBIT. Dammit! Why, God, why was I born a person? I want to be Bigwig. Or Fiver. Or Thethuthinnang, so I can have a cool name I'm not sure I'm pronouncing correctly.
To quote the french, le sigh.
So, anyway, years ago, me mither once told me about her favorite childhood book. She gave it to me to read, and it was all yellowed and weathered, and I saw it was super long, and I was like, oh crap do I really have to read this? But I did and it became my favorite book EVER. I read it about once a year after that until giving the book to my grandmom to read; I haven't seen it since. I still feel bad asking gram for it back, so I haven't.
Fast forward to a month ago, when I finally bought meself a new one. I wasn't going to read it yet, but I'm plowing through Anna Karenina, and, guess what? I'm bored and need a distraction. I'm not even quite 100 pages in, so I'm hoping I'll still be swept away. But for now: rabbits.
So I put Anna down and read this book again for the first time in years. Not surprisingly, I think I loved it more than I remember. Only this time, I didn't cry. (Well, to be fair, I was reading parts of it in work--I couldn't put it down, responsibilities be damned--and students were near. It wouldn't look right to be seen crying over a book about rabbits, so I had to suck it up. But damn, it was close for a minute there.)
This time around, I caught on to a lot of stuff I missed as a child. But the beauty of the story hasn't changed. It's a simply told story of a group of rabbits in search of a better life. The characters make the story, however, and I still, after all this time, can't decide which one is my favorite. There's Fiver, the psychic ; Bigwig, the lovable tough guy; Hazel, their unlikely leader; and El-ahrairah, the mischievous rabbit of folklore.
In a nutshell: A book for everyone of all ages. It's a fairly long read, but one that will fly by. And you aren't human if it doesn't make you even a little misty. I mean, come on. Rabbits, people. Rabbits.
Bibliolatry Scale: 6 out of 6 stars.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Parallel Worlds, by Michio Kaku
Parallel Worlds
Michio Kaku
When I was younger, I wanted to be an astronomer. Astronomy is super cool. I love learning about what will happen when our sun dies (that is, it will expand and engulf Earth, which will burn in its outermost layer) or about our future collision with the Andromeda galaxy in a few billion years.
Unfortunately, I soon learned that astronomy = math. And I hate math. So I gave up on the whole astronomy thing, but I still love to watch those nerdy programs on the National Geographic Channel. So I thought I’d enjoy Kaku’s Parallel Worlds, which discusses the birth of the universe (and the multiverse, the theory that our universe is but one of many), parallel dimensions, string theory, time travel, and the like.
Kaku is one of the cofounders of string theory, so he is more than just a geeky know-it-all. More importantly, however, he has the gift of storytelling. He relates this heavy information interspersed with witty anecdotes and asides. He’s a pretty darn good writer for a scientist, if I may say so myself.
At times, the book gets a little too complicated for my non-math-and-science brain, but Kaku’s clear analogies and explanations make some pretty complicated material understandable. And whenever it got a little too difficult, I just remembered that a little skimming never hurt nobody.
In a nutshell: if you are interested in the universe (and who the heck isn’t?), Parallel Worlds is a great—albeit tough—book. You may not understand 100% of the information it contains, but according to Kaku, many astrophysicists don’t either. Nice!
Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars
Michio Kaku
When I was younger, I wanted to be an astronomer. Astronomy is super cool. I love learning about what will happen when our sun dies (that is, it will expand and engulf Earth, which will burn in its outermost layer) or about our future collision with the Andromeda galaxy in a few billion years.
Unfortunately, I soon learned that astronomy = math. And I hate math. So I gave up on the whole astronomy thing, but I still love to watch those nerdy programs on the National Geographic Channel. So I thought I’d enjoy Kaku’s Parallel Worlds, which discusses the birth of the universe (and the multiverse, the theory that our universe is but one of many), parallel dimensions, string theory, time travel, and the like.
Kaku is one of the cofounders of string theory, so he is more than just a geeky know-it-all. More importantly, however, he has the gift of storytelling. He relates this heavy information interspersed with witty anecdotes and asides. He’s a pretty darn good writer for a scientist, if I may say so myself.
At times, the book gets a little too complicated for my non-math-and-science brain, but Kaku’s clear analogies and explanations make some pretty complicated material understandable. And whenever it got a little too difficult, I just remembered that a little skimming never hurt nobody.
In a nutshell: if you are interested in the universe (and who the heck isn’t?), Parallel Worlds is a great—albeit tough—book. You may not understand 100% of the information it contains, but according to Kaku, many astrophysicists don’t either. Nice!
Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars
The Wasp Factory, by Iain Banks
The Wasp Factory
Iain Banks
I like weird books, but…man. The Wasp Factory is about a teenage murderer in Scotland. The Times (London) is quoted on the back of the book as calling the book “Rubbish!” – it is better than rubbish, but I’m not calling it great literature. The story is certainly disturbing (at times a bit too much so), but what prevents this from being a better book is the lack of outstanding prose. The real draw here is the narrator’s description of his heinous deeds.
