When I started this blog, I didn't expect anyone (except perhaps my father) to ever read it. It was, admittedly, just a place for me to put all my thoughts about what I was reading. A place that my annoyed close friends could go if they did, in fact, care about what I had to say. Not that I find my friends to be callous; I simply know my own tendency to go on and on and on when they have nothing to contribute to the conversation because they haven't read said book. This blog was like a humanitarian gesture.
Slowly, more people have started reading this blog. As a result, I feel I should say a few words about myself as a reader (or a general appreciator of the arts).
Every time I post about a book and write that it's "recommended," a little voice in me says, "You recommend everything. You are not a critic. Why would anyone trust the opinion of someone who likes everything? Can you even have an opinion if you don't reject things?" It's an annoying voice that I'd like to beat up.
A critic is defined as one of three things. Formally, a critic is someone who a) expresses a negative opinion of something or b) judges the merits of an artwork, often professionally. Informally, a critic is "a fucking douchebag."
I never want to tear something completely apart, because I've noticed how books and movies that mean nothing to me can mean the world to someone else. I don't think my opinion is right enough to be followed as the general standard of evaluating things. I'm not Immanuel Kant, for the love of god. I refuse to codify arbitrary standards of evaluation just so I can make my opinion (read again: OPINION) seem more respectable and objective. I read books of all kinds for my own enjoyment, why pretend I'm after anything else?
Since I'm predisposed to excessive thinking and feeling, saying I prefer books that "make me think or feel" is redundant. Streetlights can make me think or feel. Mailboxes. A withering flower. A newspaper article about iPhones. An episode of "Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends." I like when an author describes an event or emotion better than I could have. I like when an author respects my intelligence and abilities. What a reader craves and what satisfies that reader depends upon, surprise! the reader.
The reader is more important than the author. The difference between Dashiell Hammett's academic acknowledgment and Jim Thompson's seemingly unalterable "pulp fiction" designation is about who read them, not which of them wrote better.
If anything, my interests in writing here, or talking about books in general, are twofold. One, I want to find value in books that have been denied recognition by the canon or mainstream. Two, I want to emphasize that a book is not an entity truly enclosed within its covers - a book contains roughly the same amount of mental energy that the reader brings to it. I, as the reader, have the power to turn a bad book into a good one, and vice versa.
What I'm trying to say is, I rarely dislike a book because I rarely dislike myself. I want to enjoy myself, I want to see value in things, and I'll insert it there if I'm able to. If you're not interested in finding value yourself, but in reading what your dinner party guests have already accepted as "excellent" or "dreadful," this is not a place to come for recommendations.
Phew, talking about this has a tendency to rile me up. Had to be done, though.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Rant by Chuck Palahniuk
Preface: This is the first book by Pahalniuk I've ever read. No comparisons to his prior work or style will be possible. I say this because I feel obligated to, due to his giant, unrelenting, stubbornly loyal, and often obnoxious fan base.
Rant is the kind of book I would have shit myself over when I was nineteen. Pardon the French. Its secondary title is "An Oral Biography of Buster Casey," and this format allows Pahalniuk to play a lot of fun games with his reader. Of the people "interviewed" to discuss the life of Rant, we hear from parents, neighborhood friends and enemies, doctors, city friends, landlord, employers, with a various number of cultural figures thrown in to help establish the alternative world of the novel: epidemiologists, historians, anthropologists, etc.
It's telling that the first character to speak in this novel is a car salesman. Although his opening statement is relevant to the events of Rant's life, his following statements are sporadic discussions of the sales technique "shadowing," or "mirroring." This salesman is the constant reminder of an author: he's a cultural figure known for greedy manipulation and his persistence in the narrative adds an extra layer of doubt to the story.
The oral narrative gives Palahniuk the opportunity to immerse his reader in a world that she doesn't entirely understand. That way, when the characters begin to talk about their world apart from Rant, the reader can feel a certain click of understanding - a complicated plot coming together, a small piece of information that casts a new light on everything she's read previously.
The most obvious example of this technique is the designation to every character of a symbol - either a sun or a waning moon. Although possible explanations for these symbols slipped in and out of my mind, my predictions of their meaning were far less interesting than what they turned out to represent. Should I tell you? I fear I can't. As the book goes on, certain terms take on entirely different meanings: historian, honeymoon, party crashing, game night.
I started this blog in order to talk about books I had read and thus save my friends from listening to me go on and on. There is little I can talk about in relation to this book, because I don't want to rob a future reader of its little joys.
