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啸褍写芯卸薪懈褑褟 褌褨谢邪
袪芯屑邪薪 芯锌芯胁褨写邪褦 褨褋褌芯褉褨褞 锌械褉褎芯褉屑邪薪褋懈褋褌泻懈 袥芯褉械薪 袚邪褉褌泻械. 孝褨谢芯 褦 写谢褟 谐械褉芯褩薪褨 谐芯谢芯胁薪懈屑 褨薪褋褌褉褍屑械薪褌芯屑 胁蟹邪褦屑芯写褨褩 蟹褨 褋胁褨褌芯屑, 胁芯写薪芯褔邪褋 邪褉泻褍褕械屑 褨 褋褌懈谢芯褋芯屑, 锌谢邪褋褌懈谢褨薪芯屑 褨 泻邪屑械薪械屑. 袩械褉械卸懈胁褕懈 胁褌褉邪褌褍, 袥芯褉械薪 胁褔懈褌褜褋褟 胁懈斜褍写芯胁褍胁邪褌懈 薪芯胁褨 褋褌芯褋褍薪泻懈 蟹褨 褋胁褨褌芯屑 褨 胁谢邪褋薪懈屑 褌褨谢芯屑. 袗谢械 芯写薪芯谐芯 写薪褟 胁芯薪邪 胁懈褟胁谢褟褦, 褖芯 屑械褕泻邪褦 褍 褋褌邪褉芯屑褍 屑邪褦褌泻褍 薪械 褋邪屑邪.
袛械谢褨谢谢芯 褋褌胁芯褉懈胁 写懈胁芯胁懈卸薪懈泄 谐褨屑薪 谢褞斜芯胁褨, 褖芯 写芯谢邪褦 褋屑械褉褌褜. 袉 蟹邪蟹懈褉薪褍胁 褍 褋邪屑褨褋褨薪褜泻械 芯褋械褉写褟 谢褞写褋褜泻懈褏 褋褌芯褋褍薪泻褨胁.
袛械谢褨谢谢芯 褋褌胁芯褉懈胁 写懈胁芯胁懈卸薪懈泄 谐褨屑薪 谢褞斜芯胁褨, 褖芯 写芯谢邪褦 褋屑械褉褌褜. 袉 蟹邪蟹懈褉薪褍胁 褍 褋邪屑褨褋褨薪褜泻械 芯褋械褉写褟 谢褞写褋褜泻懈褏 褋褌芯褋褍薪泻褨胁.
168 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2001
211 people are currently reading
7,508 people want to read
About the author
Don DeLillo
94听books6,212听followersDonald Richard DeLillo is an American novelist, short story writer, playwright, screenwriter and essayist. His works have covered subjects as diverse as television, nuclear war, the complexities of language, art, the advent of the Digital Age, mathematics, politics, economics, and sports.
DeLillo was already a well-regarded cult writer in 1985, when the publication of White Noise brought him widespread recognition and the National Book Award for fiction. He followed this in 1988 with Libra, a novel about the Kennedy assassination. DeLillo won the PEN/Faulkner Award for Mao II, about terrorism and the media's scrutiny of writers' private lives, and the William Dean Howells Medal for Underworld, a historical novel that ranges in time from the dawn of the Cold War to the birth of the Internet. He was awarded the 1999 Jerusalem Prize, the 2010 PEN/Saul Bellow Award for Achievement in American Fiction in 2010, and the 2013 Library of Congress Prize for American Fiction.
DeLillo has described his themes as "living in dangerous times" and "the inner life of the culture." In a 2005 interview, he said that writers "must oppose systems. It's important to write against power, corporations, the state, and the whole system of consumption and of debilitating entertainments... I think writers, by nature, must oppose things, oppose whatever power tries to impose on us."
DeLillo was already a well-regarded cult writer in 1985, when the publication of White Noise brought him widespread recognition and the National Book Award for fiction. He followed this in 1988 with Libra, a novel about the Kennedy assassination. DeLillo won the PEN/Faulkner Award for Mao II, about terrorism and the media's scrutiny of writers' private lives, and the William Dean Howells Medal for Underworld, a historical novel that ranges in time from the dawn of the Cold War to the birth of the Internet. He was awarded the 1999 Jerusalem Prize, the 2010 PEN/Saul Bellow Award for Achievement in American Fiction in 2010, and the 2013 Library of Congress Prize for American Fiction.