Frank Cauldhame is sixteen and has already killed three people. He has strange rituals and weird collections. Frank’s descriptions of his crazy daily life are very entertaining, if not highly disturbing. Because of this shock value, the story was interesting and I’d recommend it to others.
However, the ending is another one of those “here’s a really crazy ending you’ll never see coming,” and I couldn’t help but wish Banks had explained the narrator’s craziness in a more logical way. Intending to study criminal psychology before switching to literature, I have always loved criminal minds, and usually there is a seemingly simple, yet extremely twisted reason murderers are what they are. Mostly they become so due to abuse or genetics, but Banks explains his murderer’s insanity with something really unexpected.
Unfortunately, at the end, though, I wanted more depth. It seems as if Banks says, “Here is Frank’s crrrraaaaazzy secret. Isn’t it super crrraaaaazzzy? That’s why he’s a killer! And now that he’s aware of it, problem solved!”
Except in life, things are never that simple. That’s why, after reading The Wasp Factory, I felt that despite its disturbing material this book was mostly fluff. It is a light read (at a slim 184 pages) and the story is compelling enough to propel one through in one or two sittings. Is it worth it? Sure, if you like gross and kooky stuff.
In a nutshell: entertaining but ultimately superficial.
Bibliolatry Scale: 3 out of 6 stars.
Iain Banks
I like weird books, but…man. The Wasp Factory is about a teenage murderer in Scotland. The Times (London) is quoted on the back of the book as calling the book “Rubbish!” – it is better than rubbish, but I’m not calling it great literature. The story is certainly disturbing (at times a bit too much so), but what prevents this from being a better book is the lack of outstanding prose. The real draw here is the narrator’s description of his heinous deeds.
Frank Cauldhame is sixteen and has already killed three people. He has strange rituals and weird collections. Frank’s descriptions of his crazy daily life are very entertaining, if not highly disturbing. Because of this shock value, the story was interesting and I’d recommend it to others.
However, the ending is another one of those “here’s a really crazy ending you’ll never see coming,” and I couldn’t help but wish Banks had explained the narrator’s craziness in a more logical way. Intending to study criminal psychology before switching to literature, I have always loved criminal minds, and usually there is a seemingly simple, yet extremely twisted reason murderers are what they are. Mostly they become so due to abuse or genetics, but Banks explains his murderer’s insanity with something really unexpected.
Unfortunately, at the end, though, I wanted more depth. It seems as if Banks says, “Here is Frank’s crrrraaaaazzy secret. Isn’t it super crrraaaaazzzy? That’s why he’s a killer! And now that he’s aware of it, problem solved!”
Except in life, things are never that simple. That’s why, after reading The Wasp Factory, I felt that despite its disturbing material this book was mostly fluff. It is a light read (at a slim 184 pages) and the story is compelling enough to propel one through in one or two sittings. Is it worth it? Sure, if you like gross and kooky stuff.
In a nutshell: entertaining but ultimately superficial.
Bibliolatry Scale: 3 out of 6 stars.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov
The Annotated Lolita
Vladimir Nabokov
Lolita. Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lolita. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.
Undoubtedly, Lolita is the best book I have ever read. What a beautiful, beautiful novel, despite the fact that it’s about a middle-aged man in love with a child. This is my second time reading this novel, and I’m more convinced than ever that Nabokov is the author I’d most want to be. I know I’ll have to read Lolita about two more times before I even come close to understanding all of it.
Side note: I was inspired to reread the novel after recently hearing Elefant’s song “Lolita.” I don’t know much about Elefant, but I’ve been listening to the music channels on Comcast digital cable, and “Lolita” is often played on their Alternative channel. It’s a really catchy tune, and, obviously, about Lolita. The song reminded me of how much I loved reading this book a few years ago, so I picked it up again.
My first reaction upon rereading the book was one of wonder. I read the book as an undergrad about 6 years ago, and I was either grossly naïve or else I barely read it, because it seemed as if I had missed a world of meaning. I read Lolita with brand new eyes. I missed so much the first time around, it was as if I hadn’t read it at all. What, in six more years, will I find during my next read?
I can’t imagine anyone is unfamiliar with the book, but if you happen to be one of the few, it is not a pornographic work, despite our modern associations with it. Due to its multitude of allusions, puns, doubles and mirrors, it is often compared to Joyce, whom Nabokov admired; it is a comparison I don’t like, hating Joyce as I do. But the complexity of this work cannot be denied; for this reason, if you’re going to read Lolita, only the annotated version will do, and I’ve linked to it above. The almost 200 pages of notes at the end of the book help you understand the breadth of Nabokov’s references, which only the most learned person has a shot of recognizing.
In a nutshell: Simply put, if you haven’t read this book, you must. If you’ve only read it once, read it again. And then maybe again. And listen to Elefant’s song. Is it wrong that I love this book so much I’ve considered naming a daughter (should I ever have one) Lola?
