It feels redundant to review anything by Vonnegut. Some of my contemporaries seem to think they should avoid seeming dull or pleasant by finding something to critique even within those things that they love. My friends, I am not one of those people. An open mind goes completely out the window when I encounter a work by someone I already like. I hate the objectivist bias against bias! I'm biased, dammit, for better or worse!
When I love something, or someone, I love them. And I love Kurt Vonnegut. Granted, I haven't read everything he's written, but the novels I have read combined with the opinion pieces I've read are enough for me to enjoy the man's writing like I would a friend's. It may sound presumptuous to go about referring to Vonnegut as my friend, but this is the feeling one gets after reading a personal collection such as Wampeters. It is difficult to dislike someone who is so modest, simple, and surprised at his own success.
This collection includes speeches, book reviews, musings, a Playboy interview, and an unfinished screenplay. I found his review of Hunter S. Thompson to be particularly intriguing, as I admire both authors. In his introduction, Vonnegut claims to have arranged the materials in chronological order, to the best of this ability, and this attempt shines through. One can chart his movements in and out of pessimism, gentle Christianity, sadness, hypocrisy, and humor, and yet simultaneously see which parts of him have always remained the same. It is in this sense that I say reading this book makes Vonnegut like a friend to you. He has peaks and valleys, but the same essential man, the one who yearns for an American "extended family" persists throughout episodes of despair and elation.
Vonnegut, is anything, is perhaps too compassionate for me. Underneath his political and social critiques, he is a lover of man and a defender of the shy and stupid. He stands up for what is most pitiful in man, and in many ways I envy his apparent ability to reconcile ambivalence toward humanity. Reconcile may be too strong a word, as he does periodically mention his struggle to overlook the unhappiness of life in favor of the beautiful. But facing up to the ambivalence is noble enough.
In short, if you are already a Vonnegut fan, this book is pay dirt. If you're not a Vonnegut fan, hopefully this will give you a better opinion of the man, if not his fiction. If you're never read anything Vonnegut has ever touched, ever, this wouldn't be a bad introduction. Even though I try to be a properly critical member of my generation, the whimsy of Vonnegut's life has completely, utterly, stupidly won me over.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger
I just finished this book tonight, while sitting in a mall food court awaiting the return of my movie-going partner from the bathroom. A really crowded place is a good location for reading, because the isolating and individual nature of reading is highlighted.
But anyway. I really enjoyed this book, probably more than I enjoyed Catcher. It's important to note that this was not conceived as a cohesive book, or at least it wasn't written all at the same time under that notion. The "Franny" section was published in The New Yorker in 1955, the "Zooey" half in the same publication two years later.
There is a heavy amount of religious talk in this book, especially the second half. This is the kind of thing that can usually make me uncomfortable when reading. Although I consider myself a spiritual person, I resist using the language or concepts of organized religion. I think organization might be the problem. So, when Franny gets all nutso about The Jesus Prayer and Zooey starts in critiquing her about it, I was afraid of being thrown into the middle of a theological debate concerning the nature of God.
In a way, I was. However, so much of the discussion between the two characters (if you can really call it discussion) had more to do with ego and one's place in, and attitude toward, the world that the whole thing can be easily secularized and absorbed that way.
The novel is particularly claustrophobic, with only a few sets and four characters given spoken dialogue. The other voices that feature heavily in the story are from other texts - an effective technique for a writer to use. We encounter characters through their letters, or collections of quotations they kept around, etc. As an avid reader and quote-collector, this was very appealing to me.
I believe there are character arcs in this story, but they are just the way such arcs should be - subtle. Nothing is dramatically toppled over here. As the author says about the second half, it's like a written home movie.
I don't have a big overall statement to make about this book, since I just finished reading it and it hasn't sunk into my regular life, yet. But I definitely enjoyed it. I would recommend reading it in as few chunks as possible - it is short and quick to read, without a lot of places and people to keep track of, and there are few section breaks. I always regretted having to set it down in the middle of an argument that two of the characters were having. Salinger did a great job of capturing the rhythm and pitch of a family argument. His portrayal of the mother is particularly, well, motherly. Despite Bessie's specific character, she has quirks that are present in any mother, and reading them so succinctly put was a joy.
If you are an overly intellectual and troubled 20-something, this book may seem like something of a talking-to. But that's not a bad thing - Zooey critiques while he loves, and even if you're not attempting a Jesus Prayer, the painful collision of his love and criticism is moving and sweet and real.
But anyway. I really enjoyed this book, probably more than I enjoyed Catcher. It's important to note that this was not conceived as a cohesive book, or at least it wasn't written all at the same time under that notion. The "Franny" section was published in The New Yorker in 1955, the "Zooey" half in the same publication two years later.
There is a heavy amount of religious talk in this book, especially the second half. This is the kind of thing that can usually make me uncomfortable when reading. Although I consider myself a spiritual person, I resist using the language or concepts of organized religion. I think organization might be the problem. So, when Franny gets all nutso about The Jesus Prayer and Zooey starts in critiquing her about it, I was afraid of being thrown into the middle of a theological debate concerning the nature of God.