Rant deserves a second read, the same way a movie with a twist-ending begs to be watched again, for clues. But I would never say Rant has a twist-ending. Instead, I'd say it's a cleverly calculated world that unfolds piece by piece. No piece is a genuine twist, but it does reveal a warped version of our own world. In terms of the alternative history genre, this is an interesting example. Instead of having protagonists muse on "the state of the world" or a painfully expository first chapter, Palahniuk just pushes forward, basically tricking the reader into assuming that this is a biography about a person in our world, instead of in his.
A quick enjoyable read that also exercises your brain muscles, Rant was fun. It is very visual, has some excellent ideas, and will stay with you for awhile. Again, I don't know anything of his other books, but I would say that in this case, unusual ideas do not necessarily equal brilliant writing. I recommend it, but I wouldn't shoot it straight to the top of your list, either. It certainly has shelf-life, as most alternative-histories do. And it's certainly a book I would read again, for what it's worth.
Rant is the kind of book I would have shit myself over when I was nineteen. Pardon the French. Its secondary title is "An Oral Biography of Buster Casey," and this format allows Pahalniuk to play a lot of fun games with his reader. Of the people "interviewed" to discuss the life of Rant, we hear from parents, neighborhood friends and enemies, doctors, city friends, landlord, employers, with a various number of cultural figures thrown in to help establish the alternative world of the novel: epidemiologists, historians, anthropologists, etc.
It's telling that the first character to speak in this novel is a car salesman. Although his opening statement is relevant to the events of Rant's life, his following statements are sporadic discussions of the sales technique "shadowing," or "mirroring." This salesman is the constant reminder of an author: he's a cultural figure known for greedy manipulation and his persistence in the narrative adds an extra layer of doubt to the story.
The oral narrative gives Palahniuk the opportunity to immerse his reader in a world that she doesn't entirely understand. That way, when the characters begin to talk about their world apart from Rant, the reader can feel a certain click of understanding - a complicated plot coming together, a small piece of information that casts a new light on everything she's read previously.
The most obvious example of this technique is the designation to every character of a symbol - either a sun or a waning moon. Although possible explanations for these symbols slipped in and out of my mind, my predictions of their meaning were far less interesting than what they turned out to represent. Should I tell you? I fear I can't. As the book goes on, certain terms take on entirely different meanings: historian, honeymoon, party crashing, game night.
I started this blog in order to talk about books I had read and thus save my friends from listening to me go on and on. There is little I can talk about in relation to this book, because I don't want to rob a future reader of its little joys.
Rant deserves a second read, the same way a movie with a twist-ending begs to be watched again, for clues. But I would never say Rant has a twist-ending. Instead, I'd say it's a cleverly calculated world that unfolds piece by piece. No piece is a genuine twist, but it does reveal a warped version of our own world. In terms of the alternative history genre, this is an interesting example. Instead of having protagonists muse on "the state of the world" or a painfully expository first chapter, Palahniuk just pushes forward, basically tricking the reader into assuming that this is a biography about a person in our world, instead of in his.
A quick enjoyable read that also exercises your brain muscles, Rant was fun. It is very visual, has some excellent ideas, and will stay with you for awhile. Again, I don't know anything of his other books, but I would say that in this case, unusual ideas do not necessarily equal brilliant writing. I recommend it, but I wouldn't shoot it straight to the top of your list, either. It certainly has shelf-life, as most alternative-histories do. And it's certainly a book I would read again, for what it's worth.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Crash by J.G. Ballard
Lately, environmentalists have been making a big deal out of the notion of a "human footprint" on Earth. Indeed, as a society, we've marked our landscape with varieties of our technology, everything from cars to ships to buildings to oil rigs. We've pockmarked and scarred our planet, if you want to think of it that way. It wouldn't be a stretch for me to convince you that these creations of ours have moved, in turn, to make a footprint on us. That is, our society progresses (or doesn't progress) in ways that are hemmed in by what we have created in the past. We must operate within the framework that we've built up around us, and in this way we are affected by inanimate objects.
Ballard, bless his heart, takes this relatively simple abstract notion and brings it as close to home as possible. In this novel, he doesn't focus on the effect that cars have on human society as a mass, but the effect they have on individuals. And, oh no, not individual psyches, individual bodies.
The vehicle, so to speak, for this kind of exploration is the car crash. It is through car crashes that our main characters experience, as intimately as possible, how the human body changes when it is acted upon by a machine. Not only is there new flesh within scars, there are also bruises and limps, body parts that are slightly misaligned during reattachment. In extreme cases, a car crash causes a melding between human flesh and machinery - false limbs, leg braces, and so forth.