DeLillo has described his themes as "living in dangerous times" and "the inner life of the culture." In a 2005 interview, he said that writers "must oppose systems. It's important to write against power, corporations, the state, and the whole system of consumption and of debilitating entertainments... I think writers, by nature, must oppose things, oppose whatever power tries to impose on us."
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 1,154 reviews
July 4, 2023
鈥�'Maybe the idea is to think of time differently. Stop time, or stretch it out, or open it up. Make a still life that's living, not painted.鈥�
In every instant of our waking lives we are experiencing the world around us through all our five senses. In order to process and share these experiences, we cage our perceptions up in words鈥攁bstract signifiers with an assumed weight of meaning. However, language is frail, fallible and full of holes, delivering us a beast behind bars, a caged animal at the zoo, restless and submissive rather than the wild, raw power of a creature at one in its natural habitat and able to roam free through our senses. Don DeLillo鈥檚 brief novel, The Body Artist (2001), brings to life the limitations of language to pinpoint experience and further examines this notion in light of a technology-infused modern society through the frighteningly intense introspective plunge of the grief and loneliness that befalls Lauren Hartke after the death of her husband. DeLillo conducts a quiet symphony of pitch-perfect prose to steal the heart as well as crack the shell of concepts such as time and language and masterfully serves us a delicious platter of the abstract implications that hide within. This is a novel about abstractions in a world of impermanence and a white noise of Being that buzzes like an aging fridge all around us, and a novel about the state of metamorphosis. Through Lauren Hartke, a nearly parasitic being that absorbs the world around her to explore the vicissitudes of life, DeLillo uncrates a haunting and surreal existential discourse on time and how language assesses being, effortlessly encapsulating the alienation and anguish of post-modern humanity in this age of technology.
鈥�Everything is slow and hazy and drained and it all happens around the word 蝉别别尘别诲.鈥�
wrote that 鈥�il n'ya pas de hors texte (there is nothing outside the text).鈥� There are many facets to this statement, namely (and I apologize for bastardizing the ideas of deconstructionism is such shamefully simplistic and faulty manner that does not even probe beneath the surface of the ideas) that authorial intent is overruled by the inherent meaning of words as themselves, and that meaning resides in the rhetorical usage of language with regards to historical context, grammar and vocabulary. Words become a tricky subject that exist in a life beyond our complete control and can only be hoped to be harnessed and rode like a wild stallion across the prairies of pages; words are are method of transporting experience to others and therefore experience must be reigned by language and subjected to its shortcomings of placing an abstract into a signifier. 鈥�No single word,鈥� wrote Derrida, 鈥� out of context, can by itself ever translate another word perfectly.鈥� Words are rife with meaning, a tree full with the fruits of connotation, denotation and intention, each specific and unique, yet to perfectly harness our intentions it would require an exhaustive examination of each word to be sure we are ushering the reader to experience the exact same principals of the experience we are trying to imply. It is also important to keep in mind that the word is not the thing, only a signpost pointing towards the thing-in-itself. It is an abstract array of sounds agreed upon as an indentifier. When we say 鈥榙og鈥�, for example, we 诲辞苍鈥檛 paint a clear image of a dog鈥攚hat kind of dog, what color, or even if we mean dog-like, but mostly just rule out that we 诲辞苍鈥檛 mean, say, a cat or a giraffe (once again, forgive the shallow discussion on Derrida鈥檚 诲颈蹿蹿茅谤补苍肠别 and the examples from 鈥檚 discourses on semiology. I鈥檓 painting with broad strokes that can lead to dangerous misinterpretation, but the general idea is important to the understanding of the novel). In The Body Artist, DeLillo highlights the zone where experience and language fail to match up, the feelings that life embodies but language falls short of harnessing. It is a book about 鈥�seems鈥�, a book about the abstract, the moments unlocked from time and space and plot.
The opening scene is a perfect example of Hartke鈥檚 鈥榣iving still life鈥�, a scene that is brilliant on its own and would function flawlessly as a short story if shorn from the remainder of the novel. The scene focuses on Hartke having breakfast at home with her husband, Rey Robles, mere hours before his suicide in the living space of a former wife. The scene is practically still, only several minutes lapsing over the few pages, allowing time to stretch open and reveal all the latent implications and overlooked sensory perceptions to the reader because 鈥�this is how you live a life even if you 诲辞苍鈥檛 know it.鈥� Practically without realizing it, Hartke is assessing the world around her and processing it through language, from the taste of the breeze to the 鈥�cardboard orange aroma鈥� of the orange juice container鈥攁nd immensely brilliant collection of words that borders on near-nonsense in order to more accurately express how much of our sensory experience defies perfect linguistic explanation. This is further exemplified by smells that escape definition:
Lauren Hartke is herself an avant-garde artist like her husband, an acclaimed surrealist filmmaker. As a 鈥榖ody artist鈥�, she examines the flux of life through her art, exemplifying them through artistic and shocking changes in her body, finding inspiration in the world around her.