In a way, I was. However, so much of the discussion between the two characters (if you can really call it discussion) had more to do with ego and one's place in, and attitude toward, the world that the whole thing can be easily secularized and absorbed that way.
The novel is particularly claustrophobic, with only a few sets and four characters given spoken dialogue. The other voices that feature heavily in the story are from other texts - an effective technique for a writer to use. We encounter characters through their letters, or collections of quotations they kept around, etc. As an avid reader and quote-collector, this was very appealing to me.
I believe there are character arcs in this story, but they are just the way such arcs should be - subtle. Nothing is dramatically toppled over here. As the author says about the second half, it's like a written home movie.
I don't have a big overall statement to make about this book, since I just finished reading it and it hasn't sunk into my regular life, yet. But I definitely enjoyed it. I would recommend reading it in as few chunks as possible - it is short and quick to read, without a lot of places and people to keep track of, and there are few section breaks. I always regretted having to set it down in the middle of an argument that two of the characters were having. Salinger did a great job of capturing the rhythm and pitch of a family argument. His portrayal of the mother is particularly, well, motherly. Despite Bessie's specific character, she has quirks that are present in any mother, and reading them so succinctly put was a joy.
If you are an overly intellectual and troubled 20-something, this book may seem like something of a talking-to. But that's not a bad thing - Zooey critiques while he loves, and even if you're not attempting a Jesus Prayer, the painful collision of his love and criticism is moving and sweet and real.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
In a 1949 letter to George Orwell, Huxley defends the legitimacy of his future-world against 1984's by emphasizing the importance of efficiency in today's society. Orwell's nightmare government would waste far too much energy keeping their boot on the face of the lower classes, whereas Huxley's government spends their resources slowly training each individual to accept their lot in the caste system.
I've read 1984 twice, and to this day there are only two things about it that have really stuck with me. One is the mere image of a man hunched over a small table writing furiously, and the other is Orwell's extensive footnote on the development of “doublespeak.” I remember the presence of the journal making 1984 a very psychological experience: Freud would be proud of the revelations the protagonist has concerning his own thoughts. The concept of “doublespeak” is so insightful that I don't doubt our politicians have always engaged in it. Orwell's textbook description of the details of what might be called both a dialect and a distinct psychology is absolutely wonderful. I could read it a million times over.
Now, with the requisite comparison out of the way, let me say that I might be more of a Brave New World kind of person. The plot, granted, is less bombastic. You are thrown a number of different characters, but remain unsure who the plot will focus on and towards what ends. In a way, this is a shame. Huxley demonstrates, specifically through Bernard, his ability to put a fine point on a complicated emotion. Each character encounters some amount of confusion or bewilderment, as they are heavily conditioned to accept a world that some core of their being is opposed to. One could tease this out into a discussion of the philosophical “linguistic turn” quite easily: how do we describe our defection from society when society is the sole provider of our language?
In Huxley's hyper-industrial world, the answer is Shakespeare, or at least what the literary arts stand for. Reading and thinking are consistently toted as unproductive and pointless, and books of poetry and fiction have slowly been phased out of society. In some way, this story is about an artist himself. This is a subtle notion, one that didn't occur to me until the very last chapter of the book.
The overwhelming degree to which Huxley's upper classes have learned to control all classes (including their own) is frightening, but presented almost fairly. Their philosophy is standard to any aficionado of dark-future science fiction: emotion is the root of human problems, we must curtail or eliminate it. This goes far more interesting and complex places than merely addicting the population to an uber-Prozac. Children are conditioned throughout their youth in a number of different ways, as well as physically-manipulated in infancy to reinforce their social caste in their bodies. A numbing narcotic of some sort is provided to the different castes in different ways, ensuring that the lower classes complete their work and the upper classes avoid critical thinking.
There are many more details to Huxley's vision of control, but listing them here (and I would certainly need to list them) would ruin their surprise and, I think, realism. Like any book about the future written in the past, there are possibilities that have gone unaccounted for. Take it at face value, give it the benefit of the doubt and you won't be disappointed. Remember that the real gist of this book is in the details of the power structure – the characters and the plot don't really do much. They exist as portals to flesh out the specifics of the ruling class' development and philosophy, including the wide range of human individuals it affects. If anything, read this book so that you can see all how many people it has influenced – especially in cinema.
I've read 1984 twice, and to this day there are only two things about it that have really stuck with me. One is the mere image of a man hunched over a small table writing furiously, and the other is Orwell's extensive footnote on the development of “doublespeak.” I remember the presence of the journal making 1984 a very psychological experience: Freud would be proud of the revelations the protagonist has concerning his own thoughts. The concept of “doublespeak” is so insightful that I don't doubt our politicians have always engaged in it. Orwell's textbook description of the details of what might be called both a dialect and a distinct psychology is absolutely wonderful. I could read it a million times over.