Bibliolatry Scale: 10 out of 6 stars (it’s that good)
Vladimir Nabokov
Lolita. Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lolita. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.
Undoubtedly, Lolita is the best book I have ever read. What a beautiful, beautiful novel, despite the fact that it’s about a middle-aged man in love with a child. This is my second time reading this novel, and I’m more convinced than ever that Nabokov is the author I’d most want to be. I know I’ll have to read Lolita about two more times before I even come close to understanding all of it.
Side note: I was inspired to reread the novel after recently hearing Elefant’s song “Lolita.” I don’t know much about Elefant, but I’ve been listening to the music channels on Comcast digital cable, and “Lolita” is often played on their Alternative channel. It’s a really catchy tune, and, obviously, about Lolita. The song reminded me of how much I loved reading this book a few years ago, so I picked it up again.
My first reaction upon rereading the book was one of wonder. I read the book as an undergrad about 6 years ago, and I was either grossly naïve or else I barely read it, because it seemed as if I had missed a world of meaning. I read Lolita with brand new eyes. I missed so much the first time around, it was as if I hadn’t read it at all. What, in six more years, will I find during my next read?
I can’t imagine anyone is unfamiliar with the book, but if you happen to be one of the few, it is not a pornographic work, despite our modern associations with it. Due to its multitude of allusions, puns, doubles and mirrors, it is often compared to Joyce, whom Nabokov admired; it is a comparison I don’t like, hating Joyce as I do. But the complexity of this work cannot be denied; for this reason, if you’re going to read Lolita, only the annotated version will do, and I’ve linked to it above. The almost 200 pages of notes at the end of the book help you understand the breadth of Nabokov’s references, which only the most learned person has a shot of recognizing.
In a nutshell: Simply put, if you haven’t read this book, you must. If you’ve only read it once, read it again. And then maybe again. And listen to Elefant’s song. Is it wrong that I love this book so much I’ve considered naming a daughter (should I ever have one) Lola?
Bibliolatry Scale: 10 out of 6 stars (it’s that good)
Saturday, March 18, 2006
The African Safari Papers, by Robert Sedlack
The African Safari Papers
Robert Sedlack
The African Safari Papers is yet another one of those books that I have been steadily ignoring for years. I finally picked it up, and it actually wasn’t half bad and I enjoyed the book more than I thought I would.
The book centers on Richard Clark, who is nineteen and on safari with his parents. An African safari is interesting in itself, but Sedlack throws a suicidal mother and alcoholic father into the mix. Oh, and Richard is constantly on lots of drugs, too. Looks like a great family vacation is in store for them all.
The story is told through Richard’s travel journal. He recounts their adventures and animal sightings, but the real focus is on the complete disintegration of each of them as their safari progresses. The family’s problems are certainly unique, and, although each faces a lot of pain throughout the novel, I couldn’t sympathize with any of them. I felt oddly detached from them, even the narrator, who really began to grate on my nerves after awhile. Perhaps it was due to the Richard’s acerbic and witty voice that sorta reminded me of Dave Eggers (which may or may not be a good thing). Unfortunately, this style became a bit much at times, especially when Richard entered one of his quasi-philosophical rants that were generally insightful but a mostly just too preachy and annoying.
My other beef with the book was its ending. I can’t call it trite, because it’s certainly unique. And while I can’t think of an ending quite like it, it still seemed a bit too crazy for the book, although I guess it is the most fitting ending possible for a family of lunatics. Still, I would have preferred something a little more subtle.
In a nutshell: At times Sedlack tries too hard to be a modern prophet in the way of Hunter S. Thompson. The African Safari Papers doesn’t present any new ideas but it does try to provide some depth. Unfortunately, not much insight is possible from a 19-yr-old junkie who might be the most selfish bastard ever to have lived. The book is still a good read, though, and it is one hell of an ending.
Bibliolatry Scale: 3.5 out of 6 stars.
Robert Sedlack
The African Safari Papers is yet another one of those books that I have been steadily ignoring for years. I finally picked it up, and it actually wasn’t half bad and I enjoyed the book more than I thought I would.
The book centers on Richard Clark, who is nineteen and on safari with his parents. An African safari is interesting in itself, but Sedlack throws a suicidal mother and alcoholic father into the mix. Oh, and Richard is constantly on lots of drugs, too. Looks like a great family vacation is in store for them all.
The story is told through Richard’s travel journal. He recounts their adventures and animal sightings, but the real focus is on the complete disintegration of each of them as their safari progresses. The family’s problems are certainly unique, and, although each faces a lot of pain throughout the novel, I couldn’t sympathize with any of them. I felt oddly detached from them, even the narrator, who really began to grate on my nerves after awhile. Perhaps it was due to the Richard’s acerbic and witty voice that sorta reminded me of Dave Eggers (which may or may not be a good thing). Unfortunately, this style became a bit much at times, especially when Richard entered one of his quasi-philosophical rants that were generally insightful but a mostly just too preachy and annoying.