As if this notion of human flesh interacting with metal was not enough, Ballard uses Crash to explore this new metallic-physicality through the all-purpose lens of sex. Basically, if you are squeamish, do not read this book.
Ballard's writing style is flush with abstractions - his narrator is lost in a dream world of symbolism, and projects that world onto the behaviors of the people around him. This is an interesting way to approach the topic of pure physicality, perhaps the only way to do so in print. There are chapters of psychology that I failed to grasp - it appears our protagonist (also named Ballard) has sexualized his traumatic car crash, but there is no direct treatment of that psychological reaction. Ballard (the protagonist) and his wife have a deviant, hyper-sexualized relationship, and if the reader is unable to connect with their pre-car crash sexuality, then the post-car crash sexuality is only more bizarre.
The turning point in the novel, after wading through abstract chapters and wincing through disgusting injury descriptions, comes when Ballard (the protagonist) and a crippled woman named Gabrielle finally make love. Guess where they do it? Just take a wild fucking guess. In a car! By the airport! It's as though the only two locations in this entire book are either "inside a car" or "near the airport." Often, both.
As they progress in their sexual encounter, both Gabrielle and Ballard realize that the body parts commonly associated with sexual arousal are not providing stimulation. Once they begin inspecting each other's scars - with fingers and tongues, they become aroused. Ballard tells us that over the next few sessions, he always orgasms onto her scars (he's particularly fond of one in her left armpit).
There is almost too much information in this book to process. The commentary is overwhelming, and teasing it all out would result in an essay as long as the book itself. I am tempted to write such an essay, nonetheless. Just the fact that the author uses the most clinical terms for the human body (vaginal mucus? anus? rectum? semen?) is a complex statement about the human body as trumped up machinery, and thus machinery as a stripped-down body. I mean, damn, this book is loaded.
I feel as though I must say something about Cronenberg's film, Crash, in relation to this book. Approaching this subject through visuals is very very effective, as much of the book is description of visuals that may not resonate with a reader who is unfamiliar with British vehicular terminology. Cronenberg maintains the rhythm and dreamlike quality of the book, but the addition of visuals makes the leap to sexuality easier to accept.
In short, I absolutely loved this book, but I think its real quality lays in the discussions it provokes, not what's actually on the page. I feel that perhaps the greatest justice it's received is its molding into a beautiful film by a man who has never compromised vision to maintain "good taste." I would have to recommend the movie over the book, and then recommend the book for people who are interested in further exploring the topic.
Ballard, bless his heart, takes this relatively simple abstract notion and brings it as close to home as possible. In this novel, he doesn't focus on the effect that cars have on human society as a mass, but the effect they have on individuals. And, oh no, not individual psyches, individual bodies.
The vehicle, so to speak, for this kind of exploration is the car crash. It is through car crashes that our main characters experience, as intimately as possible, how the human body changes when it is acted upon by a machine. Not only is there new flesh within scars, there are also bruises and limps, body parts that are slightly misaligned during reattachment. In extreme cases, a car crash causes a melding between human flesh and machinery - false limbs, leg braces, and so forth.
As if this notion of human flesh interacting with metal was not enough, Ballard uses Crash to explore this new metallic-physicality through the all-purpose lens of sex. Basically, if you are squeamish, do not read this book.
Ballard's writing style is flush with abstractions - his narrator is lost in a dream world of symbolism, and projects that world onto the behaviors of the people around him. This is an interesting way to approach the topic of pure physicality, perhaps the only way to do so in print. There are chapters of psychology that I failed to grasp - it appears our protagonist (also named Ballard) has sexualized his traumatic car crash, but there is no direct treatment of that psychological reaction. Ballard (the protagonist) and his wife have a deviant, hyper-sexualized relationship, and if the reader is unable to connect with their pre-car crash sexuality, then the post-car crash sexuality is only more bizarre.
The turning point in the novel, after wading through abstract chapters and wincing through disgusting injury descriptions, comes when Ballard (the protagonist) and a crippled woman named Gabrielle finally make love. Guess where they do it? Just take a wild fucking guess. In a car! By the airport! It's as though the only two locations in this entire book are either "inside a car" or "near the airport." Often, both.
As they progress in their sexual encounter, both Gabrielle and Ballard realize that the body parts commonly associated with sexual arousal are not providing stimulation. Once they begin inspecting each other's scars - with fingers and tongues, they become aroused. Ballard tells us that over the next few sessions, he always orgasms onto her scars (he's particularly fond of one in her left armpit).