Now, with the requisite comparison out of the way, let me say that I might be more of a Brave New World kind of person. The plot, granted, is less bombastic. You are thrown a number of different characters, but remain unsure who the plot will focus on and towards what ends. In a way, this is a shame. Huxley demonstrates, specifically through Bernard, his ability to put a fine point on a complicated emotion. Each character encounters some amount of confusion or bewilderment, as they are heavily conditioned to accept a world that some core of their being is opposed to. One could tease this out into a discussion of the philosophical “linguistic turn” quite easily: how do we describe our defection from society when society is the sole provider of our language?
In Huxley's hyper-industrial world, the answer is Shakespeare, or at least what the literary arts stand for. Reading and thinking are consistently toted as unproductive and pointless, and books of poetry and fiction have slowly been phased out of society. In some way, this story is about an artist himself. This is a subtle notion, one that didn't occur to me until the very last chapter of the book.
The overwhelming degree to which Huxley's upper classes have learned to control all classes (including their own) is frightening, but presented almost fairly. Their philosophy is standard to any aficionado of dark-future science fiction: emotion is the root of human problems, we must curtail or eliminate it. This goes far more interesting and complex places than merely addicting the population to an uber-Prozac. Children are conditioned throughout their youth in a number of different ways, as well as physically-manipulated in infancy to reinforce their social caste in their bodies. A numbing narcotic of some sort is provided to the different castes in different ways, ensuring that the lower classes complete their work and the upper classes avoid critical thinking.
There are many more details to Huxley's vision of control, but listing them here (and I would certainly need to list them) would ruin their surprise and, I think, realism. Like any book about the future written in the past, there are possibilities that have gone unaccounted for. Take it at face value, give it the benefit of the doubt and you won't be disappointed. Remember that the real gist of this book is in the details of the power structure – the characters and the plot don't really do much. They exist as portals to flesh out the specifics of the ruling class' development and philosophy, including the wide range of human individuals it affects. If anything, read this book so that you can see all how many people it has influenced – especially in cinema.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Cruel Shoes by Steve Martin
I'm madly in love with this book. First of all, look at the cover.
He's the Walt Whitman of 70s comedy. Most of these stories are more whimsy than they are laugh out loud funny, but several are absolute delights. His poetry parodies are cute, but poetry is already such a joke that it's not very difficult to make fun of. One or two of his false poems walk the irony line on one foot, leading me to consider turning in his work to an online poetry publisher, just to see.
The title story, "Cruel Shoes," is just flat-out hilarious, with a nice dash of consumer-criticism thrown in. The shoes themselves are, if you're wondering, quite cruel. My other favorites include "Women Without Bones," "The Nervous Father," "Serious Dogs," and "The Bohemians."
They are all clever, and they are all short. I am tempted to cut and paste one of them, but I wouldn't know which one. And then one would lead to another. If you like Steve Martin, which it seems not everyone does (these days), you need to go back to the originals. Don't think that you're some kind of expert because you read Shopgirl or Pure Drivel. Get real, get original. This was comedy at its most fun and purposeless. What is the point of any of these stories? You don't really know. You just get the feeling they brought a smirk to his face.
You could count the punchlines in this book on one hand, and you probably wouldn't have to use the whole thing. It's a treat despite its age (a ripe old thirty). If you're not convinced, I will gladly type up a story or two. Or, if you're too lazy to ask, just look at the cover again. Go on, look at it. Tell me you don't wish you looked that cool.
He's the Walt Whitman of 70s comedy. Most of these stories are more whimsy than they are laugh out loud funny, but several are absolute delights. His poetry parodies are cute, but poetry is already such a joke that it's not very difficult to make fun of. One or two of his false poems walk the irony line on one foot, leading me to consider turning in his work to an online poetry publisher, just to see.
The title story, "Cruel Shoes," is just flat-out hilarious, with a nice dash of consumer-criticism thrown in. The shoes themselves are, if you're wondering, quite cruel. My other favorites include "Women Without Bones," "The Nervous Father," "Serious Dogs," and "The Bohemians."
They are all clever, and they are all short. I am tempted to cut and paste one of them, but I wouldn't know which one. And then one would lead to another. If you like Steve Martin, which it seems not everyone does (these days), you need to go back to the originals. Don't think that you're some kind of expert because you read Shopgirl or Pure Drivel. Get real, get original. This was comedy at its most fun and purposeless. What is the point of any of these stories? You don't really know. You just get the feeling they brought a smirk to his face.
You could count the punchlines in this book on one hand, and you probably wouldn't have to use the whole thing. It's a treat despite its age (a ripe old thirty). If you're not convinced, I will gladly type up a story or two. Or, if you're too lazy to ask, just look at the cover again. Go on, look at it. Tell me you don't wish you looked that cool.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Failed States by Noam Chomsky
So, Cuckoo's Nest made me cry so much that I had to take in some light reading. Ha! But no, I'm not kidding. Literature hits me heavily, so I often turn to non-fiction, preferably essays, to lighten the emotional toll. I'm weird like that.
