I first read this book at roughly the same time last year, and I found that revisiting it was worthwhile.
This is a book subtitled: Understanding Feminine Psychology, and it is Johnson's explanation of the feminine psyche (in both men and women) using the myth of Eros and Psyche.
There isn't much to critique from a book like this, but it has some personal significance to me, so I will make a few comments.
I did not consider myself a Jungian in any sense of the word prior to reading this book, and was in fact highly skeptical of dream analysis or mythological comparison having any usefulness in my daily life. I would not say that Johnson's book radically or suddenly altered my opinion: when I first read it I completely neglected the dream analysis portion of the back of the book, and scoffed at certain chapters. Much of it reads like a self-help book in the abstract - the "lessons" of the myth are frequently as simple and cliched as "take things one at a time" or "maintain perspective lest you get lost in insignificant and overwhelming details," etc.
These certainly work against the book as a piece of literature, and I am not sure what redeems this book for me. It may be that its very simplicity is welcome. In the face of heavy and complex literature, it might be a good idea to remind oneself that the mythologies much of today's stories draw on are, in fact, quite simple. They require that you, the reader (or listener) apply meaning to them, and it is a fun mental exercise to consider how or why these same stories have survived many generations and floated through different cultures. Such ideas are better addressed in the works of Joseph Campbell, I'm sure, but not everyone wants to start out on that heavy level.
If you have an open mind, and are interested in ways that myths might apply to our modern psychologies, this is a very simple and unassuming place to start. Treat it like a primer. Johnson has also written He and We, neither of which I have read, but I would like to obtain a copy of each soon.
She, in particular, is to blame for a subtle shift in the way I began to think about women and how they interact with men, each other, and themselves. It made me think of personal psychological progress in a different way. And it certainly affected the way I thought about meeting my partner's Mother (believe me, that capital M belongs there).
In other words, although this may fall into a literary category somewhere between storybook and psychobabble, there is inherently nothing dangerous about exploring some of the (admittedly) abstract ways our lives can connect to the lives of gods and goddesses from thousands of years ago. It can infuse meaning, or it can be merely a distraction during your lunch hour. It is an extremely short and simple book, after all.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
I have been away.
It only takes one comment, sometimes.
Hello. I have been away. Some personal issues and changes in my schedule have unfortunately kept me from updating this journal with regularity. I did not quite realize I was missed, but as that seems to be the case, I will attempt to update soon.
I was reading The Demon Flower when I stopped updating - I never finished the book, and actually found it to be quite dismaying. I have since read bits and pieces of things here and there, but the only entire books I have read are Naked Lunch and Nothing More Than Murder by William Burroughs and Jim Thompson, respectively.
I have begun to work on some writing projects of my own, which has slowed down my reading considerably. This is probably to the detriment of my personal well-being. Hopefully, I will soon be in a position where I have a smoother commute to work, as I do the majority of my reading to and from the office. Currently, I need to transfer buses, which only gives me ten to fifteen minutes of reading time at once, and this is not enough to sustain the mentality required for engaging with a book. My evenings are taken up by sporadic activities, including the sudden disposition to daily journaling, which requires an entirely different mentality from that of reading, a renewed interest in film, and the acquisition of a new boyfriend.
Given all that, I am also currently reading a non-narrative. I am reading The Goddess Tarot, which is nothing more than the explanatory book accompanying a deck of tarot cards a good friend gave to me.
However, I have recently purchased a number of interesting books, and when Christmas break arrives I will make it a point to read at least one of them. For now, I will make a short post on a short unknown book, and then go to bed. Thank you for continuing to read.
Hello. I have been away. Some personal issues and changes in my schedule have unfortunately kept me from updating this journal with regularity. I did not quite realize I was missed, but as that seems to be the case, I will attempt to update soon.
I was reading The Demon Flower when I stopped updating - I never finished the book, and actually found it to be quite dismaying. I have since read bits and pieces of things here and there, but the only entire books I have read are Naked Lunch and Nothing More Than Murder by William Burroughs and Jim Thompson, respectively.
I have begun to work on some writing projects of my own, which has slowed down my reading considerably. This is probably to the detriment of my personal well-being. Hopefully, I will soon be in a position where I have a smoother commute to work, as I do the majority of my reading to and from the office. Currently, I need to transfer buses, which only gives me ten to fifteen minutes of reading time at once, and this is not enough to sustain the mentality required for engaging with a book. My evenings are taken up by sporadic activities, including the sudden disposition to daily journaling, which requires an entirely different mentality from that of reading, a renewed interest in film, and the acquisition of a new boyfriend.
Given all that, I am also currently reading a non-narrative. I am reading The Goddess Tarot, which is nothing more than the explanatory book accompanying a deck of tarot cards a good friend gave to me.
However, I have recently purchased a number of interesting books, and when Christmas break arrives I will make it a point to read at least one of them. For now, I will make a short post on a short unknown book, and then go to bed. Thank you for continuing to read.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
In Praise of Barbarians: Essays Against Empire by Mike Davis
It took me a good long while to get through this book of essays. There is only so much really depressing socialism I can take at any given time.
Here, I'll sum this book up for you. "You think things are bad? Well you're wrong. They're TERRIBLE. I'm Mike Davis. *very dry joke that's almost impossible to laugh at given the circumstances of the world you've just been made aware of*"
Don't get me wrong. I like Mike Davis, even though I understand there is an anti-Davis element in the literary world that accuses him of being too dour and twisting the facts to fit his apocalyptic socialism-fueled views of the world.
It's good to realize that the problems of this country, and this world, and far deeper than just "some of us like Jesus and some of us don't." There really are systematic problems that have become bigger than any particular individual and therefore require an equally organized response.
Unfortunately, Davis doesn't seem entirely hopeful about a counter-organization. So each essay is sad and terrible and hopeless. That's why it took so long for me to read the whole thing. I couldn't possibly read it all in one sitting without jumping off a bridge and/or annoying the shit out of my friends.
There are a lot of interesting facts in this book, but unfortunately I have neither the patience nor desire to check up on their veracity. By the end of the book, I felt that doing so was necessary to make any informed review, because without the facts at hand I can't analyze Davis's slant. Are things really that bad? Really?
Davis clearly identifies with the underdogs in every scenario he describes, which is all well and good, but by the final pages it feels like the identification is compulsive rather than informed. I can't attack the man personally, I can only talk about my impressions of the book.
For example, the essay on the Sunset Strip "riots" showed a clear willingness on Davis's part to believe that teenagers are, on the whole, calm. He cites the cost of their property damage as if to assuage our fear of chaos. Teenagers don't need to smash anything to make adults nervous. Put one too many teenagers on a public bus and you can feel everyone's heart rate rise. And those teenagers aren't even protesting anything. No, I don't side with the police, and in the instance of these "riots" I have to side with the teens on principle. As Davis describes it, this is an incredibly fascinating event that I didn't even know happened.
There's a lot of that "I didn't even know that happened" feeling radiating from this book, and on that level I recommend it. But maybe in bits and pieces.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Moral Disorder by Margaret Atwood
I've decided to start adding pictures of the books, if I can acquire images of the correct editions. For example, this is the paperback cover, which is so much more . . . paperbacky than the original cover, as you can see:
Anyway, this book had been waiting patiently for me to read it. At first I thought I didn't have anything to say about it, although I enjoyed it immensely, but as I plumbed deeper into my own thoughts, I realized the exact opposite.
Many of the other books I write about have all this STUFF surrounding them. Of Mice and Men for example, is on the way. There's some amount of clout to them, whether it comes by way of critical recognition or mere shock value. I don't usually look at something, think to myself, "Oh this looks pleasant" and then get right down to it. You can ask Schrodinger's Ball, whose lime green cover and promises of mild intellectual challenges have been collecting dust at the floor near my bookshelf since late March while I passed it over for more frantic flights of fancy, again and again.
I also don't react well to clout, at times. This is why Siddhartha is bound to be neglected for awhile, and so on.
So why pick up Moral Disorder? Lately I've been drawn to short stories - in the past I was skeptical of short stories as art forms, don't ask me why, I guess I just didn't like what felt like a middling ground between poetry and novel. Lately, however, short stories have been all the rage for me.
I know a smattering of Atwood's poems outside of the collection Power Politics, which I know by heart and count as a personal influence in my own creative writings. So I surprise even myself by realizing that it has taken me this long to read any of Atwood's complete sentences. Maybe the titles of her books were just too daunting, or I was afraid I'd be getting into some overly poetical fiction, like I felt about A Spy in the House of Love. Short stories? Nice stopover to decide if I'm actually ready to try tackling the other novel of Atwood's I have sitting around, Surfacing.
Of course, none of this has to do with the book itself. The book is a collection of short stories that all center around one character, sometimes written in first-person, sometimes in third-person, perspective. She is a child in one, an adult in another - she is overshadowed by her parents, but then outlives them. Etc.