My other beef with the book was its ending. I can’t call it trite, because it’s certainly unique. And while I can’t think of an ending quite like it, it still seemed a bit too crazy for the book, although I guess it is the most fitting ending possible for a family of lunatics. Still, I would have preferred something a little more subtle.
In a nutshell: At times Sedlack tries too hard to be a modern prophet in the way of Hunter S. Thompson. The African Safari Papers doesn’t present any new ideas but it does try to provide some depth. Unfortunately, not much insight is possible from a 19-yr-old junkie who might be the most selfish bastard ever to have lived. The book is still a good read, though, and it is one hell of an ending.
Bibliolatry Scale: 3.5 out of 6 stars.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Kafka on the Shore, by Haruki Murakami
Kafka on the Shore
Haruki Murakami
Wow. What a crazy book. I was immediately taken with Kafka on the Shore, and, despite its length of almost 500 pages, I tore though it. In fact, I even brought the book to work and read it at every opportunity, ignoring the mounds of grading growing around me.
Kafka involves a young runaway struggling to avoid his father’s curse. At the same time, he is seeking his long-lost mother and sister. This search draws him into a maze of complexities—animals talk, the past moves into the present, and ghost appear while their bodies are still alive.
After finishing, I was somewhat displeased with the book. First, the ending. The various loose ends were tied up but not all were satisfactorily explained. If they even were explained. Kafka’s plot is, at times, surreal and other-worldly; in a world like this, a clearer resolution is necessary, especially because it seems that Murakami does intend a satisfactory explanation. This lack of explanation is especially annoying because Murakami nicely explains several other crazy plot points. I estimate there are about six plot “quirks” that need to be in some way cleared up by the end. Of those, I would say two are explained satisfactorily. I could fudge another two if I had to. The remaining two? No clue. Of course, I admit that this is a book that requires more than one read to sound its depths. One other small complaint: the dialogue. At times, the dialogue seemed a bit stilted and unnatural, but it is impossible to tell whether this is the fault of Murakami or of the translator.
Despite these annoyances, I enjoyed the book overall. The likeable (though somewhat bizarre) characters felt real, even if the dialogue wasn’t always perfect. Kafka has inspired me to read more Murakami, which indicates how engrossing the book is.
In a nutshell: A great book even with a few flaws; it is both entertaining and thought-provoking.
Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars.
Haruki Murakami
Wow. What a crazy book. I was immediately taken with Kafka on the Shore, and, despite its length of almost 500 pages, I tore though it. In fact, I even brought the book to work and read it at every opportunity, ignoring the mounds of grading growing around me.
Kafka involves a young runaway struggling to avoid his father’s curse. At the same time, he is seeking his long-lost mother and sister. This search draws him into a maze of complexities—animals talk, the past moves into the present, and ghost appear while their bodies are still alive.
After finishing, I was somewhat displeased with the book. First, the ending. The various loose ends were tied up but not all were satisfactorily explained. If they even were explained. Kafka’s plot is, at times, surreal and other-worldly; in a world like this, a clearer resolution is necessary, especially because it seems that Murakami does intend a satisfactory explanation. This lack of explanation is especially annoying because Murakami nicely explains several other crazy plot points. I estimate there are about six plot “quirks” that need to be in some way cleared up by the end. Of those, I would say two are explained satisfactorily. I could fudge another two if I had to. The remaining two? No clue. Of course, I admit that this is a book that requires more than one read to sound its depths. One other small complaint: the dialogue. At times, the dialogue seemed a bit stilted and unnatural, but it is impossible to tell whether this is the fault of Murakami or of the translator.
Despite these annoyances, I enjoyed the book overall. The likeable (though somewhat bizarre) characters felt real, even if the dialogue wasn’t always perfect. Kafka has inspired me to read more Murakami, which indicates how engrossing the book is.
In a nutshell: A great book even with a few flaws; it is both entertaining and thought-provoking.
Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
A Long Way Down, by Nick Hornby
A Long Way Down
Nick Hornby
I read this book after much debate; months ago, I came across several pretty bad reviews of it, and they were harsh enough to dissuade me from purchasing the book earlier. Fortunately I can say I disagree with them—I really enjoyed A Long Way Down.
I didn’t find the characters impossible to like; in fact, I rather enjoyed them. They are four would-be suicides, who all planned to die at midnight on New Years’. Coincidentally, they all choose the same place, and so the plot begins. Admittedly, they do seem rather unlikable: there’s Martin, an ex-morning-show host who has lost everything due to his stupid actions; Maureen, an older woman with no life whatsoever; JJ, an American who has lost his band and his girlfriend; and Jess, a crazy eighteen-year-old girl. Martin is extremely self-absorbed; actually, they all are, except for Maureen, who seems to be the only sympathetic one. The book shifts from one point of view to another; they take turns narrating each chapter, and I have to credit Hornby for truly making each character seem real. It didn’t seem like the same person was obviously behind each one.