My introduction to Chomsky was Imperial Ambitions, which was a collected series of interviews. Also, it was much easier to read because the citations were all verbal references, and not big chunks of quoted text in the middle of what I thought was a sentence, somewhere up there, I think, yeah. What I'm trying to say is, States is dense. I expected dense reading, however, which is why I am going through this book one chapter at a time.
Thus far, I have read the first chapter, and I already feel a sense of helpless desperation. Political essays can do this to me, but I read them, anyway. I'm a very masochistic bookworm. Chomsky's logic is so overwhelming that it almost feels like you shouldn't even read the book - just agree with him.
I have no background in politics, political systems, history, etc etc. All I know is what I've seen, as a very humble layperson. I basically believe anything anyone says to me about politics until someone else comes along to tell me otherwise. I don't become vehement one way or the other, I just sit and listen and try to process things upwards out. By that I mean, I pick and choose which political issues are important to me when they actually breach into my personal life. Thus, I haven't delved into the issue of the death penalty, but I have into the issue of abortion. Marijuana use, yes. Gun control, yes. International taxes, not so much. And so forth.
With that in mind, I can't say whether or not Chomsky is convincing or accurate. I can say that he is very authoritative. He doesn't backtrack. He just relentlessly provides detail after detail outlining the ways in which America fits its own definition of a "rogue state."
Other countries aren't off the hook, though. Their collusions with us and with each other are also mentioned, as historical examples or counterexamples to American policy. I am keeping an ear out for who I don't hear him complain about, because that is where I want to be (although, they probably have their own problems).
I suppose I should get into his ideas about linguistics, because that seems so much more obviously my style. As it is, I like reading what he has to say about politics, even when I have to read each paragraph really really slowly.
My introduction to Chomsky was Imperial Ambitions, which was a collected series of interviews. Also, it was much easier to read because the citations were all verbal references, and not big chunks of quoted text in the middle of what I thought was a sentence, somewhere up there, I think, yeah. What I'm trying to say is, States is dense. I expected dense reading, however, which is why I am going through this book one chapter at a time.
Thus far, I have read the first chapter, and I already feel a sense of helpless desperation. Political essays can do this to me, but I read them, anyway. I'm a very masochistic bookworm. Chomsky's logic is so overwhelming that it almost feels like you shouldn't even read the book - just agree with him.
I have no background in politics, political systems, history, etc etc. All I know is what I've seen, as a very humble layperson. I basically believe anything anyone says to me about politics until someone else comes along to tell me otherwise. I don't become vehement one way or the other, I just sit and listen and try to process things upwards out. By that I mean, I pick and choose which political issues are important to me when they actually breach into my personal life. Thus, I haven't delved into the issue of the death penalty, but I have into the issue of abortion. Marijuana use, yes. Gun control, yes. International taxes, not so much. And so forth.
With that in mind, I can't say whether or not Chomsky is convincing or accurate. I can say that he is very authoritative. He doesn't backtrack. He just relentlessly provides detail after detail outlining the ways in which America fits its own definition of a "rogue state."
Other countries aren't off the hook, though. Their collusions with us and with each other are also mentioned, as historical examples or counterexamples to American policy. I am keeping an ear out for who I don't hear him complain about, because that is where I want to be (although, they probably have their own problems).
I suppose I should get into his ideas about linguistics, because that seems so much more obviously my style. As it is, I like reading what he has to say about politics, even when I have to read each paragraph really really slowly.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey
I absolutely adored this book. It's the best thing I've read in a really long time, and I wish I had this blog going while I was in the midst of reading it, because it was changing my life.
It's almost impossible to mention the book without mentioning the film, which is such a classic. I saw the film a few years too young - I spent half an hour crying after it was over, but if you had asked me at the time, I wouldn't have been able to explain why. I could explain why, now, but the explanation would be all talk and symbolism and politics. There remains no way to properly communicate the raw emotion of this story.
I was worried that I wouldn't be able to stop thinking of Nicholson while reading this, but Kesey's description of both McMurphy's and the other characters' physicality is so sparse and visual that Nicholson doesn't stand a chance.
In case you don't know, the book is narrated first person by "Chief." This is an excellent move, since you can see the narrator's illness through his own words, even if he can't see it. It's a very effective style, because you're also able to interpret the sanity to his delusions. To some extent, it leaves you wondering if Chief isn't insane so much as some kind of poet.
This is the last book I've read that made me weep. Not just the typical end-of-the-novel oh boo-hoo thing, but also in joy at times. Wonderful crests in the story and characters.
Don't buy the Signet small paperback copy of this book - the back cover synopsis ruins the ending, and there were a ton of typos in mine. Aside from sloppy publishing, I would say that this book is perfect. Kesey ascribes characteristics to mental patients that we should all be wise enough to see in ourselves - at first you're afraid of the asylum's inside, and then you can see that the asylum is everywhere.
I know that's a trite ending point, but there is no way to reformulate this novel without sounding trite. The ideas are basic, sanity vs. madness, chaos vs. order, freedom vs. control, The Will, etc. Classic stuff. But this is a classic in the same way that Hamlet is. Beyond being a good piece of literature for its time, Cuckoo's Nest is bound to be an excellent piece of literature for much time to come.