Atwood's writing is perfectly opaque. What she presents requires no interpretation, no reliance on outside philosophies, no comparison to other works. She writes so directly that I couldn't help but wonder if I was reading her diary or, at times, long-forgotten entries from my own diary.
This is the sort of thing that I always loved about Bukowski and, not to conflate the two authors AT ALL, Fante: the presentation of facts, both physical and psychological, were so direct as to be impenetrable. "Here," their works would say, and plop a huge heavy metaphor down on the table in front of you, "this is -how it is-." It is refreshing to read something that doesn't require intellectualism to move you.
But the major fault, if you can call it that (which you can't, I only do so for argument's sake), with these writers is that they are MEN. Their views on women and on themselves can help me understand what I would love to call a general "human" mindset, but unfortunately all they fleshed out was a very masculine point of view. Sometimes, it's easy to forget that there are other realities, because female writers can either be extremely feminine and write only of womanly things like flowers and dewdrops and, I don't know, Tampax or whatever. OR, they can try to adopt a more masculine genre, as Ms. Highsmith did. Or, god forbid, they can go in for Chick Lit.
It's an old feminist cry: women cannot be humans the way men can. Men have already set the standard for what is human, what is human experience. In a way, they have done so with books as well. We can choose the male authors who are most sympathetic or reverent of women, or we can go for Virginia Woolf, whose very sentence structure contains the sort of convoluted psychological and emotional superfluity that men are always ragging on women for. Don't get me wrong, I fucking LOVE Virginia Woolf, but she's not "practical" in getting the facts of the story across. The plot, like for many women, is all in her head.
In other words, how can a woman write a woman's life without just being either a reactionary or a lackey to masculine writing? Can she? What are her options? And then what are mine as a female reader in this situation?
What am I going to do to see my life reflected back upon me? Read The Devil Wears Prada? Try to find some modern parables in Jane Austen? What about ME, the intellectual, sexual, observant, creative modern woman who takes herself far too seriously but is still worthy of the respect of practical-minded folk?
There is a story in psychoanalytic circles of a patient who did not know she was cold until given a blanket. I think Atwood's prose might be my blanket.
These stories are just about life. They are about being an educated but earthy woman, a human being, a collection of memories, hopes, dreams, comparisons, imaginings. The actual subjects almost sound ridiculous: the protagonist remembers knitting for her baby sister, she remembers an overly elaborate Halloween costume she made that went unappreciated, she tells us the story of breaking up with a boyfriend while trying to study for an upcoming exam on Browning's "My Last Duchess." She recalls living alone, living domestically, caring for her parents, being smothered by her parents, etc.
I am reduced to profanities when I try to express how much I liked this. The stories were so real, so resonant. Instead of someone trying to predict how women feel, how life works for them, she just tells you. That's what I mean by opaque. There aren't huge loping metaphors, but there's a dense block of psychological reality nonetheless.
Finally, I felt like someone was talking to me, about me. That is far different from being entertained or informed. I felt connected. I felt the way I want other people to feel when they read whatever it is I may or may not end up writing.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Strangers on a Train by Patricia Highsmith
The tagline on the back of my paperback edition of this book reads, "The psychologists would it folie à deux . . ."
This book was recommended to me by a very sharp and intelligent woman who was thrilled to have a chance to "talk shop" to another reader, even while inebriated. She thrust a worn copy of the novel into my hands and I must admit, the cover is very cheesy: a bright purple glove laid out against a flask atop what appears to be a newspaper, with some kind of metal weapon also in frame. Ridiculous. She implored me to pay attention to Highsmith's writing style, as Strangers was mentioned in the context of 1950s crime novels and the recommender wanted me to note what happens to the same story elements while in the hands of a woman.
She did not need to point this out. Highsmith writes with a particular attention to pure psychology - that is, whereas a lot of other writers (male especially) resort to metaphors in order to describe a characters feelings, Highsmith describes them plainly and directly. Of course, those metaphors -- black coffee, empty shell casings, the smell of honeysuckle, a twist in bones, crushing pumpkins -- have helped shape the genre of noir and crime fiction, they have become hallmarks and expectations. There is nothing wrong with them; they are one of the genre's greatest appeals and delights.
However, Highsmith's ability to astutely present the downward spirals of our main characters, Bruno and Guy, makes their world simultaneously realistic and staggeringly unreal. This is really a great effect - one that you might normally expect from reading a romance: two people meet in an unlikely way and around them forms a universe that "normal" rules cannot penetrate.
Oh, you don't know the story? Of course you do, this is a classic, thanks in large part to Hitchcock's film of the same name, which (from my hazy memory) maintains much of the tension but loses the actual psychological fear and desperation involved. Two men meet on a train. One, Guy, is more "like us," you could say. He seems normal, he's having some marital troubles, but he's relatively calm about them, alternately optimistic and nihilistic. It seems normal. On the train, he meets Bruno, who we immediately assume is "the crazy one" - one huge shining pimple on his forehead, a strangely concentrated but distant gaze, a drinking problem, and a tendency to start talking to strangers (how dare he!). Bruno eventually suggests the outline of "the perfect murder" - two strangers meet on a train, each commits a murder "for" the other one. The proposition: Bruno murders Guy's obstinate wife so that Guy can move on with his career and marry his true love, and in exchange Guy murders Bruno's overbearing and unsupportive father so that Bruno's finances can be freed up. The two men have no connection to each other (besides having ridden the same train), so the crimes will, ostensibly, never be solved.
Due to a strange mood and an undue amount of alcohol, it's never clear if Guy actually agrees to this plan, or leads Bruno on in any way, but Bruno moves ahead with the plan and murders Guy's wife.
It's difficult to explain the effect of this book - it's a dance between two minds and dissecting them is impossible without quoting huge sections of the book or ruining fun plot twists. For Bruno and Guy, it's madness at first sight, and the simple idea that Bruno has dragged Guy into this can be dispelled or at least questioned thanks to Highsmith's scientific presentation of each character's mental processes.
Whatever, just read it. There isn't much I can say. The novel results in tunnel-vision, very effective. It drags you along with the characters and makes it difficult to treat the story as something apart from you. Highsmith puts such a fine point on certain psychological developments that you can recognize them in yourself, even though -you've- never arranged murders with some dude you met on the bus. But once you see yourself in Guy, or Bruno, it's hard to turn back. In the same way, once Guy sees himself in Bruno, he simply cannot turn back. Lucky for the reader, the book ends and you can put it away.
This book was recommended to me by a very sharp and intelligent woman who was thrilled to have a chance to "talk shop" to another reader, even while inebriated. She thrust a worn copy of the novel into my hands and I must admit, the cover is very cheesy: a bright purple glove laid out against a flask atop what appears to be a newspaper, with some kind of metal weapon also in frame. Ridiculous. She implored me to pay attention to Highsmith's writing style, as Strangers was mentioned in the context of 1950s crime novels and the recommender wanted me to note what happens to the same story elements while in the hands of a woman.
She did not need to point this out. Highsmith writes with a particular attention to pure psychology - that is, whereas a lot of other writers (male especially) resort to metaphors in order to describe a characters feelings, Highsmith describes them plainly and directly. Of course, those metaphors -- black coffee, empty shell casings, the smell of honeysuckle, a twist in bones, crushing pumpkins -- have helped shape the genre of noir and crime fiction, they have become hallmarks and expectations. There is nothing wrong with them; they are one of the genre's greatest appeals and delights.
However, Highsmith's ability to astutely present the downward spirals of our main characters, Bruno and Guy, makes their world simultaneously realistic and staggeringly unreal. This is really a great effect - one that you might normally expect from reading a romance: two people meet in an unlikely way and around them forms a universe that "normal" rules cannot penetrate.
Oh, you don't know the story? Of course you do, this is a classic, thanks in large part to Hitchcock's film of the same name, which (from my hazy memory) maintains much of the tension but loses the actual psychological fear and desperation involved. Two men meet on a train. One, Guy, is more "like us," you could say. He seems normal, he's having some marital troubles, but he's relatively calm about them, alternately optimistic and nihilistic. It seems normal. On the train, he meets Bruno, who we immediately assume is "the crazy one" - one huge shining pimple on his forehead, a strangely concentrated but distant gaze, a drinking problem, and a tendency to start talking to strangers (how dare he!). Bruno eventually suggests the outline of "the perfect murder" - two strangers meet on a train, each commits a murder "for" the other one. The proposition: Bruno murders Guy's obstinate wife so that Guy can move on with his career and marry his true love, and in exchange Guy murders Bruno's overbearing and unsupportive father so that Bruno's finances can be freed up. The two men have no connection to each other (besides having ridden the same train), so the crimes will, ostensibly, never be solved.
Due to a strange mood and an undue amount of alcohol, it's never clear if Guy actually agrees to this plan, or leads Bruno on in any way, but Bruno moves ahead with the plan and murders Guy's wife.