鈥�There has to be an imaginary point, a non-place where language intersects with our perceptions of time and space, and he is a stranger at this crossing, without words or bearings.鈥�
Hartke also discovers Mr. Tuttle, who may or may not exist, in the upper levels of her home. He speaks and acts 鈥�like a man anonymous to himself鈥�, removed from time and place, and is even able to perfectly match her and Rey鈥檚 voice and recite their final conversations together. Mr. Tuttle is the pockmarked, teenage state of language, language still forming and taking shape both theoretically and biologically, and emphasized by her naming him after a high school biology teacher. Mr. Tuttle 鈥�violates the limits of the human鈥� and seems unstuck from time and space. He is language in a pure sense, not beholden to the constraints of the universe and the clock.
Technology plays a large part in this slim novel, especially with regards to Hartke鈥檚 feelings of alienation. Computers and technology give us access to the world at our fingertips, just a click of a button and she is staring at a live feed of a Scandinavian interstate yet still she feels disconnected from people and lonely. There is daily news from around the world to which she can osmose emotion, yet there is still a disconnect鹿
鈥�All plots tend to move deathward,鈥� DeLillo wrote in his quintessential masterpiece . Plot and time are imperative here, too, in The Body Artist. 鈥�You are made out of time. This is the force that tells you who you are. Close your eyes and feel it. It is time that defines you.鈥� We are strapped to our timeline, finite beings whose story plays out in an orderly, plot-like fashion when seen as a set of points from birth to death; time takes life and 鈥�[writes] it like a line in fiction.鈥� Each point is part of an arc of change, and The Body Artist is like a second derivative in math, opening up each individual point in time to view the changes therein. We are constantly in a state of flux, constantly aware of the ticking hands, yet with Mr. Tuttle we see how events can be viewed 鈥榦utside of time鈥�, as events-in-themselves.
If we stopped and slowed down, if we saw our life like a bowl of oranges in an ornate frame, what would we make of our individual moments? The Body Artist asks this question of us, being concerned not with where a plot is heading, but the metamorphosis that ensues along the journey. The final sections, including an editorial review of Lauren Hartke鈥檚 performance, tie the themes of language and change together upon the stage and makes them dance beautifully for the reader. Don DeLillo is an author that really knocks it out of the park for me when he is at the top of his game, and there are some fantastic existential quandaries brought to life through perfectly polished and flawlessly fluid sentences. Part ghost story, part linguistic and metaphysical metaphorical dissertation, The Body Artist is a slim powerhouse of ideas that is sure to charm the intellect and send the reader racing for more DeLillo.
4.5/5
鈥�Past, present and future are not amenities of language. Time unfolds into the seams of being. It passes through you, making and shaping.鈥�
鹿 Sherry Turkle鈥檚 is an excellent and insightful investigation into the DeLillo-esk implications of a post-modern technology reliant society and how it breeds human alienation. The story goes, according to the story I heard on NPR鈥檚 Radiolab, that Turkle fully endorsed technology and social media as an advancement in human interaction until the fateful day that she took her grad students on a field trip to a nursing home to watch the elderly people staying there interact with a 鈥榟airless seal鈥� robot that was designed to mimic empathy and respond to emotion. Turkle and her students were horrified, believing these dying people deserved more than simulated empathy and companionship in their twilight hours, and she began to examine life and technology from the other side. A worthwhile and intriguing book.
In every instant of our waking lives we are experiencing the world around us through all our five senses. In order to process and share these experiences, we cage our perceptions up in words鈥攁bstract signifiers with an assumed weight of meaning. However, language is frail, fallible and full of holes, delivering us a beast behind bars, a caged animal at the zoo, restless and submissive rather than the wild, raw power of a creature at one in its natural habitat and able to roam free through our senses. Don DeLillo鈥檚 brief novel, The Body Artist (2001), brings to life the limitations of language to pinpoint experience and further examines this notion in light of a technology-infused modern society through the frighteningly intense introspective plunge of the grief and loneliness that befalls Lauren Hartke after the death of her husband. DeLillo conducts a quiet symphony of pitch-perfect prose to steal the heart as well as crack the shell of concepts such as time and language and masterfully serves us a delicious platter of the abstract implications that hide within. This is a novel about abstractions in a world of impermanence and a white noise of Being that buzzes like an aging fridge all around us, and a novel about the state of metamorphosis. Through Lauren Hartke, a nearly parasitic being that absorbs the world around her to explore the vicissitudes of life, DeLillo uncrates a haunting and surreal existential discourse on time and how language assesses being, effortlessly encapsulating the alienation and anguish of post-modern humanity in this age of technology.