It's almost impossible to mention the book without mentioning the film, which is such a classic. I saw the film a few years too young - I spent half an hour crying after it was over, but if you had asked me at the time, I wouldn't have been able to explain why. I could explain why, now, but the explanation would be all talk and symbolism and politics. There remains no way to properly communicate the raw emotion of this story.
I was worried that I wouldn't be able to stop thinking of Nicholson while reading this, but Kesey's description of both McMurphy's and the other characters' physicality is so sparse and visual that Nicholson doesn't stand a chance.
In case you don't know, the book is narrated first person by "Chief." This is an excellent move, since you can see the narrator's illness through his own words, even if he can't see it. It's a very effective style, because you're also able to interpret the sanity to his delusions. To some extent, it leaves you wondering if Chief isn't insane so much as some kind of poet.
This is the last book I've read that made me weep. Not just the typical end-of-the-novel oh boo-hoo thing, but also in joy at times. Wonderful crests in the story and characters.
Don't buy the Signet small paperback copy of this book - the back cover synopsis ruins the ending, and there were a ton of typos in mine. Aside from sloppy publishing, I would say that this book is perfect. Kesey ascribes characteristics to mental patients that we should all be wise enough to see in ourselves - at first you're afraid of the asylum's inside, and then you can see that the asylum is everywhere.
I know that's a trite ending point, but there is no way to reformulate this novel without sounding trite. The ideas are basic, sanity vs. madness, chaos vs. order, freedom vs. control, The Will, etc. Classic stuff. But this is a classic in the same way that Hamlet is. Beyond being a good piece of literature for its time, Cuckoo's Nest is bound to be an excellent piece of literature for much time to come.
A Spy in the House of Love by Anais Nin
I usually don't read two works by the same author back-to-back. I find it can complicate my opinions, as well as my memories, of what I've read. One summer, I read nothing but Michael Crichton books (because I was twelve), and I can't tease out the events in them at all. It just felt like reading Crichton's diary.
It's appropriate that I apply this idea to Nin, because she has written a famous erotic diary. At this point, I'm not particularly interested in reading it, mostly because of my reaction to Spy. I do know, however, that I will end up reading it, anyway.
It was a mistake to read Spy right after I was so thoroughly impressed by Birds. I can tell the book is well-written, but I would have been much more in love with it had I read it one, or even two, years ago. I used to love characters that dealt with deception and jealousy, and now I find those topics much less intriguing. Wait, that's not quite accurate. What I mean is, I demand a progressive approach to those ideas, instead of reformulating old ground.
Nin does formulate new ground here, almost fifty years after Spy was published. The protagonist is a woman who engages in promiscuity "like a man." She is deceptive to her husband and partners, but what she goes through is too complex to be contained in a traditional faithful/unfaithful framework. It is tempting to say that she is being faithful to herself, but even that is questionable, as she never maintains one attitude toward her behavior for very long.
What is certain is that engaging lovers other than her husband is compulsive, despite her love for him. She agonizes over her desire to confess her misdeeds, knowing that such a confession would elicit forgiveness from her husband. However, she knows he would only forgive her while simultaneously making her promise to remain faithful. She is incapable of keeping such a promise.
At first, I held this narrative at arm's length. For the past year, I have been in a sexually open relationship - one in which I am the partner who primarily seeks other partners. The single most important aspect of such openness is honesty, and the protagonist's inability to be honest with her husband (not as a fault of personality, but of circumstance) was both painful and irritating to read about.
What was most easy to identify with was her ability to find different kinds of love and eroticism with different people. She describes herself as an actress worried about losing track of the many parts she plays. In fact, the excuse she uses when she sees other men is that she has been given a role in a stage play being produced out of town.
At times, the descriptions became very abstract. This was charming in the small doses of Birds, but harder to stomach over an extended narrative. I felt myself wanting to see more "action," as it were, instead of treading over emotional ground I'm well-familiar with.
The part of the novel that stayed with me the most is Sabina's ruminations after spending a night with one of her other lovers. Allow me to quote:
"Without any warmth of the heart, as a man could, she had enjoyed a stranger.
And then she remembered what she had heard men say: 'Then I wanted to leave.'
She gazed at the stranger lying naked beside her and saw him as a statue she did not want to touch again. As a statue he lay far from her, strange to her, and there welled in her something resembling anger, regret, almost a desire to take this gift of herself back, to efface all traces of it, to banish it from her body. She wanted to become swiftly and cleanly detached from him, to disentangle and unmingle what had been fused for a moment, their breaths, skins, exhalations, and body's essences."
This is a wonderful passage, and the scene only improves as she goes on to describe the almost eerie experience of being able to see hairbrushes and perfume bottles, which obviously belong to some other woman, in his bathroom without feeling any jealousy.