It's difficult to explain the effect of this book - it's a dance between two minds and dissecting them is impossible without quoting huge sections of the book or ruining fun plot twists. For Bruno and Guy, it's madness at first sight, and the simple idea that Bruno has dragged Guy into this can be dispelled or at least questioned thanks to Highsmith's scientific presentation of each character's mental processes.
Whatever, just read it. There isn't much I can say. The novel results in tunnel-vision, very effective. It drags you along with the characters and makes it difficult to treat the story as something apart from you. Highsmith puts such a fine point on certain psychological developments that you can recognize them in yourself, even though -you've- never arranged murders with some dude you met on the bus. But once you see yourself in Guy, or Bruno, it's hard to turn back. In the same way, once Guy sees himself in Bruno, he simply cannot turn back. Lucky for the reader, the book ends and you can put it away.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Listen, Little Man! by Wilhelm Reich
I would have looked at this book in a completely different manner had I any idea who Reich was when I picked the thing up. I bought it for all those reasons they tell you not to buy a book: a) good cover, b) cheap, c) short. But it also has a great title, and was illustrated by William Steig.
This entire book is Reich basically yelling at you for being such a weak-minded, pathetic, socially irresponsible person. But wait! you say, and then Shut up! he says.
If you can humble yourself enough to ignore that fact you're basically being screamed at in text format, then this book is actually a pretty good read. For all the social justice they tried to teach me in high school, and all the world perspective they tried to give me in college, this little book actually made me understand what my responsibilities as a common woman are. Is that weird?
This guy may be a total crackpot. I'm not sure. I haven't had a chance to research orgones, but I plan to. He is certainly angry, and arrogant, but it's forgivable. There isn't anything really forgivable about it in the actual writing, but in his life story.
Some of the best social philosophers would probably back up his thought process. He made me think of Foucault frequently - webs of power and oppressing each other and whatnot. But Reich makes it easy for you to digest, and Steig illustrates to lighten the mood as well.
In a way, you could say this book is about a failed career, an abundance of trust in science, failed revolutions, the cruelty of man, our tendencies to destroy our friends and revere our enemies, the destruction of love, the pornografication of love-making (yes, I made up a word, so what?), the importance of sex, the importance of responsibility, ignoring the Eye of the Other, reshaping your modes of criticism, and more! With cartoons!
I would recommend this book to almost anyone, actually. It's kinda funny, but it also makes you think. If you don't introspect, as a general rule, you will probably be insulted, or think the book is rather pedestrian. But I found Reich hitting on some important aspects of human psychology - little patterns of thinking that destroy our interpersonal relationships as easily as our political ones.
I wouldn't say this guy is a new disciple or anything, but it might be worth listening to him for even just one concentrated afternoon. I felt somewhat inspired to live differently, or more consciously (if that's possible).
This entire book is Reich basically yelling at you for being such a weak-minded, pathetic, socially irresponsible person. But wait! you say, and then Shut up! he says.
If you can humble yourself enough to ignore that fact you're basically being screamed at in text format, then this book is actually a pretty good read. For all the social justice they tried to teach me in high school, and all the world perspective they tried to give me in college, this little book actually made me understand what my responsibilities as a common woman are. Is that weird?
This guy may be a total crackpot. I'm not sure. I haven't had a chance to research orgones, but I plan to. He is certainly angry, and arrogant, but it's forgivable. There isn't anything really forgivable about it in the actual writing, but in his life story.
Some of the best social philosophers would probably back up his thought process. He made me think of Foucault frequently - webs of power and oppressing each other and whatnot. But Reich makes it easy for you to digest, and Steig illustrates to lighten the mood as well.
In a way, you could say this book is about a failed career, an abundance of trust in science, failed revolutions, the cruelty of man, our tendencies to destroy our friends and revere our enemies, the destruction of love, the pornografication of love-making (yes, I made up a word, so what?), the importance of sex, the importance of responsibility, ignoring the Eye of the Other, reshaping your modes of criticism, and more! With cartoons!
I would recommend this book to almost anyone, actually. It's kinda funny, but it also makes you think. If you don't introspect, as a general rule, you will probably be insulted, or think the book is rather pedestrian. But I found Reich hitting on some important aspects of human psychology - little patterns of thinking that destroy our interpersonal relationships as easily as our political ones.
I wouldn't say this guy is a new disciple or anything, but it might be worth listening to him for even just one concentrated afternoon. I felt somewhat inspired to live differently, or more consciously (if that's possible).
The Day of the Locust by Nathanael West
Unfortunately, this book's write-up is getting a bit of the shaft, as I'm extremely tired and have read almost three books since finishing this one. Better late than never - just wait until I reread this for a proper write-up.
In trying to describe the feeling of this book, I kept coming back to one adjective: seething.
This book was an example of "apocalyptic California literature" in my geography class junior year of college (oh, UC Berkeley), and I had heard this sentiment echoed for some time before that. The reviews and blurbs all point to the violence, the growing push toward implosion, and so forth, unraveling within Hollywood.
The brilliant thing about Locust is that you don't notice this violence at first. The story opens with a frantic cavalry and mob, but it's on a movie set. The violence is simulated and practically comical. Slowly, as the novel goes on, the violence gets closer and closer to home.
By the time West gets to the impromptu cock fight in Faye's garage, your stomach should probably be starting to turn. What's really interesting is that the gut wrenching aspect of the violence, of the whole scene, isn't its brutality or its realism, but how unreal everything seems, and how casual the participants are in the face of blood and death.
The calmness with which everyone absorbs absurdity, blood, violence, sex, and a general human facade might be taken for granted, but you can imagine that Tod is not the only one having a strong emotional reaction to his surroundings, and that everyone involved is, in some way, seething just below the surface.
Faye is our protagonist's obsession, and like any proper obsession she arouses both desire and hatred. Tod is drawn to her, but is also constantly aware of how much she is an actress in daily life. Her very gestures are rehearsed and calculated movements - they excite him, but he knows his excitement has been manipulated by her, which makes him resent both Faye and himself.
Wow, the parallels with sentimental Hollywood! You are brought to tear by the latest schmaltz-fest, but only because it knows exactly what buttons to push, and wouldn't you (shouldn't you?) feel vulnerable and resentful about something so artificial and designed and un-human being able to move you? It reminds us of our pathetic emotionality, and Faye reminds Tod of his pathetic lust.
I will warn you, if you plan to read this book, please start dissociating a fat yellow animated character from the name Homer Simpson right . . . NOW. Otherwise, you may be unable to concentrate on the character of the same name in this book. He, too, gets bound up with Faye, but in a different way. Tod and Homer have a strange rivalry bond over Faye, and it's actually Homer that Tod is attempting to rescue, or at least reach, in the classic final chapter.
Throughout the book, Tod envisions a drawing of the burning of L.A., and as frantic, horrible, and outright apocalyptic as this drawing is described, it has nothing on what Hollywood actually is, already. Madness finally breaks free at the end of the book, the seething finally explodes in one scream, one big final gust of complicated emotion. His drawing does not come true, as you might expect when you first hear it mentioned. Instead, there is a version of the end of the world already present, at a movie premiere.
In West's Hollywood, in the thirties, we had already reached the end of the rope of human sanity. Things were already starting to crumble. At this point, shouldn't we all be screaming? And why aren't we? Because we're seething instead.
Great book. Also an excellent pairing with Miss Lonelyhearts, juxtaposing West's ability to provide us with outwardly emotional and genuinely good-hearted characters and more inwardly-focused and morally ambiguous characters.
In trying to describe the feeling of this book, I kept coming back to one adjective: seething.
This book was an example of "apocalyptic California literature" in my geography class junior year of college (oh, UC Berkeley), and I had heard this sentiment echoed for some time before that. The reviews and blurbs all point to the violence, the growing push toward implosion, and so forth, unraveling within Hollywood.
The brilliant thing about Locust is that you don't notice this violence at first. The story opens with a frantic cavalry and mob, but it's on a movie set. The violence is simulated and practically comical. Slowly, as the novel goes on, the violence gets closer and closer to home.
By the time West gets to the impromptu cock fight in Faye's garage, your stomach should probably be starting to turn. What's really interesting is that the gut wrenching aspect of the violence, of the whole scene, isn't its brutality or its realism, but how unreal everything seems, and how casual the participants are in the face of blood and death.
The calmness with which everyone absorbs absurdity, blood, violence, sex, and a general human facade might be taken for granted, but you can imagine that Tod is not the only one having a strong emotional reaction to his surroundings, and that everyone involved is, in some way, seething just below the surface.
Faye is our protagonist's obsession, and like any proper obsession she arouses both desire and hatred. Tod is drawn to her, but is also constantly aware of how much she is an actress in daily life. Her very gestures are rehearsed and calculated movements - they excite him, but he knows his excitement has been manipulated by her, which makes him resent both Faye and himself.