There is almost too much information in this book to process. The commentary is overwhelming, and teasing it all out would result in an essay as long as the book itself. I am tempted to write such an essay, nonetheless. Just the fact that the author uses the most clinical terms for the human body (vaginal mucus? anus? rectum? semen?) is a complex statement about the human body as trumped up machinery, and thus machinery as a stripped-down body. I mean, damn, this book is loaded.
I feel as though I must say something about Cronenberg's film, Crash, in relation to this book. Approaching this subject through visuals is very very effective, as much of the book is description of visuals that may not resonate with a reader who is unfamiliar with British vehicular terminology. Cronenberg maintains the rhythm and dreamlike quality of the book, but the addition of visuals makes the leap to sexuality easier to accept.
In short, I absolutely loved this book, but I think its real quality lays in the discussions it provokes, not what's actually on the page. I feel that perhaps the greatest justice it's received is its molding into a beautiful film by a man who has never compromised vision to maintain "good taste." I would have to recommend the movie over the book, and then recommend the book for people who are interested in further exploring the topic.
Fables: Storybook Love by Bill Willingham
Despite continuous reading, this blog always slows down when it's time for me to review a comic.
Without the vernacular and history of a comic book reader, I'm left with vapid and basically meaningless statements, which amount to no more than plot summary.
Storybook Love was wonderful. There is clever usage of Sleeping Beauty and Prince Charming, but the real meat of it is the developing relationship between Snow White and Bigby Wolf. Bigby's dialogue to White in the woods is the most romantic thing you could imagine coming from a giant wolf's mouth. Very creative and one of the first emotionally-charged speeches so far.
The opening story about Jack of all Trades is well-drawn and interesting: it reeks folklore, which I believe it's supposed to. Absolutely wonderful. Reading this first section of the comic in the store is what made me decide to go ahead and buy.
This is the volume where Willingham first pulls together a number of the established Fablisms (so to speak) into something truly unique. The interactions between city Fables and country Fables become more complex and less sophomoric than the relationships outlined in Animal Farm.
What I am enjoying the most about this series so far is the willingness to be physically brutal. This where the real power of "real-life fairy tales" comes into play. Most of our fairy tales have been sanitized by Disney and Mother Goose, their brutal aspects written out or drastically modified. What might be initially called a "reinvention" of fairy tales in the Fables series is actually closer to a revival. Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away - that concept is abolished in favor of, Right here, in this city, just below your noses. The gruesome aspects of each story are presented in a way that would make the Grimm brothers proud.
The stupid bookstore doesn't have Volume 4, March of the Wooden Soldiers, but I plan to track it down soon. Hopefully, my insights will improve (at least in relation to this particular series).
Oh, I almost forgot. Storybook Love gives us the first instance of a human being (journalist, naturally) investigating the Fables. If that isn't a hook, I don't know what is.
Without the vernacular and history of a comic book reader, I'm left with vapid and basically meaningless statements, which amount to no more than plot summary.
Storybook Love was wonderful. There is clever usage of Sleeping Beauty and Prince Charming, but the real meat of it is the developing relationship between Snow White and Bigby Wolf. Bigby's dialogue to White in the woods is the most romantic thing you could imagine coming from a giant wolf's mouth. Very creative and one of the first emotionally-charged speeches so far.
The opening story about Jack of all Trades is well-drawn and interesting: it reeks folklore, which I believe it's supposed to. Absolutely wonderful. Reading this first section of the comic in the store is what made me decide to go ahead and buy.
This is the volume where Willingham first pulls together a number of the established Fablisms (so to speak) into something truly unique. The interactions between city Fables and country Fables become more complex and less sophomoric than the relationships outlined in Animal Farm.
What I am enjoying the most about this series so far is the willingness to be physically brutal. This where the real power of "real-life fairy tales" comes into play. Most of our fairy tales have been sanitized by Disney and Mother Goose, their brutal aspects written out or drastically modified. What might be initially called a "reinvention" of fairy tales in the Fables series is actually closer to a revival. Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away - that concept is abolished in favor of, Right here, in this city, just below your noses. The gruesome aspects of each story are presented in a way that would make the Grimm brothers proud.
The stupid bookstore doesn't have Volume 4, March of the Wooden Soldiers, but I plan to track it down soon. Hopefully, my insights will improve (at least in relation to this particular series).
Oh, I almost forgot. Storybook Love gives us the first instance of a human being (journalist, naturally) investigating the Fables. If that isn't a hook, I don't know what is.
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