I wonder if this is the novel that a compulsively cheating man would write if he had the emotional vocabulary of a woman. In that context, this book can help redefine what is appropriate or expected behavior for either gender. Her behavior is ostensibly the same, but the world of the novel is so rich with explanation and empathy. Also, you can explore the exciting tangent of where love and sex separate, and where they overlap. For that matter, the very nature of love itself is in danger, as Nin distinguishes between stable, domestic love, and unpredictable, anguished eroticism.
I'm sure that if you've thought less about the emotions involved with sex and the definitions involved with love than I have, you would be really moved by this book. I, as such, was moved by moments of recognition, rather than shock or confrontation.
It's appropriate that I apply this idea to Nin, because she has written a famous erotic diary. At this point, I'm not particularly interested in reading it, mostly because of my reaction to Spy. I do know, however, that I will end up reading it, anyway.
It was a mistake to read Spy right after I was so thoroughly impressed by Birds. I can tell the book is well-written, but I would have been much more in love with it had I read it one, or even two, years ago. I used to love characters that dealt with deception and jealousy, and now I find those topics much less intriguing. Wait, that's not quite accurate. What I mean is, I demand a progressive approach to those ideas, instead of reformulating old ground.
Nin does formulate new ground here, almost fifty years after Spy was published. The protagonist is a woman who engages in promiscuity "like a man." She is deceptive to her husband and partners, but what she goes through is too complex to be contained in a traditional faithful/unfaithful framework. It is tempting to say that she is being faithful to herself, but even that is questionable, as she never maintains one attitude toward her behavior for very long.
What is certain is that engaging lovers other than her husband is compulsive, despite her love for him. She agonizes over her desire to confess her misdeeds, knowing that such a confession would elicit forgiveness from her husband. However, she knows he would only forgive her while simultaneously making her promise to remain faithful. She is incapable of keeping such a promise.
At first, I held this narrative at arm's length. For the past year, I have been in a sexually open relationship - one in which I am the partner who primarily seeks other partners. The single most important aspect of such openness is honesty, and the protagonist's inability to be honest with her husband (not as a fault of personality, but of circumstance) was both painful and irritating to read about.
What was most easy to identify with was her ability to find different kinds of love and eroticism with different people. She describes herself as an actress worried about losing track of the many parts she plays. In fact, the excuse she uses when she sees other men is that she has been given a role in a stage play being produced out of town.
At times, the descriptions became very abstract. This was charming in the small doses of Birds, but harder to stomach over an extended narrative. I felt myself wanting to see more "action," as it were, instead of treading over emotional ground I'm well-familiar with.
The part of the novel that stayed with me the most is Sabina's ruminations after spending a night with one of her other lovers. Allow me to quote:
"Without any warmth of the heart, as a man could, she had enjoyed a stranger.
And then she remembered what she had heard men say: 'Then I wanted to leave.'
She gazed at the stranger lying naked beside her and saw him as a statue she did not want to touch again. As a statue he lay far from her, strange to her, and there welled in her something resembling anger, regret, almost a desire to take this gift of herself back, to efface all traces of it, to banish it from her body. She wanted to become swiftly and cleanly detached from him, to disentangle and unmingle what had been fused for a moment, their breaths, skins, exhalations, and body's essences."
This is a wonderful passage, and the scene only improves as she goes on to describe the almost eerie experience of being able to see hairbrushes and perfume bottles, which obviously belong to some other woman, in his bathroom without feeling any jealousy.
I wonder if this is the novel that a compulsively cheating man would write if he had the emotional vocabulary of a woman. In that context, this book can help redefine what is appropriate or expected behavior for either gender. Her behavior is ostensibly the same, but the world of the novel is so rich with explanation and empathy. Also, you can explore the exciting tangent of where love and sex separate, and where they overlap. For that matter, the very nature of love itself is in danger, as Nin distinguishes between stable, domestic love, and unpredictable, anguished eroticism.
I'm sure that if you've thought less about the emotions involved with sex and the definitions involved with love than I have, you would be really moved by this book. I, as such, was moved by moments of recognition, rather than shock or confrontation.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Little Birds by Anais Nin
I thoroughly enjoyed this collection of short stories. Sexuality is too complex to be addressed through only one or two characters (unless those characters are perfectly dynamic and their author is something of a genius). Also, sometimes a long-drawn out explanation of sexuality (as you might encounter in a Kundera novel) is too much. The facts often speak for themselves.
The opening story, from which the collection takes its name, is beautiful and, in a way, tragic. Many of the stories are like that. Nin's style is very erotic without entering into pornography. Even barely sketched characters are attracted to one another through personality.
This is an important book to read, but I think most books about sexuality are important to read. Anything to put a complex human face on the sexual act. She provides perversion with eroticism, and without judgment. Each story is more "show" than it is "tell" and more "tell" than it is "explain."
This is a pretty fast read and might make you reconsider the sexual value of garter belts (real ones, not those stripper ones with little hot pink bows and whatnot). The thirteen stories are each quite short, which makes this good for either commuter reading or naughty bedtime reading to your (I should hope) equally literature-inclined partner.
Every story concerns fantasy in some way or another, but the collection itself is a fantasy. Reading it is losing yourself to a reverie, one in which sexuality is properly addressed and explored, instead of condemned before it is understood or examined. If more books like this are written and read, that reverie has a better chance at becoming widely-accepted as the reality it is.