Wow, the parallels with sentimental Hollywood! You are brought to tear by the latest schmaltz-fest, but only because it knows exactly what buttons to push, and wouldn't you (shouldn't you?) feel vulnerable and resentful about something so artificial and designed and un-human being able to move you? It reminds us of our pathetic emotionality, and Faye reminds Tod of his pathetic lust.
I will warn you, if you plan to read this book, please start dissociating a fat yellow animated character from the name Homer Simpson right . . . NOW. Otherwise, you may be unable to concentrate on the character of the same name in this book. He, too, gets bound up with Faye, but in a different way. Tod and Homer have a strange rivalry bond over Faye, and it's actually Homer that Tod is attempting to rescue, or at least reach, in the classic final chapter.
Throughout the book, Tod envisions a drawing of the burning of L.A., and as frantic, horrible, and outright apocalyptic as this drawing is described, it has nothing on what Hollywood actually is, already. Madness finally breaks free at the end of the book, the seething finally explodes in one scream, one big final gust of complicated emotion. His drawing does not come true, as you might expect when you first hear it mentioned. Instead, there is a version of the end of the world already present, at a movie premiere.
In West's Hollywood, in the thirties, we had already reached the end of the rope of human sanity. Things were already starting to crumble. At this point, shouldn't we all be screaming? And why aren't we? Because we're seething instead.
Great book. Also an excellent pairing with Miss Lonelyhearts, juxtaposing West's ability to provide us with outwardly emotional and genuinely good-hearted characters and more inwardly-focused and morally ambiguous characters.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Miss Lonelyhearts by Nathanael West
Can you be moved by 59 pages of text?
Yes, you can. I can, at least. For years, I have had that standard copy of Miss Lonelyhearts paired with The Day of the Locust. My father gave it to me long ago so I could read Locust, and despite having that story referenced repeatedly throughout my college career, I could just never read the damn thing. I started to, a couple of times, but just never kept going. Sometimes, with books, it's a complete mood thing. That's why I stopped reading Falling Man and Gravity's Rainbow partway through. Not because I was bored or frustrated, or because the quality was poor. Just because I need to be in the right head space.
Well, Friday I was in the right head space for Nathanael West. So I took up the book and read it on public transit. I didn't get to The Day of the Locust, ironically, because I thought maybe part of the reason I could never read the story was that I always felt as though I were cheating by opening a book to its middle instead of its beginning. Miss Lonelyhearts was a truly splendid treat. I even quote it in my sidebar, now -- look to your right.
The eponymous character is a pseudonym for an advice columnist. People write in to him asking for advice, and he doles it out under this cute nom de plume, trying to give heart to people whose lives are suffocating under layers of shit. Examples of these letters, their desperately human pleading and horrific grammar intact, are included in the narrative, and help you understand the changes that Miss Lonelyhearts goes through.
This story made me yearn for time periods like the 1940s, when it was perfectly okay for an author to write using directly religious language. At this stage of book production and marketing, as well as the political climate, such a style would be unheard of -- it would pigeonhole you as a certain "type" of author with a certain "type" of subject or audience. But this unabashed use of Christ and religious ideas is not offensive or divisive in anyway. Miss Lonelyhearts works for a newspaper after all, and if there's a more godless place in the universe, it probably has a lovely view of a lake of fire.
Miss Lonelyhearts is, through his job, directly confronted with the suffering of all people, on all levels of society. Their problems are real, and they inspire despair, pity, and anger in him. This story tracks his attempts to try and find a kind of inner peace, or solidarity, amongst not only the chaos of his readers' lives, but the chaos of his own. He eventually likens himself to a rock, and the insane drunken antics of others to a raging ocean.
However, his "rockness" also makes him blind to what drives others, what creates and fuels their misery, and this is eventually his downfall. By denying the undulating humanity of his own spirit, he fails to recognize the way it functions in others, and this leaves him incredibly vulnerable to attack. After all, a rock is initially unaffected by the sea, but eventually the relentless pounding of the waves will wear that rock down to nothing. It will, no matter its solidarity, be absorbed into a dramatic, repetitive, futile process.
The sea is one of my favorite things to personify, so for Miss Lonelyhearts to conceive of himself as a rival to the sea rang so many analytical bells in my mind that it made my head hurt.
There is a real moral at the heart of this story, leaving the quote I have at the right as a bit of a conundrum. Is it deluded or noble to strive for order in a world bound for chaos? Do we, as Chaucer's Nun's Priest (I think, I don't remember The Canterbury Tales very well, for shame) would tell us, only rational to give in to the irrational, or is a central tenet of fascist-leaning philosophies more practical -- try to control the "nasty, short, and brutish" tendencies of man and you will succeed?
Maybe not for everyone, but for me, this book raised valid philosophical questions about how to live in a world full of suffering and pain, where the suffering is impossible to laugh at or shrug off. How can someone in the modern world succeed if they develop compassion? Is Miss Lonelyhearts some kind of journalistic Big City martyr? And if so, what does that mean about contemporary living, or modern-day interpretations of age-old martyrs' tales?
I should have found a way to study this story in college, but all anyone ever talked about was Locust. It's things like that that lead to fanciful day dreams of myself as a professor.
Yes, you can. I can, at least. For years, I have had that standard copy of Miss Lonelyhearts paired with The Day of the Locust. My father gave it to me long ago so I could read Locust, and despite having that story referenced repeatedly throughout my college career, I could just never read the damn thing. I started to, a couple of times, but just never kept going. Sometimes, with books, it's a complete mood thing. That's why I stopped reading Falling Man and Gravity's Rainbow partway through. Not because I was bored or frustrated, or because the quality was poor. Just because I need to be in the right head space.
Well, Friday I was in the right head space for Nathanael West. So I took up the book and read it on public transit. I didn't get to The Day of the Locust, ironically, because I thought maybe part of the reason I could never read the story was that I always felt as though I were cheating by opening a book to its middle instead of its beginning. Miss Lonelyhearts was a truly splendid treat. I even quote it in my sidebar, now -- look to your right.
The eponymous character is a pseudonym for an advice columnist. People write in to him asking for advice, and he doles it out under this cute nom de plume, trying to give heart to people whose lives are suffocating under layers of shit. Examples of these letters, their desperately human pleading and horrific grammar intact, are included in the narrative, and help you understand the changes that Miss Lonelyhearts goes through.
This story made me yearn for time periods like the 1940s, when it was perfectly okay for an author to write using directly religious language. At this stage of book production and marketing, as well as the political climate, such a style would be unheard of -- it would pigeonhole you as a certain "type" of author with a certain "type" of subject or audience. But this unabashed use of Christ and religious ideas is not offensive or divisive in anyway. Miss Lonelyhearts works for a newspaper after all, and if there's a more godless place in the universe, it probably has a lovely view of a lake of fire.
Miss Lonelyhearts is, through his job, directly confronted with the suffering of all people, on all levels of society. Their problems are real, and they inspire despair, pity, and anger in him. This story tracks his attempts to try and find a kind of inner peace, or solidarity, amongst not only the chaos of his readers' lives, but the chaos of his own. He eventually likens himself to a rock, and the insane drunken antics of others to a raging ocean.
However, his "rockness" also makes him blind to what drives others, what creates and fuels their misery, and this is eventually his downfall. By denying the undulating humanity of his own spirit, he fails to recognize the way it functions in others, and this leaves him incredibly vulnerable to attack. After all, a rock is initially unaffected by the sea, but eventually the relentless pounding of the waves will wear that rock down to nothing. It will, no matter its solidarity, be absorbed into a dramatic, repetitive, futile process.
The sea is one of my favorite things to personify, so for Miss Lonelyhearts to conceive of himself as a rival to the sea rang so many analytical bells in my mind that it made my head hurt.
There is a real moral at the heart of this story, leaving the quote I have at the right as a bit of a conundrum. Is it deluded or noble to strive for order in a world bound for chaos? Do we, as Chaucer's Nun's Priest (I think, I don't remember The Canterbury Tales very well, for shame) would tell us, only rational to give in to the irrational, or is a central tenet of fascist-leaning philosophies more practical -- try to control the "nasty, short, and brutish" tendencies of man and you will succeed?
Maybe not for everyone, but for me, this book raised valid philosophical questions about how to live in a world full of suffering and pain, where the suffering is impossible to laugh at or shrug off. How can someone in the modern world succeed if they develop compassion? Is Miss Lonelyhearts some kind of journalistic Big City martyr? And if so, what does that mean about contemporary living, or modern-day interpretations of age-old martyrs' tales?
I should have found a way to study this story in college, but all anyone ever talked about was Locust. It's things like that that lead to fanciful day dreams of myself as a professor.
Skin by Roald Dahl
This is a posthumous collection of Dahl's stories, which were originally published in the 50s and 60s, and I found it to be something of a let-down. The big standard, "Lamb to the Slaughter" is included, as well as a few other macabre tales. But, for many of the stories, I found the endings either predictable or anticlimactic. It felt as though Dahl had left early drafts of these stories lying around, and after he died some precocious niece found them and decided to send them off to a publisher. I much preferred Switch Bitch.