鈥�Everything is slow and hazy and drained and it all happens around the word 蝉别别尘别诲.鈥�
wrote that 鈥�il n'ya pas de hors texte (there is nothing outside the text).鈥� There are many facets to this statement, namely (and I apologize for bastardizing the ideas of deconstructionism is such shamefully simplistic and faulty manner that does not even probe beneath the surface of the ideas) that authorial intent is overruled by the inherent meaning of words as themselves, and that meaning resides in the rhetorical usage of language with regards to historical context, grammar and vocabulary. Words become a tricky subject that exist in a life beyond our complete control and can only be hoped to be harnessed and rode like a wild stallion across the prairies of pages; words are are method of transporting experience to others and therefore experience must be reigned by language and subjected to its shortcomings of placing an abstract into a signifier. 鈥�No single word,鈥� wrote Derrida, 鈥� out of context, can by itself ever translate another word perfectly.鈥� Words are rife with meaning, a tree full with the fruits of connotation, denotation and intention, each specific and unique, yet to perfectly harness our intentions it would require an exhaustive examination of each word to be sure we are ushering the reader to experience the exact same principals of the experience we are trying to imply. It is also important to keep in mind that the word is not the thing, only a signpost pointing towards the thing-in-itself. It is an abstract array of sounds agreed upon as an indentifier. When we say 鈥榙og鈥�, for example, we 诲辞苍鈥檛 paint a clear image of a dog鈥攚hat kind of dog, what color, or even if we mean dog-like, but mostly just rule out that we 诲辞苍鈥檛 mean, say, a cat or a giraffe (once again, forgive the shallow discussion on Derrida鈥檚 诲颈蹿蹿茅谤补苍肠别 and the examples from 鈥檚 discourses on semiology. I鈥檓 painting with broad strokes that can lead to dangerous misinterpretation, but the general idea is important to the understanding of the novel). In The Body Artist, DeLillo highlights the zone where experience and language fail to match up, the feelings that life embodies but language falls short of harnessing. It is a book about 鈥�seems鈥�, a book about the abstract, the moments unlocked from time and space and plot.
The opening scene is a perfect example of Hartke鈥檚 鈥榣iving still life鈥�, a scene that is brilliant on its own and would function flawlessly as a short story if shorn from the remainder of the novel. The scene focuses on Hartke having breakfast at home with her husband, Rey Robles, mere hours before his suicide in the living space of a former wife. The scene is practically still, only several minutes lapsing over the few pages, allowing time to stretch open and reveal all the latent implications and overlooked sensory perceptions to the reader because 鈥�this is how you live a life even if you 诲辞苍鈥檛 know it.鈥� Practically without realizing it, Hartke is assessing the world around her and processing it through language, from the taste of the breeze to the 鈥�cardboard orange aroma鈥� of the orange juice container鈥攁nd immensely brilliant collection of words that borders on near-nonsense in order to more accurately express how much of our sensory experience defies perfect linguistic explanation. This is further exemplified by smells that escape definition:
Nothing described it. It was pure smell. It was the thing that smell is, apart from all sources...it was as though some, maybe, medieval scholastic had attempted to classify all known odors and had found something that did not fit into his system鈥�Even the sound of birds humming outside the window are obliged to be caged in familiar and examinable language.
The birds broke off the feeder in a wing-whir that was all 产鈥�s and 谤鈥�s, the letter b followed by a series of vibrato 谤鈥�s. But that wasn鈥檛 it at all. That wasn鈥檛 anything like it.Try as we might, language is a poor substitute for earnest experience and our state of being is stifled by our need to understand, share and examine it through linguistic policy. Language becomes a stand-in for an idea, but it is more akin to a child playing dress-up as the idea rather than the idea being-in-itself. This is most notable when Hartke mistakes a paint can for a man.
When the car moved past the house...she understood that she was not looking at a seated man but at a paint can placed on a board that was balanced between two chairs. The white and yellow can was his face, the board was his arms and the mind and heart of the man were in the air somewhere already lost in the voice of the news reader on the radio.