The characters were all so individual and interesting that the book’s 330 pages flew by; the only downside to the book is that, after finishing it, I didn’t necessarily feel I had read a great work of literature. The characters don’t commit suicide (I’m not ruining anything here; that is made clear from the beginning, as they are clearly narrating about something that has ended rather than still occurring), but I’m not sure what the message is. Live, because there is beauty in life? Nah, I don’t think that message came through. However, I think there is a message in the book, although I’m not sure it’s terribly clear or profound. That said, I did enjoy the book, having no familiarity with Hornby before.
In a nutshell: A fast, fun read that won’t leave you understanding the purpose of life, but will leave you entertained and laughing out loud.
Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars.
Nick Hornby
I read this book after much debate; months ago, I came across several pretty bad reviews of it, and they were harsh enough to dissuade me from purchasing the book earlier. Fortunately I can say I disagree with them—I really enjoyed A Long Way Down.
I didn’t find the characters impossible to like; in fact, I rather enjoyed them. They are four would-be suicides, who all planned to die at midnight on New Years’. Coincidentally, they all choose the same place, and so the plot begins. Admittedly, they do seem rather unlikable: there’s Martin, an ex-morning-show host who has lost everything due to his stupid actions; Maureen, an older woman with no life whatsoever; JJ, an American who has lost his band and his girlfriend; and Jess, a crazy eighteen-year-old girl. Martin is extremely self-absorbed; actually, they all are, except for Maureen, who seems to be the only sympathetic one. The book shifts from one point of view to another; they take turns narrating each chapter, and I have to credit Hornby for truly making each character seem real. It didn’t seem like the same person was obviously behind each one.
The characters were all so individual and interesting that the book’s 330 pages flew by; the only downside to the book is that, after finishing it, I didn’t necessarily feel I had read a great work of literature. The characters don’t commit suicide (I’m not ruining anything here; that is made clear from the beginning, as they are clearly narrating about something that has ended rather than still occurring), but I’m not sure what the message is. Live, because there is beauty in life? Nah, I don’t think that message came through. However, I think there is a message in the book, although I’m not sure it’s terribly clear or profound. That said, I did enjoy the book, having no familiarity with Hornby before.
In a nutshell: A fast, fun read that won’t leave you understanding the purpose of life, but will leave you entertained and laughing out loud.
Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
The Cave, by Jose Saramago
The Cave
Jose Saramago
Two things have prevented me from updating sooner: I have been incredibly busy, and The Cave was something that didn’t sweep me away.
Having read Saramago’s Blindness, I thought I’d try The Cave. Unfortunately, this book did not have the same power on me. It was about 300 pages long, and I felt every single one of them. If the book were 100 pages less, I think I’d like it better.
In this allegory, Saramago uses Plato’s Allegory of the Cave to express the idea that we must not be passive viewers of our world; we must participate in them fully. I’m sure I’m missing some key ideas and oversimplifying things, but the truth of the matter is that I had to skim the last 50 pages of the book in order to keep my sanity.
The book’s main character is Cipriano Algor, an old potter who finds himself out of work. His nemesis is “The Center,” a huge complex that is part mall, part residential area, part everything that is constantly expanding. (Did anyone see the South Park in which Walmart takes over the world? The Center was like that.) When the Center no longer buys his pottery, Algor finds himself without purpose.
It was a good book, but overly philosophical in places. Also, Saramago’s trademark style of no paragraphs, no quotation marks was not as easy to endure in this book, unlike in Blindness.
In a nutshell: An ok book, but read Blindness if you want some good Saramago.
Bibliolatry Scale: 3 out of 6 stars.
Jose Saramago
Two things have prevented me from updating sooner: I have been incredibly busy, and The Cave was something that didn’t sweep me away.
Having read Saramago’s Blindness, I thought I’d try The Cave. Unfortunately, this book did not have the same power on me. It was about 300 pages long, and I felt every single one of them. If the book were 100 pages less, I think I’d like it better.
In this allegory, Saramago uses Plato’s Allegory of the Cave to express the idea that we must not be passive viewers of our world; we must participate in them fully. I’m sure I’m missing some key ideas and oversimplifying things, but the truth of the matter is that I had to skim the last 50 pages of the book in order to keep my sanity.
The book’s main character is Cipriano Algor, an old potter who finds himself out of work. His nemesis is “The Center,” a huge complex that is part mall, part residential area, part everything that is constantly expanding. (Did anyone see the South Park in which Walmart takes over the world? The Center was like that.) When the Center no longer buys his pottery, Algor finds himself without purpose.
It was a good book, but overly philosophical in places. Also, Saramago’s trademark style of no paragraphs, no quotation marks was not as easy to endure in this book, unlike in Blindness.
In a nutshell: An ok book, but read Blindness if you want some good Saramago.
Bibliolatry Scale: 3 out of 6 stars.