That said, this isn't bad collection, per se. I was interested. There was a very clever story about poaching that kept my attention. Dahl still has that talent of starting a story with you expecting it to be about the initial set of characters and circumstances, and then altering the focus as he goes along.
I'd say that the endings were still consistently unsettling, although they were certainly less surprising than those in Switch Bitch, and I plan to get another collection for comparison's sake.
For the love of God, don't read the back of this book. You will know the endings to a few of the stories that otherwise would have been genuinely surprising. It is lame.
There isn't really anything else to say about this book, except that the paperback cover of it is eye-catching enough to prompt people to talk to me while I am trying to concentrate.
And that is my completely thrilling commentary on the book. Whee!
That said, this isn't bad collection, per se. I was interested. There was a very clever story about poaching that kept my attention. Dahl still has that talent of starting a story with you expecting it to be about the initial set of characters and circumstances, and then altering the focus as he goes along.
I'd say that the endings were still consistently unsettling, although they were certainly less surprising than those in Switch Bitch, and I plan to get another collection for comparison's sake.
For the love of God, don't read the back of this book. You will know the endings to a few of the stories that otherwise would have been genuinely surprising. It is lame.
There isn't really anything else to say about this book, except that the paperback cover of it is eye-catching enough to prompt people to talk to me while I am trying to concentrate.
And that is my completely thrilling commentary on the book. Whee!
Thursday, April 24, 2008
I've completely lost my focus . . .
No one knows it, but that subject line is the punchline to one of my favorite one-panel comic strips of all time. I'll see what I can do about uploading it sometime.
I've decided that I should ease up on this blog a bit. By which I mean, not always restrict myself to posting when I have book reviews/commentary piling up in my brain. This should just be the place for my literature-minded comments, so look forward to more interesting links and musings mixed in with book reviews.
As I am in the middle of reading Roald Dahl's collection of stories, Skin, right now, and as I would consider Dahl to be one of the few writers who has fascinated me my entire life (as a child, I quietly celebrated his birthday by reading as many of his books as I could on September 13th, I hope I remember that date correctly), I now have a very serious reason to visit the UK.
Check it out: http://www.roalddahlmuseum.org/
This guy is the pimp of children's books:
I've decided that I should ease up on this blog a bit. By which I mean, not always restrict myself to posting when I have book reviews/commentary piling up in my brain. This should just be the place for my literature-minded comments, so look forward to more interesting links and musings mixed in with book reviews.
As I am in the middle of reading Roald Dahl's collection of stories, Skin, right now, and as I would consider Dahl to be one of the few writers who has fascinated me my entire life (as a child, I quietly celebrated his birthday by reading as many of his books as I could on September 13th, I hope I remember that date correctly), I now have a very serious reason to visit the UK.
Check it out: http://www.roalddahlmuseum.org/
This guy is the pimp of children's books:
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
and now for something completely different . . .
"Why I Have No Taste" by Ben Hecht, from A Child of the Century
I prefer fine books and an exalted style and masterful probings. But when I read the other books, the ones sprung from equally ardent but smaller heads, I feel no lessened pleasure. I supply, as well as I can, what is missing. I skip what is too untrue. I am content with their smaller ambition. I do not praise them after they are closed, but while I read them I am as pleased as if no better books existed.
When I was a literary critic in Chicago, writing in the most iconoclastic publication of our times, The Little Review, run by Margaret Anderson, I could never attack books. I wrote only of books I could praise. I was ready to undermine in print such institutions as marriage, democracy and heaven. But books I could never sabotage, any more than I could publicly hiss actors.
My chief drawback as a literary reviewer was not kindness, however, but an inability to read any book through the assaying scale of my culture. When I read David Graham Phillips I was not aware of having read Gogol. When I enjoyed Paul de Kock, I had no memories of the pleasures of Stendhal. Each one, at his own time, was as good as the other. And with such an attitude one can never go far as a critic.
I used to argue about this with my friend, Sasha. He was Alexander S. Kaun, a smoldering Muscovite come to Chicago after some ineffectual bomb-throwing in the north of Russia. Despite this political activity, he was, basically, not a politician but a man of letters. He later became Professor of Russian Literature at the University of California in Berkeley. I never saw him in his cap and gown, for he died before my travels led me to San Francisco Bay.
In his pre-professorial youth, we argued during all-night sessions such as only political caucuses hold nowadays. In that time, sweet pause before chaos, literature was a more burning issue than it is at present. It is now a bauble in the hands of publishers, critics and readers. It was then a secret flame in the hands of the dedicated.
My point of view infuriated Sasha. I professed not to see any difference between a beautiful object and an ordinary one. I said that I liked all books in the manner that I liked all girls who were presentable. When with a girl of moderate allure, I did not disdain her because there were lovelier specimens in the world. Rapture might be limited, but criticism was surely out of place. And what did one gain by making oneself constantly toe the mark of preference--except fewer delights? In loving, or reading, a man was a fool to sit in judgment when he might lie in pleasure.
This aesthetic was lineal descendant of my young self in the attic room where I had found no difference in the charms of Nick Carter and Hamlet, nor outside the room, between hired girls and high-school princesses. A mediocre book or woman never lessened my opinion of myself.
I have outgrown some of this wholeness. But culture that deprives one of the many joys of being uncultured still seems to me a misuse of the mind. I have railed often against books in discussions with their readers. But it was actually the readers I was fomenting. The books were innocent.
I prefer fine books and an exalted style and masterful probings. But when I read the other books, the ones sprung from equally ardent but smaller heads, I feel no lessened pleasure. I supply, as well as I can, what is missing. I skip what is too untrue. I am content with their smaller ambition. I do not praise them after they are closed, but while I read them I am as pleased as if no better books existed.
When I was a literary critic in Chicago, writing in the most iconoclastic publication of our times, The Little Review, run by Margaret Anderson, I could never attack books. I wrote only of books I could praise. I was ready to undermine in print such institutions as marriage, democracy and heaven. But books I could never sabotage, any more than I could publicly hiss actors.
My chief drawback as a literary reviewer was not kindness, however, but an inability to read any book through the assaying scale of my culture. When I read David Graham Phillips I was not aware of having read Gogol. When I enjoyed Paul de Kock, I had no memories of the pleasures of Stendhal. Each one, at his own time, was as good as the other. And with such an attitude one can never go far as a critic.
I used to argue about this with my friend, Sasha. He was Alexander S. Kaun, a smoldering Muscovite come to Chicago after some ineffectual bomb-throwing in the north of Russia. Despite this political activity, he was, basically, not a politician but a man of letters. He later became Professor of Russian Literature at the University of California in Berkeley. I never saw him in his cap and gown, for he died before my travels led me to San Francisco Bay.
In his pre-professorial youth, we argued during all-night sessions such as only political caucuses hold nowadays. In that time, sweet pause before chaos, literature was a more burning issue than it is at present. It is now a bauble in the hands of publishers, critics and readers. It was then a secret flame in the hands of the dedicated.
My point of view infuriated Sasha. I professed not to see any difference between a beautiful object and an ordinary one. I said that I liked all books in the manner that I liked all girls who were presentable. When with a girl of moderate allure, I did not disdain her because there were lovelier specimens in the world. Rapture might be limited, but criticism was surely out of place. And what did one gain by making oneself constantly toe the mark of preference--except fewer delights? In loving, or reading, a man was a fool to sit in judgment when he might lie in pleasure.
This aesthetic was lineal descendant of my young self in the attic room where I had found no difference in the charms of Nick Carter and Hamlet, nor outside the room, between hired girls and high-school princesses. A mediocre book or woman never lessened my opinion of myself.
I have outgrown some of this wholeness. But culture that deprives one of the many joys of being uncultured still seems to me a misuse of the mind. I have railed often against books in discussions with their readers. But it was actually the readers I was fomenting. The books were innocent.
A Treasury of Royal Scandals by Michael Farquhar
The full title of this book reads: A Treasury of Royal Scandals: The Shocking True Stories of History's Wickedest, Weirdest, Most Wanton Kings, Queens, Tsars, Popes, and Emperors.
Damn.
How could it possibly deliver? The paperback cover is a little cheeky drawing of buxom female member of royalty, all done up in the proper attire, with a smirk and a raised eyebrow on her face, and an anonymous hand down her front. Scandalous, indeed.
First of all, I genuinely believe that anyone who isn't interested in the naughty behavior of the European monarchs is either a liar, or someone I'm not going to invite over for dinner. This kind of stuff is where gossip hounds and history buffs can finally meet, their skills and interests finally converging after years of teasing each other on the playground.
What matters here aren't the dates, but who did what to whom, whether the action in question is fuck, kill, excommunicate, behead, etc. is inconsequential - the stories are great.