The opening story, from which the collection takes its name, is beautiful and, in a way, tragic. Many of the stories are like that. Nin's style is very erotic without entering into pornography. Even barely sketched characters are attracted to one another through personality.
This is an important book to read, but I think most books about sexuality are important to read. Anything to put a complex human face on the sexual act. She provides perversion with eroticism, and without judgment. Each story is more "show" than it is "tell" and more "tell" than it is "explain."
This is a pretty fast read and might make you reconsider the sexual value of garter belts (real ones, not those stripper ones with little hot pink bows and whatnot). The thirteen stories are each quite short, which makes this good for either commuter reading or naughty bedtime reading to your (I should hope) equally literature-inclined partner.
Every story concerns fantasy in some way or another, but the collection itself is a fantasy. Reading it is losing yourself to a reverie, one in which sexuality is properly addressed and explored, instead of condemned before it is understood or examined. If more books like this are written and read, that reverie has a better chance at becoming widely-accepted as the reality it is.
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
To date, this is the only Salinger work I have read, although Franny and Zooey sits on the shelf, waiting.
Talking about this book entails talking about how I talked about this book when I was fifteen. Most people I've spoken to read this book when they were teenagers. For some reason, someone somewhere decided that The Catcher in the Rye was a piece of literature that should be "gotten out of your system" as early as possible. There is a cultural air of danger around this novel, but its only threat is that it requires a repeat read.
When you are fifteen, Holden Caulfield is just a little too easy to identify with. So easy, in fact, that the book doesn't feel like the masterpiece it really is. Everyone but you is a phony, everyone but you is an idiot, everyone but you is cruel, everyone but you "doesn't get it." Regular aphorisms of American youth. Sentiments that are, at this point, mundane. Catcher most likely had a hand in cultivating this mentality, but when the outsider mentality becomes the norm, how threatening can we really consider Holden?
I found the book was providing different messages when I read it last month than I did when I read it at fifteen. Yes, everyone is still a bunch of phonies, idiots, and cads. I would like to meet the well-educated person who has been able to completely eradicate this kind of sentiment from their thoughts. However, Holden's contradictory behavior sheds a more important light on these opinions.
The anti-phony is a phony. He lies, he tricks, he's dishonest. He's the hypocrite of the modern world. So what becomes intriguing about him is no longer that he's an outcast. Instead, his character is interesting because he shows us what kind of personal failures will keep up in the mentality of a teenager.
Holden suffers from a severe lack of introspection. His declarative statements about other people never result in self-examination of character or behavior. He is so focused on what is out there that he becomes severely detached from himself. He is so out of touch with his own body and mind that he misinterprets a hangover as just depression. He is quick to tell the reader what he hates and what he likes, but he never asks himself, "Why do I hate this and like that?" or "Why do I say I hate these qualities, and then express them myself?"
It is as though, like for most people, the horrible truth of the world is easier to digest than the horrible truth of oneself.
To introspect, to turn one's cynicism onto yourself, is discouraged in today's society. After all, it might lead to anxiety or depression, or something else that would require a pill. Therapy is still a dirty word to most people, and understanding your own motives is highly underrated as a means of bettering oneself, if not merely learning more about the human condition.
Holden is less of a hero and more of a warning. He is the voice of the fifteen-year-old still rambling away in the corner of your brain. We may never be able to get rid of him, and we may not want to. He has moments of insight, and his casual tone takes existential frustrations out of the hands of the philosophers and puts them in the hands of the man-on-the-street. It is important that we move past Holden, however. Not destroy him, but see him for what he is.
Talking about this book entails talking about how I talked about this book when I was fifteen. Most people I've spoken to read this book when they were teenagers. For some reason, someone somewhere decided that The Catcher in the Rye was a piece of literature that should be "gotten out of your system" as early as possible. There is a cultural air of danger around this novel, but its only threat is that it requires a repeat read.
When you are fifteen, Holden Caulfield is just a little too easy to identify with. So easy, in fact, that the book doesn't feel like the masterpiece it really is. Everyone but you is a phony, everyone but you is an idiot, everyone but you is cruel, everyone but you "doesn't get it." Regular aphorisms of American youth. Sentiments that are, at this point, mundane. Catcher most likely had a hand in cultivating this mentality, but when the outsider mentality becomes the norm, how threatening can we really consider Holden?
I found the book was providing different messages when I read it last month than I did when I read it at fifteen. Yes, everyone is still a bunch of phonies, idiots, and cads. I would like to meet the well-educated person who has been able to completely eradicate this kind of sentiment from their thoughts. However, Holden's contradictory behavior sheds a more important light on these opinions.
The anti-phony is a phony. He lies, he tricks, he's dishonest. He's the hypocrite of the modern world. So what becomes intriguing about him is no longer that he's an outcast. Instead, his character is interesting because he shows us what kind of personal failures will keep up in the mentality of a teenager.