Monday, February 13, 2006
The Moon in Its Flight, by Gilbert Sorrentino
The Moon in Its Flight
Gilbert Sorrentino
I don’t know what I was thinking when I purchased this book, because I apparently had no clue about who Gilbert Sorrentino is. Based on his name (and, I suppose, a review of his that I must have only half-read), I pictured him writing in his Italian vineyard, sipping wine and penning another line. I pictured a contemporary of Italo Calvino, and I assumed that his writing would be of the same nature. While this is not entirely true, I was at least pleasantly surprised. Sorrentino is Italian, it seems, but he’s a tough New Yorker, and his stories have none of the Old World in them; rather, they are all American.
The Moon in Its Flight is a collection of 20 stories which have been written from 1971 until just two years ago. I can’t say that every story brought me an intense level of enjoyment, but I did like most of his stories. They are filled with recurring people and situations, and I can’t help but think that Sorrentino is dealing with past friends and mistakes here. For example, in several stories, the lead character (a man who thinks he has talent enough to make him a writer, even though all he writes are small scraps of garbage) has an affair with a friend’s wife. Sometimes the repetition of this storyline became a bit trite, especially as names are repeated also (making it seem all the more likely that these people were real to him).
Also important is Sorrentino’s style; he has a way of directly addressing the audience about his writing, which I found refreshing. For example, in “Decades,” the first time we meet Clara (one such name that he will use in other stories), the woman with whom the narrator has an affair, he writes:
When I say it was interesting, I mean that I saw that Ben was not that romantic Byronesque figure I had taken him to be. He somehow had a goal, a—what shall I call it?—“stake in life.” On the other hand, I am more or less still searching for myself, if you can stomach that phrase. Well, let that be; this is the Steins’ story.
This technique does not become clichéd or overused; in fact, it was what I enjoyed most about his work. It is used to the strongest effect in his final story (also his most recent), “Things that Have Stopped Moving.” In it, the narrator admits that he is going to try and relate something personal that he has never been able to write about before; he hopes this time he will be successful. Again we are given a story about a struggling writer and a friend’s wife. However, this time, certain lines and phrases really struck me; this story also illustrates Sorrentino’s growth as a writer (the story I’ve quoted above appeared in 1977). Consider the final paragraph of the story, when the narrator explains,
In any event, I’ve spent a fair amount of time and attempted a degree of care in the creation and arrangement of these fragments. There are moments or flashes when I believe that I have seen myself, in a quirk of syntax, as I really was, when I can swear that Ben or Clara are wholly if fleetingly present in these simulacra of the past. Moments, flashes, when this admittedly inadequate series of signs seems to body forth a gone time. But I know that this is nonsense, nothing but a ruse with which I have been faithfully complicit so as to make the landscape of my life seem more valuable and interesting than it ever was.
Sorrentino raises some interesting points here. How well can any “truth” (consider the Frey ordeal) translate into prose, even when one is striving to render it faithfully? This is a fitting way to end a collection of stories that seems, at any rate, extremely autobiographical—although how much does one know about Sorrentino after reading these stories? I can’t say much, although I suppose I know he isn’t writing while sipping a glass of red wine and staring down on his Italian vineyard. Or, maybe he is. Maybe he just chose not to include that in his stories.
In a nutshell: These stories did not shake the ground I walk on, but they were enjoyable to read. I recommend them.
Bibliolatry Scale: 4.5 out of 6
Gilbert Sorrentino
I don’t know what I was thinking when I purchased this book, because I apparently had no clue about who Gilbert Sorrentino is. Based on his name (and, I suppose, a review of his that I must have only half-read), I pictured him writing in his Italian vineyard, sipping wine and penning another line. I pictured a contemporary of Italo Calvino, and I assumed that his writing would be of the same nature. While this is not entirely true, I was at least pleasantly surprised. Sorrentino is Italian, it seems, but he’s a tough New Yorker, and his stories have none of the Old World in them; rather, they are all American.
The Moon in Its Flight is a collection of 20 stories which have been written from 1971 until just two years ago. I can’t say that every story brought me an intense level of enjoyment, but I did like most of his stories. They are filled with recurring people and situations, and I can’t help but think that Sorrentino is dealing with past friends and mistakes here. For example, in several stories, the lead character (a man who thinks he has talent enough to make him a writer, even though all he writes are small scraps of garbage) has an affair with a friend’s wife. Sometimes the repetition of this storyline became a bit trite, especially as names are repeated also (making it seem all the more likely that these people were real to him).
Also important is Sorrentino’s style; he has a way of directly addressing the audience about his writing, which I found refreshing. For example, in “Decades,” the first time we meet Clara (one such name that he will use in other stories), the woman with whom the narrator has an affair, he writes:
When I say it was interesting, I mean that I saw that Ben was not that romantic Byronesque figure I had taken him to be. He somehow had a goal, a—what shall I call it?—“stake in life.” On the other hand, I am more or less still searching for myself, if you can stomach that phrase. Well, let that be; this is the Steins’ story.