I'm one of those people who would never in her right mind spend money on a gossip rag. I don't care enough about Angelina & Brad, or even Britney, to ever spend hard-earned money on one of those things. However, when I am waiting in line for something, or at someone else's house with idle time, I will make a beeline for those same gossip rags. In a way, Treasury is a compromise for people like me.
You can satisfy your gossipy half by reading about who married whom, and your intellectual half by telling yourself, "It's practically history." No wonder this thing is a national bestseller.
Farquhar arranges the stories by theme, rather than chronology, which also gives it a fresh feeling. First we have transgressions of various important personages coinciding with the seven deadly sins. Then a little of horrible marriages, followed by horrible family relations, then horrible papal behavior, then horrible deaths, etc. At first it was confusing, but I came to appreciate it by the end.
If you think you will like this book, you will. I had my standards set pretty high, but there is behavior detailed in this book that genuinely surprised and disgusted me. It was all really really interesting, too. The descriptions of the inbred royal family members is especially enlightening.
I couldn't single out a single act, or even a list, of my favorite things detailed in this book. If you want a STAR magazine version of European history, I highly recommend Treasury. It's an easy read that can be done in chunks, if necessary, it's very entertaining, and it has short chapters. Even illustrations from the time period. What else could you possibly want?!
Damn.
How could it possibly deliver? The paperback cover is a little cheeky drawing of buxom female member of royalty, all done up in the proper attire, with a smirk and a raised eyebrow on her face, and an anonymous hand down her front. Scandalous, indeed.
First of all, I genuinely believe that anyone who isn't interested in the naughty behavior of the European monarchs is either a liar, or someone I'm not going to invite over for dinner. This kind of stuff is where gossip hounds and history buffs can finally meet, their skills and interests finally converging after years of teasing each other on the playground.
What matters here aren't the dates, but who did what to whom, whether the action in question is fuck, kill, excommunicate, behead, etc. is inconsequential - the stories are great.
I'm one of those people who would never in her right mind spend money on a gossip rag. I don't care enough about Angelina & Brad, or even Britney, to ever spend hard-earned money on one of those things. However, when I am waiting in line for something, or at someone else's house with idle time, I will make a beeline for those same gossip rags. In a way, Treasury is a compromise for people like me.
You can satisfy your gossipy half by reading about who married whom, and your intellectual half by telling yourself, "It's practically history." No wonder this thing is a national bestseller.
Farquhar arranges the stories by theme, rather than chronology, which also gives it a fresh feeling. First we have transgressions of various important personages coinciding with the seven deadly sins. Then a little of horrible marriages, followed by horrible family relations, then horrible papal behavior, then horrible deaths, etc. At first it was confusing, but I came to appreciate it by the end.
If you think you will like this book, you will. I had my standards set pretty high, but there is behavior detailed in this book that genuinely surprised and disgusted me. It was all really really interesting, too. The descriptions of the inbred royal family members is especially enlightening.
I couldn't single out a single act, or even a list, of my favorite things detailed in this book. If you want a STAR magazine version of European history, I highly recommend Treasury. It's an easy read that can be done in chunks, if necessary, it's very entertaining, and it has short chapters. Even illustrations from the time period. What else could you possibly want?!
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Blindness by Jose Saramago
Okay, for once in a long while I can honestly say I read something that did not live up to my expectations.
Perhaps having recently read Camus's The Plague made me desensitized to the contagious outbreak/quarantine aspects of this story, because in this story I found them to be agonizingly drawn out. Yes, of course the government is going to round everybody up into camps of horrible conditions, of course they are going to say it is for their own good, of course it won't be, of course members of the government will start getting sick themselves, blah blah. Standard. But.
Let me back up. Blindness's strengths lie in the nature of the outbreak, which is one of (you guessed it!) blindness. A strange blindness where the afflicted can only perceive a "milky sea of white." Naturally, this white blindness was described repeatedly throughout the book, which felt repetitive and sometimes annoyed me. I was very interested in the bigger picture of a blindness epidemic, but Saramago focused on a small group of individuals reacting to the outbreak. It's not his fault he didn't give me what I wanted, and he's not a poor writer because of it, but I certainly felt unsatisfied when I was done with the book.
It opens very strongly, though - the sudden and inexplicable appearance of a medically unknown type of blindess is described effectively, stunningly, and quite beautifully. As the instances of blindness increase, a quarantine is established, and all the blind (or exposed to blind) people are sent to a facility that used to be an insane asylum. This I found to be unnecessarily overt thematic foreshadowing, why not a mere abandoned hospital? I'm not so stupid that I don't understand quarantined people, especially blind ones, will eventually display myriad types of insanity. Anyway.
Our plot focuses around one woman, the wife of the opthamologist who examined the very first person to go blind. After the first blind man visited the opthamologist's office, the doctor goes blind himself. As he is being loaded into the ambulance that will undoubtedly take him to the quarantine, his wife lies and says she, as well, has been striken with the illness. She never does, however, go blind, and she becomes the vehicle for exploring the disintegration of society. She is, literally, the only one who can see it.
Saramago's style of dialogue is dense. There is almost constant dialogue - many nameless characters are speaking, and their declarations are separated only by commas. There are few paragraph breaks, as well, so every chapter feels relentless. This is very effective in conveying a sense of blindness - tracking the speaker of the dialogue is practically as difficult for the reader as it is for the blind, and all the characters are reduced to little more than disembodied voices calling out repetitive phrases and worries.
I'm not sure what else to really say about this book. It was certainly interesting - I was never bored while reading it, and the thought of -everyone- being blind is much more terrifying than I initially gave it credit for. There are, ironically, very intense visuals that I retain from the story, and it definitely made an impact on me. However, there was just something missing that made it hard for me to completely engage with the story or the characters.
I have the feeling that, over time, this will seem like a much better book than it seemed when I first completed it. I just wanted to write about it now, while it's still fresh in my mind. Maybe I'll come back to it as I process it. Or at least when I'm not frantically writing during my lunch break. Ha ha.
Perhaps having recently read Camus's The Plague made me desensitized to the contagious outbreak/quarantine aspects of this story, because in this story I found them to be agonizingly drawn out. Yes, of course the government is going to round everybody up into camps of horrible conditions, of course they are going to say it is for their own good, of course it won't be, of course members of the government will start getting sick themselves, blah blah. Standard. But.
Let me back up. Blindness's strengths lie in the nature of the outbreak, which is one of (you guessed it!) blindness. A strange blindness where the afflicted can only perceive a "milky sea of white." Naturally, this white blindness was described repeatedly throughout the book, which felt repetitive and sometimes annoyed me. I was very interested in the bigger picture of a blindness epidemic, but Saramago focused on a small group of individuals reacting to the outbreak. It's not his fault he didn't give me what I wanted, and he's not a poor writer because of it, but I certainly felt unsatisfied when I was done with the book.
It opens very strongly, though - the sudden and inexplicable appearance of a medically unknown type of blindess is described effectively, stunningly, and quite beautifully. As the instances of blindness increase, a quarantine is established, and all the blind (or exposed to blind) people are sent to a facility that used to be an insane asylum. This I found to be unnecessarily overt thematic foreshadowing, why not a mere abandoned hospital? I'm not so stupid that I don't understand quarantined people, especially blind ones, will eventually display myriad types of insanity. Anyway.
Our plot focuses around one woman, the wife of the opthamologist who examined the very first person to go blind. After the first blind man visited the opthamologist's office, the doctor goes blind himself. As he is being loaded into the ambulance that will undoubtedly take him to the quarantine, his wife lies and says she, as well, has been striken with the illness. She never does, however, go blind, and she becomes the vehicle for exploring the disintegration of society. She is, literally, the only one who can see it.
Saramago's style of dialogue is dense. There is almost constant dialogue - many nameless characters are speaking, and their declarations are separated only by commas. There are few paragraph breaks, as well, so every chapter feels relentless. This is very effective in conveying a sense of blindness - tracking the speaker of the dialogue is practically as difficult for the reader as it is for the blind, and all the characters are reduced to little more than disembodied voices calling out repetitive phrases and worries.
I'm not sure what else to really say about this book. It was certainly interesting - I was never bored while reading it, and the thought of -everyone- being blind is much more terrifying than I initially gave it credit for. There are, ironically, very intense visuals that I retain from the story, and it definitely made an impact on me. However, there was just something missing that made it hard for me to completely engage with the story or the characters.
I have the feeling that, over time, this will seem like a much better book than it seemed when I first completed it. I just wanted to write about it now, while it's still fresh in my mind. Maybe I'll come back to it as I process it. Or at least when I'm not frantically writing during my lunch break. Ha ha.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille
Be careful, guys. I recommend a lot of things that are a tad "off," you know. Like, about serial killers and sexual perversions and whatnot. But those books have got nothing on this. Holy crap.