Holden suffers from a severe lack of introspection. His declarative statements about other people never result in self-examination of character or behavior. He is so focused on what is out there that he becomes severely detached from himself. He is so out of touch with his own body and mind that he misinterprets a hangover as just depression. He is quick to tell the reader what he hates and what he likes, but he never asks himself, "Why do I hate this and like that?" or "Why do I say I hate these qualities, and then express them myself?"
It is as though, like for most people, the horrible truth of the world is easier to digest than the horrible truth of oneself.
To introspect, to turn one's cynicism onto yourself, is discouraged in today's society. After all, it might lead to anxiety or depression, or something else that would require a pill. Therapy is still a dirty word to most people, and understanding your own motives is highly underrated as a means of bettering oneself, if not merely learning more about the human condition.
Holden is less of a hero and more of a warning. He is the voice of the fifteen-year-old still rambling away in the corner of your brain. We may never be able to get rid of him, and we may not want to. He has moments of insight, and his casual tone takes existential frustrations out of the hands of the philosophers and puts them in the hands of the man-on-the-street. It is important that we move past Holden, however. Not destroy him, but see him for what he is.
Everyman by Philip Roth
This is only the second Roth book I have ever read, the first being The Plot Against America. There's a copy of Portnoy's Complaint on a bookshelf in my mother's house, but I never got around to reading it.
Reading about mortality is really difficult for some people, but I don't mind it. I enjoy stories about elderly people and the loss of youth. Death hasn't been the same issue for me since I had my stroke at twenty, so I think I came to this book with a slightly different attitude than most people my age would.
This book is very good, but I wasn't drooling all over it. The protagonist is well-constructed for highlighting the themes of aging. He becomes increasingly sympathetic as the novel goes on, and he gets closer and closer to death. Aging is usually thought of as bringing perspective, in terms of wisdom, but this novel doesn't let the reader forget that some perspective is very painful.
I would love to narrow down what the most insightful and moving passages are, but then I end up with a list like this: the ones to do with his father, the ones to do with his brother, the ones to do with his wives, the ones to do with his sons, the ones to do with daughter, the ones to do with his childhood, etc. That's almost the entirety of the book! What really does stand out, though, is a short friendship he develops with a member of the painting class he teaches at a resting home. Her painfully emotional descriptions of getting older are exquisite and a good foil to the protagonist's relatively stoic memories.
Overall, this book was wonderful. It described aging and death well because, in the end, it revealed the humanity of the process. According to Roth's characters, being older doesn't change the nature of existence, just its duration. You may think this is a manifest truth, but Everyman reveals the complex pain of living such an obvious reality, especially inside a society that treats its elderly like a different species.
Reading about mortality is really difficult for some people, but I don't mind it. I enjoy stories about elderly people and the loss of youth. Death hasn't been the same issue for me since I had my stroke at twenty, so I think I came to this book with a slightly different attitude than most people my age would.
This book is very good, but I wasn't drooling all over it. The protagonist is well-constructed for highlighting the themes of aging. He becomes increasingly sympathetic as the novel goes on, and he gets closer and closer to death. Aging is usually thought of as bringing perspective, in terms of wisdom, but this novel doesn't let the reader forget that some perspective is very painful.
I would love to narrow down what the most insightful and moving passages are, but then I end up with a list like this: the ones to do with his father, the ones to do with his brother, the ones to do with his wives, the ones to do with his sons, the ones to do with daughter, the ones to do with his childhood, etc. That's almost the entirety of the book! What really does stand out, though, is a short friendship he develops with a member of the painting class he teaches at a resting home. Her painfully emotional descriptions of getting older are exquisite and a good foil to the protagonist's relatively stoic memories.
Overall, this book was wonderful. It described aging and death well because, in the end, it revealed the humanity of the process. According to Roth's characters, being older doesn't change the nature of existence, just its duration. You may think this is a manifest truth, but Everyman reveals the complex pain of living such an obvious reality, especially inside a society that treats its elderly like a different species.
Introduction.
I am an avid reader with nowhere to put my thoughts concerning what I read. I noticed they added a "Movies" application to Facebook, so that everyone can tell everyone their thoughts on movies. This application achieves nothing new or exciting for me. It's the BOOKS I have few people to talk to about. Everyone's going to the damn movies! I love movies, too, but they are already being talked about so much that I don't want to add to the mess.
I will post about books I'm reading as I read them, which means these will not be comprehensive reviews. No spoiler warnings will be provided, although I will most likely choose to write about the books abstractly, so don't worry.
The first few posts will cover the books I have read since graduating from UC Berkeley in May, and eventually I'll catch up to what I'm currently reading.
Feel free to provide recommendations, opinions, disagreements, etc.
I will post about books I'm reading as I read them, which means these will not be comprehensive reviews. No spoiler warnings will be provided, although I will most likely choose to write about the books abstractly, so don't worry.
The first few posts will cover the books I have read since graduating from UC Berkeley in May, and eventually I'll catch up to what I'm currently reading.
Feel free to provide recommendations, opinions, disagreements, etc.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