This technique does not become clichéd or overused; in fact, it was what I enjoyed most about his work. It is used to the strongest effect in his final story (also his most recent), “Things that Have Stopped Moving.” In it, the narrator admits that he is going to try and relate something personal that he has never been able to write about before; he hopes this time he will be successful. Again we are given a story about a struggling writer and a friend’s wife. However, this time, certain lines and phrases really struck me; this story also illustrates Sorrentino’s growth as a writer (the story I’ve quoted above appeared in 1977). Consider the final paragraph of the story, when the narrator explains,
In any event, I’ve spent a fair amount of time and attempted a degree of care in the creation and arrangement of these fragments. There are moments or flashes when I believe that I have seen myself, in a quirk of syntax, as I really was, when I can swear that Ben or Clara are wholly if fleetingly present in these simulacra of the past. Moments, flashes, when this admittedly inadequate series of signs seems to body forth a gone time. But I know that this is nonsense, nothing but a ruse with which I have been faithfully complicit so as to make the landscape of my life seem more valuable and interesting than it ever was.
Sorrentino raises some interesting points here. How well can any “truth” (consider the Frey ordeal) translate into prose, even when one is striving to render it faithfully? This is a fitting way to end a collection of stories that seems, at any rate, extremely autobiographical—although how much does one know about Sorrentino after reading these stories? I can’t say much, although I suppose I know he isn’t writing while sipping a glass of red wine and staring down on his Italian vineyard. Or, maybe he is. Maybe he just chose not to include that in his stories.
In a nutshell: These stories did not shake the ground I walk on, but they were enjoyable to read. I recommend them.
Bibliolatry Scale: 4.5 out of 6
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Blindness, by Jose Saramago
Blindness
Jose Saramago
What a disturbing, beautiful, mesmerizing book.
As I have mentioned earlier, I am trying to acquaint myself with more recent Nobel laureates (See The Tin Drum), so I took on Saramago’s Blindness. A reader leaves this book forever changed, and while I loathe using such a hackneyed phrase, it is nevertheless true here.
The book centers on an anonymous city; the characters are of no nationality, and it is this universality which adds to the terror of the tale. This is the story of everyone.
At the beginning of the novel, a man sitting in his car waiting for a traffic light to change is suddenly struck blind with a “white blindness.” The doctor can find no cause for his blindness. Soon, others are struck, and panic spreads. Not knowing the cause of the disease or how it is spread, frightened officials corral all of the blind into an abandoned mental asylum. If they try to escape, they will be shot. The terror has begun. Soon their limited space is overcrowded, and opportunists try to take advantage of the situation. It seems even the blind can be driven to the most brutal acts of desperation; eyes are not required. Interestingly, one “blind” woman can see—the wife of the first man struck blind pretends to have lost her sight so she can remain with her husband. Unfortunately, her sight forces her to witness some of the most disturbing acts I have read in fiction.
Saramago’s style is also disturbing. Interestingly enough, I enjoyed his style even though I hate similar devices in other authors. There are no paragraphs in Blindness; rather, it is just one, long, block of text. Punctuation is also limited, including quotation marks. You might think this makes reading difficult, but it doesn’t.
While this tale is horrifying on its own (after awhile, the illness spreads so that it is impossible to contain; people have gone blind while just walking in the streets and are trapped, unable to find home. It becomes a world where every man must fight for himself, and kindness is rare), Saramago is too good of an author to simply present a creepy story without deeper implications. Instead, this story is more, and its themes are important to anyone who strives to be more than just human.
In a nutshell: read it read it read it.
Bibliolatry Scale: 6 out of 6. Perfection.
Jose Saramago
What a disturbing, beautiful, mesmerizing book.
As I have mentioned earlier, I am trying to acquaint myself with more recent Nobel laureates (See The Tin Drum), so I took on Saramago’s Blindness. A reader leaves this book forever changed, and while I loathe using such a hackneyed phrase, it is nevertheless true here.
The book centers on an anonymous city; the characters are of no nationality, and it is this universality which adds to the terror of the tale. This is the story of everyone.
At the beginning of the novel, a man sitting in his car waiting for a traffic light to change is suddenly struck blind with a “white blindness.” The doctor can find no cause for his blindness. Soon, others are struck, and panic spreads. Not knowing the cause of the disease or how it is spread, frightened officials corral all of the blind into an abandoned mental asylum. If they try to escape, they will be shot. The terror has begun. Soon their limited space is overcrowded, and opportunists try to take advantage of the situation. It seems even the blind can be driven to the most brutal acts of desperation; eyes are not required. Interestingly, one “blind” woman can see—the wife of the first man struck blind pretends to have lost her sight so she can remain with her husband. Unfortunately, her sight forces her to witness some of the most disturbing acts I have read in fiction.
Saramago’s style is also disturbing. Interestingly enough, I enjoyed his style even though I hate similar devices in other authors. There are no paragraphs in Blindness; rather, it is just one, long, block of text. Punctuation is also limited, including quotation marks. You might think this makes reading difficult, but it doesn’t.
While this tale is horrifying on its own (after awhile, the illness spreads so that it is impossible to contain; people have gone blind while just walking in the streets and are trapped, unable to find home. It becomes a world where every man must fight for himself, and kindness is rare), Saramago is too good of an author to simply present a creepy story without deeper implications. Instead, this story is more, and its themes are important to anyone who strives to be more than just human.