Here is what the quotes on the back of the book say:
"Bataille's works . . . indicated the aesthetic possibilities of pornography as an art form: Story of the Eye being the most accomplished artistically of all pornographic prose I've read." -Susan Sontag
and then the intense one:
"Bataille denudes himself, exposes himself, his exhibitionism aims at destroying all literature. He has a holocaust of words. Bataille speaks about man's condition, not his nature. His tone recalls the scornful aggressiveness of the surrealist. Bataille has survived the death of God. In him, reality is conflict." -Jean Paul Sartre
And, get this, the book is only ONE HUNDRED PAGES long! That's it! For so much intensity?! I could hardly believe it.
And I didn't believe it. Not at all. Within the first chapter, there is some really disgusting talk of peeing into cunts and whatnot. Not exactly what I expected. The perversions only get worse (or better?). I felt duped.
Let me back up.
The story revolves around the narrator, a young man, a woman he meets when he is young and who he discovers his sexuality with, and two other significant figures: an innocent young girl they corrupt and drive insane, and a wealthy Englishman who provides monetary support when they are running from the law. A bullfighter and a priest both provide important symbolic roles, even as very minor characters.
If I were to outline for you exactly what these two main characters participate in, you might not believe me. Really, you wouldn't. I don't want to ruin anything, though, in case you do read the book. Let's just say - deriving sexual pleasure from pissing on the face of a dead woman with open eyes is not the worst of it. Not by a long shot.
But I had the stomach, I muscled through. Despite the depravity, one thing this book definitely ISN'T is boring. About fifty pages through, I finally took a break and stopped to think about what I'd been reading. I didn't find any of it to be titillating, and found the majority of it to be so disgusting that I couldn't refrain from actually frowning as I read it. And then something happened. It hit me. The point of the book came shining down like sun on an otherwise gross San Francisco afternoon.
Even sexual meaning is arbitrary. Don't just gloss over that sentence. Really read it, and think about. In a culture obsessed with sexual norms that are, by the by, very straight and narrow, the notion that our love of pecks on the cheek and the missionary position (hallmarks of chaste, proper sexual union) is just as legitimate as a sexual desire to drop soft-boiled eggs into a toilet and then pee on them is a SHOCK.
People will accept perversion, but only one step at a time. They say, okay, well, I guess oral sex is all right. Or, I'm okay with men sleeping together, just as long as I don't have to see them kiss in public (or some variation thereof). Fetishes are recognized. We can thank (?) the internet in large part for making all kinds of pornography available and transparent. But let me tell you - I've been on the internet, and I have not seen anything like what was described in this book written before we even had the goddamn television.
Only through extremes, I suppose, will we truly be able to grasp that all meaning, even sexual meaning, is arbitrary, and therefore equally valid. I do not want to participate in ANYTHING they described in this book (one thing, maybe, but it's very tame), and yet by the end I could see how it was sexy. I could understand. It's a matter of association, really, and how the manner in which we first encounter sexuality can set a standard for the rest of our adult lives in terms of sexual and romantic preferences.
Go through the book of your life and put italics in random places, and the "meaning of life" for you can change drastically. That is what this book made me realize about my sexual preferences. If, for whatever I reason, I had had more cause to remember the "Little Mermaid" themed fantasies I had as a child, and ignored the traditional "Hollywood star at a fancy party" ones, then I could have turned into a person who wants to fuck fish. I am, also, a potential pervert. So we all are. And, weirdly, that's something to celebrate.
I'm not sure if I'm getting this across properly, because I'm very tired and I just wanted to write down some of my thoughts before my enthusiasm for the book wears off.
I guess what I'm saying is, Bataille uses depraved imagery to depict a divine truth about humanity - our possibilities are endless, even if they are arbitrary. Meaning is a complete jumble, and most of the meanings we choose for ourselves are so naturally developed that we don't consciously realize we're choosing them. And yet, those same very natural, very normal and indispensable meanings would be rejected by everyone else. The protagonist of the book declares that he likes not "pleasures of the flesh," but "dirty" things. He, the corpse-loving piss-playing menstrua-sniffing murderer, is offended by the idea of "pleasures of the flesh." (A phrase that, incidentally, always makes me think of soft-core porn. Can you conceive of soft-core porn as offensive?)
And, although this paints a picture of complete isolation at your very core, your sexuality, I don't think that's the point. If you let your disgustingness develop naturally, you can easily find the right people to be disgusting with.
Even writing this I am getting re-excited! What a great book. What a great great book. Suddenly, the quotes on the back no longer seem overly intense, but not intense enough. I'm shocked.
[I only recommend if you have both a strong stomach and a strong mind. If you do, then I recommend highly, more highly than anything else I've reviewed.]
Here is what the quotes on the back of the book say:
"Bataille's works . . . indicated the aesthetic possibilities of pornography as an art form: Story of the Eye being the most accomplished artistically of all pornographic prose I've read." -Susan Sontag
and then the intense one:
"Bataille denudes himself, exposes himself, his exhibitionism aims at destroying all literature. He has a holocaust of words. Bataille speaks about man's condition, not his nature. His tone recalls the scornful aggressiveness of the surrealist. Bataille has survived the death of God. In him, reality is conflict." -Jean Paul Sartre
And, get this, the book is only ONE HUNDRED PAGES long! That's it! For so much intensity?! I could hardly believe it.
And I didn't believe it. Not at all. Within the first chapter, there is some really disgusting talk of peeing into cunts and whatnot. Not exactly what I expected. The perversions only get worse (or better?). I felt duped.
Let me back up.
The story revolves around the narrator, a young man, a woman he meets when he is young and who he discovers his sexuality with, and two other significant figures: an innocent young girl they corrupt and drive insane, and a wealthy Englishman who provides monetary support when they are running from the law. A bullfighter and a priest both provide important symbolic roles, even as very minor characters.
If I were to outline for you exactly what these two main characters participate in, you might not believe me. Really, you wouldn't. I don't want to ruin anything, though, in case you do read the book. Let's just say - deriving sexual pleasure from pissing on the face of a dead woman with open eyes is not the worst of it. Not by a long shot.
But I had the stomach, I muscled through. Despite the depravity, one thing this book definitely ISN'T is boring. About fifty pages through, I finally took a break and stopped to think about what I'd been reading. I didn't find any of it to be titillating, and found the majority of it to be so disgusting that I couldn't refrain from actually frowning as I read it. And then something happened. It hit me. The point of the book came shining down like sun on an otherwise gross San Francisco afternoon.
Even sexual meaning is arbitrary. Don't just gloss over that sentence. Really read it, and think about. In a culture obsessed with sexual norms that are, by the by, very straight and narrow, the notion that our love of pecks on the cheek and the missionary position (hallmarks of chaste, proper sexual union) is just as legitimate as a sexual desire to drop soft-boiled eggs into a toilet and then pee on them is a SHOCK.
People will accept perversion, but only one step at a time. They say, okay, well, I guess oral sex is all right. Or, I'm okay with men sleeping together, just as long as I don't have to see them kiss in public (or some variation thereof). Fetishes are recognized. We can thank (?) the internet in large part for making all kinds of pornography available and transparent. But let me tell you - I've been on the internet, and I have not seen anything like what was described in this book written before we even had the goddamn television.
Only through extremes, I suppose, will we truly be able to grasp that all meaning, even sexual meaning, is arbitrary, and therefore equally valid. I do not want to participate in ANYTHING they described in this book (one thing, maybe, but it's very tame), and yet by the end I could see how it was sexy. I could understand. It's a matter of association, really, and how the manner in which we first encounter sexuality can set a standard for the rest of our adult lives in terms of sexual and romantic preferences.
Go through the book of your life and put italics in random places, and the "meaning of life" for you can change drastically. That is what this book made me realize about my sexual preferences. If, for whatever I reason, I had had more cause to remember the "Little Mermaid" themed fantasies I had as a child, and ignored the traditional "Hollywood star at a fancy party" ones, then I could have turned into a person who wants to fuck fish. I am, also, a potential pervert. So we all are. And, weirdly, that's something to celebrate.
I'm not sure if I'm getting this across properly, because I'm very tired and I just wanted to write down some of my thoughts before my enthusiasm for the book wears off.
I guess what I'm saying is, Bataille uses depraved imagery to depict a divine truth about humanity - our possibilities are endless, even if they are arbitrary. Meaning is a complete jumble, and most of the meanings we choose for ourselves are so naturally developed that we don't consciously realize we're choosing them. And yet, those same very natural, very normal and indispensable meanings would be rejected by everyone else. The protagonist of the book declares that he likes not "pleasures of the flesh," but "dirty" things. He, the corpse-loving piss-playing menstrua-sniffing murderer, is offended by the idea of "pleasures of the flesh." (A phrase that, incidentally, always makes me think of soft-core porn. Can you conceive of soft-core porn as offensive?)
And, although this paints a picture of complete isolation at your very core, your sexuality, I don't think that's the point. If you let your disgustingness develop naturally, you can easily find the right people to be disgusting with.
Even writing this I am getting re-excited! What a great book. What a great great book. Suddenly, the quotes on the back no longer seem overly intense, but not intense enough. I'm shocked.
[I only recommend if you have both a strong stomach and a strong mind. If you do, then I recommend highly, more highly than anything else I've reviewed.]
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Four Letter Word: Invented Correspondences from the Edge of Modern Romance edited by J. Knelman and R. Porter
I've gotten really busy lately, unfortunately.
Well, it's fortunate. I actually obtained a job, which is seriously cutting into my time. You can expect this blog to be dormant until I've settled into my new schedule.
In the meantime, pick up Four Letter Word. It's a collection of fictional love letters written by a smorgasbord of authors from around the world. It's alternately sweet, funny, tragic, and so on. The introduction by the editor Rosalind Porter was inspiring enough for me to start up another blog to share letters I've written. I've placed a link to that new blog in the right-hand column, if you're interested. It's called "Anostrophe," the explanation of which is in its first post.
I've always enjoyed writing letters (anyone who knew me in high school knows that I took the whole "note passed in class" concept to another level), but I never get a chance to enjoy reading them. I've been told I'm most intimidating through writing, which is a much nicer explanation for why I've received so few letters during my life thus far than the one I like to fall back on: you're all lazy punks.
Anyway, as much as I loved composing and coveting the receiving of letters, I never really considered them an art unto themselves until reading this book. I knew that we could recognize the personal letters of already established authors as art, but I never felt as though one's writing ability could stand upon letters alone. I really responded to this collection, because it made me feel that I can cultivate letter-writing as an authentic and worthwhile form of writing. That may seem obvious, but in a world of not only e-mail but Facebook and MySpace wall posts, the concept of an actual "letter" is practically akin to myth.
I'd like to bring it back down to reality, if I might. If you don't read my letters, then at least read the letters in this book. They are better than anything I could ever write. The first one is from Mars to Earth, although there are more traditional love letters as well. Many have to do with family, and there is far more sadness than I expected, so if you're one of those "I'm not a sap, I'm not reading a mushy book of mindless cooings" kind of people, drop the bitterness and pick up the book instead. It covers all the bases.
Just read the first half or so (as far as I've gotten at the time of this writing) and try to tell me you don't wish you could either compose or receive such powerful condensed direct statements of emotion from one human to another. And even if you can tell me that, I won't believe you.
Well, it's fortunate. I actually obtained a job, which is seriously cutting into my time. You can expect this blog to be dormant until I've settled into my new schedule.
In the meantime, pick up Four Letter Word. It's a collection of fictional love letters written by a smorgasbord of authors from around the world. It's alternately sweet, funny, tragic, and so on. The introduction by the editor Rosalind Porter was inspiring enough for me to start up another blog to share letters I've written. I've placed a link to that new blog in the right-hand column, if you're interested. It's called "Anostrophe," the explanation of which is in its first post.
I've always enjoyed writing letters (anyone who knew me in high school knows that I took the whole "note passed in class" concept to another level), but I never get a chance to enjoy reading them. I've been told I'm most intimidating through writing, which is a much nicer explanation for why I've received so few letters during my life thus far than the one I like to fall back on: you're all lazy punks.
Anyway, as much as I loved composing and coveting the receiving of letters, I never really considered them an art unto themselves until reading this book. I knew that we could recognize the personal letters of already established authors as art, but I never felt as though one's writing ability could stand upon letters alone. I really responded to this collection, because it made me feel that I can cultivate letter-writing as an authentic and worthwhile form of writing. That may seem obvious, but in a world of not only e-mail but Facebook and MySpace wall posts, the concept of an actual "letter" is practically akin to myth.
I'd like to bring it back down to reality, if I might. If you don't read my letters, then at least read the letters in this book. They are better than anything I could ever write. The first one is from Mars to Earth, although there are more traditional love letters as well. Many have to do with family, and there is far more sadness than I expected, so if you're one of those "I'm not a sap, I'm not reading a mushy book of mindless cooings" kind of people, drop the bitterness and pick up the book instead. It covers all the bases.
Just read the first half or so (as far as I've gotten at the time of this writing) and try to tell me you don't wish you could either compose or receive such powerful condensed direct statements of emotion from one human to another. And even if you can tell me that, I won't believe you.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Dearly Devoted Dexter by Jeff Lindsay
I had seen the majority of the first book's plot acted out for me over a series of weeks by the lovely folks over at Showtime, and I expected to have a similar feeling about the second installment.
I could not have been more off-base. Whereas I could have definitively said I preferred the show over the books before reading this sophomore effort, I now confess the two mediums are in a dead heat to provide me with the best version of the Dexter character.
For one thing, Lindsay is much more violent and brutal in his descriptions than a television show could ever match. As opposed to other fictional serial-killer narratives, these Dexter stories shine light directly upon the depravity of both the killer's mind and his acts. While Dexter's kills go mostly undescribed, those of his "foil" killers are very horrible and Lindsay doesn't shy away from the gruesome details. The appeal isn't in couching the serial killer in a deeper shroud of sexy mystery, but in throwing the harsh Miami sun right into the depths of his heart.
This idea didn't strike me until I got to the descriptions of Dr. Danco's murders in the second book. I don't want to ruin anything, so I'll just say that a mirror is involved, and that's when I started thinking about reflection, revelation, and self-examination.
Dexter remains an undeniably likable killer, but I still wouldn't want him anywhere near my children. He is obviously deranged, and has a skewed world-view at heart. At one moment, he is saying that he feels at home during the Miami rush hour traffic, because everyone on the road is acting like a homicidal maniac. We can fully identify with him at such moments. At others, though, he is perhaps reading too much into a child's enjoyment of the game "Hangman." When the consequence of Dexter's depravity is a joke, we can all get on board, but when the consequence is either ignoring (or creating) homicidal tendencies in children, his true nature as a threat becomes clear.
I think this is what gives Lindsay's books a power that Ellis wasn't able to with American Psycho. Dexter's search for others "like him" makes it harder to see him as an isolated image we can laugh at and dissect. To find others like you is a genuinely human desire, constantly reminding us that Dexter isn't an isolated archetypal monster the way Bateman is, but that he is a human. It's much scarier to see humanity in monstrosity than the other way around.
I could not have been more off-base. Whereas I could have definitively said I preferred the show over the books before reading this sophomore effort, I now confess the two mediums are in a dead heat to provide me with the best version of the Dexter character.
For one thing, Lindsay is much more violent and brutal in his descriptions than a television show could ever match. As opposed to other fictional serial-killer narratives, these Dexter stories shine light directly upon the depravity of both the killer's mind and his acts. While Dexter's kills go mostly undescribed, those of his "foil" killers are very horrible and Lindsay doesn't shy away from the gruesome details. The appeal isn't in couching the serial killer in a deeper shroud of sexy mystery, but in throwing the harsh Miami sun right into the depths of his heart.
This idea didn't strike me until I got to the descriptions of Dr. Danco's murders in the second book. I don't want to ruin anything, so I'll just say that a mirror is involved, and that's when I started thinking about reflection, revelation, and self-examination.
Dexter remains an undeniably likable killer, but I still wouldn't want him anywhere near my children. He is obviously deranged, and has a skewed world-view at heart. At one moment, he is saying that he feels at home during the Miami rush hour traffic, because everyone on the road is acting like a homicidal maniac. We can fully identify with him at such moments. At others, though, he is perhaps reading too much into a child's enjoyment of the game "Hangman." When the consequence of Dexter's depravity is a joke, we can all get on board, but when the consequence is either ignoring (or creating) homicidal tendencies in children, his true nature as a threat becomes clear.
I think this is what gives Lindsay's books a power that Ellis wasn't able to with American Psycho. Dexter's search for others "like him" makes it harder to see him as an isolated image we can laugh at and dissect. To find others like you is a genuinely human desire, constantly reminding us that Dexter isn't an isolated archetypal monster the way Bateman is, but that he is a human. It's much scarier to see humanity in monstrosity than the other way around.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Switch Bitch by Roald Dahl
I can't talk about any of these stories without completely ruining them. It's essentially like reading four extended dirty jokes. As with any good dirty joke, they all end with someone being humiliated or harmed or somehow ironically put out.
But, every story is something like forty pages long, and there is good character development. That means that you can't just laugh off the endings like you can with a dirty joke, because you actually grow to like or possibly care about the characters, so their sudden transformation into a punchline can actually hurt you.
A quick read, very fun, especially good for those of you with twisted minds.
But, every story is something like forty pages long, and there is good character development. That means that you can't just laugh off the endings like you can with a dirty joke, because you actually grow to like or possibly care about the characters, so their sudden transformation into a punchline can actually hurt you.
A quick read, very fun, especially good for those of you with twisted minds.
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