In a nutshell: read it read it read it.
Bibliolatry Scale: 6 out of 6. Perfection.
Monday, February 06, 2006
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, by Carson McCullers
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
Carson McCullers
I’ve finally read The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. (See, I have forbidden myself to purchase any new books until I finish all the unread books I own first. For some reason, this is one that I’d avoided reading. I think because it was an Oprah’s Book Club pick, and not that I have anything particularly against her, but I had wanted to read that book BEFORE she picked it, but I didn't have a chance to, and then I guess I didn’t want to seem as if I was reading it because of her. Not that anyone would know. Or care. Ok, I’m weird. HOWEVER, I did read The Corrections because Franzen refused the book club. Interesting. Not really.)
Anyway, I am pleasantly surprised by this book. I loved it. Admittedly, I felt there were a few minor flaws, but they were ones I can overlook, especially considering everything else this book has to offer.
First, I have to say that this book passed my “opening hook” test. If you don’t know, I often feel a book is “bad” simply because its opening pages don’t hook me immediately. There have been many books which I label as excellent even though they fail this test. However, for a book to truly be perfect, I have to be hooked immediately—preferably by the first page, although I’ll allow the first ten as acceptable here.
This book hooked me on the first page with its simple telling of two mutes. The story of these two characters was not so remarkable; rather, it was the way in which she presented the story. If you’ve read Marquez, you know what I mean: it’s the way an author can relate even mundane events in such a way as to make them poetry.
Another thing I really enjoyed was its characters. It isn’t exactly a revelation to say that if one can sympathize with the characters, it’s highly likely that you’ll like the book. In this book, I honestly loved the characters, especially little Mick, who is, I guess, the main character. She’s young, she’s confused, she loves Beethoven—what’s not to love? (I’m obsessed with Beethoven, by the way. I just bought a huge, stone bust of him on eBay. Seriously. Who does that?)
The only thing that bothered me a little bit about the book was that some of the motifs and symbolism were a little heavy-handed, but it also added to the overall irony, I suppose. For example, it’s not giving anything away to say that the book has many “lonely hunters,” who are, in fact, hunting for the same thing, and they are all in the same town and so close to one another and if only they could connect they might find some peace BUT THEY JUST CAN’T. So that was a bit frustrating, and I suppose that’s why some things are heavy-handed, to emphasize the fact that these people are so alike and yet so isolated from one another. But then again maybe I’d have gotten that with a little more subtlety.
In a nutshell: a wonderful book. A fairly easy read, but a literary one that will give you lots to mull over.
Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars
Carson McCullers
I’ve finally read The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. (See, I have forbidden myself to purchase any new books until I finish all the unread books I own first. For some reason, this is one that I’d avoided reading. I think because it was an Oprah’s Book Club pick, and not that I have anything particularly against her, but I had wanted to read that book BEFORE she picked it, but I didn't have a chance to, and then I guess I didn’t want to seem as if I was reading it because of her. Not that anyone would know. Or care. Ok, I’m weird. HOWEVER, I did read The Corrections because Franzen refused the book club. Interesting. Not really.)
Anyway, I am pleasantly surprised by this book. I loved it. Admittedly, I felt there were a few minor flaws, but they were ones I can overlook, especially considering everything else this book has to offer.
First, I have to say that this book passed my “opening hook” test. If you don’t know, I often feel a book is “bad” simply because its opening pages don’t hook me immediately. There have been many books which I label as excellent even though they fail this test. However, for a book to truly be perfect, I have to be hooked immediately—preferably by the first page, although I’ll allow the first ten as acceptable here.
This book hooked me on the first page with its simple telling of two mutes. The story of these two characters was not so remarkable; rather, it was the way in which she presented the story. If you’ve read Marquez, you know what I mean: it’s the way an author can relate even mundane events in such a way as to make them poetry.
Another thing I really enjoyed was its characters. It isn’t exactly a revelation to say that if one can sympathize with the characters, it’s highly likely that you’ll like the book. In this book, I honestly loved the characters, especially little Mick, who is, I guess, the main character. She’s young, she’s confused, she loves Beethoven—what’s not to love? (I’m obsessed with Beethoven, by the way. I just bought a huge, stone bust of him on eBay. Seriously. Who does that?)
The only thing that bothered me a little bit about the book was that some of the motifs and symbolism were a little heavy-handed, but it also added to the overall irony, I suppose. For example, it’s not giving anything away to say that the book has many “lonely hunters,” who are, in fact, hunting for the same thing, and they are all in the same town and so close to one another and if only they could connect they might find some peace BUT THEY JUST CAN’T. So that was a bit frustrating, and I suppose that’s why some things are heavy-handed, to emphasize the fact that these people are so alike and yet so isolated from one another. But then again maybe I’d have gotten that with a little more subtlety.
In a nutshell: a wonderful book. A fairly easy read, but a literary one that will give you lots to mull over.
Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars
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