Lauren Hartke is herself an avant-garde artist like her husband, an acclaimed surrealist filmmaker. As a 鈥榖ody artist鈥�, she examines the flux of life through her art, exemplifying them through artistic and shocking changes in her body, finding inspiration in the world around her.
Things she saw seemed doubtful鈥攏ot doubtful but ever changing,plunged into metamorphosis, something that is also something else, but what, and what?DeLillo keeps the novel focused on the state of transformation, embodying the idea through Hartke鈥檚 alteration after the death of her husband. She is nearly a parasitic creature, drawing her strength from the world and people around her. In the opening scene it is apparent that Rey keeps eye on her health, ensuring she eats and drinks, and that she seems to define herself through his existence. Hartke feeds off him and his care. 鈥�She was too trim and limber to feel the strain, only echoing Rey, identifying, groaning his groan, but in a manner so seamless and deep it was her discomfort too.鈥� But what is art but an echo, a reaction, to the world around you. Her art feast upon and is inspired by reality, taking natural life and twisting it into surrealistic performances that unlock the inherent meaning of Being in ways that language cannot do. After his death she stops eating and begins to waste away, literally and figuratively. 鈥�Now he was smoke, Rey was, the thing in the air, vaporous, drifting into every space sooner or later, unshaped鈥�鈥� Nothing is permanent in this world and with his impermanence, she too feels her own sense of impermanence. She is removed of her safety net, and is like the 鈥�life in midair, turning,鈥� that she sees outside her window, spinning aimlessly without a thread to something firm to ground it. However, it is this entrance into the void that becomes her new inspiration, her knew way of reading the implications of the world and honing her art on the state of flux and metamorphasis she finds in her own life. Through her loneliness and alienation from the world, she discovers her form.
鈥�There has to be an imaginary point, a non-place where language intersects with our perceptions of time and space, and he is a stranger at this crossing, without words or bearings.鈥�
Hartke also discovers Mr. Tuttle, who may or may not exist, in the upper levels of her home. He speaks and acts 鈥�like a man anonymous to himself鈥�, removed from time and place, and is even able to perfectly match her and Rey鈥檚 voice and recite their final conversations together. Mr. Tuttle is the pockmarked, teenage state of language, language still forming and taking shape both theoretically and biologically, and emphasized by her naming him after a high school biology teacher. Mr. Tuttle 鈥�violates the limits of the human鈥� and seems unstuck from time and space. He is language in a pure sense, not beholden to the constraints of the universe and the clock.
There鈥檚 a code in the simplest conversation that tells the speakers what鈥檚 going on outside the bare acoustics, This was missing when they talked. There was a missing beat...There were no grades of emphasis here and flatness there. She began to understand that their talks had no time sense and that all the references at the unspoken level...was missing hereHis voice comes out flat and without facial expressions to register emotion, paralleled by the synthetic voice on Hartke鈥檚 friend鈥檚 answering machine. 鈥�Please / leave / a message / af / ter / the / tone.鈥� This is an age of technology and advances of artificial intelligence, and it is intriguing to think of a computer, a lifeless machine, interacting in lifelike ways and having to also utilize language the way we do to process and deliver information. Mr. Tuttle is just that, language, devoid of the human emotion and unstuck from time.
Technology plays a large part in this slim novel, especially with regards to Hartke鈥檚 feelings of alienation. Computers and technology give us access to the world at our fingertips, just a click of a button and she is staring at a live feed of a Scandinavian interstate yet still she feels disconnected from people and lonely. There is daily news from around the world to which she can osmose emotion, yet there is still a disconnect鹿
鈥�All plots tend to move deathward,鈥� DeLillo wrote in his quintessential masterpiece . Plot and time are imperative here, too, in The Body Artist. 鈥�You are made out of time. This is the force that tells you who you are. Close your eyes and feel it. It is time that defines you.鈥� We are strapped to our timeline, finite beings whose story plays out in an orderly, plot-like fashion when seen as a set of points from birth to death; time takes life and 鈥�[writes] it like a line in fiction.鈥� Each point is part of an arc of change, and The Body Artist is like a second derivative in math, opening up each individual point in time to view the changes therein. We are constantly in a state of flux, constantly aware of the ticking hands, yet with Mr. Tuttle we see how events can be viewed 鈥榦utside of time鈥�, as events-in-themselves.
If we stopped and slowed down, if we saw our life like a bowl of oranges in an ornate frame, what would we make of our individual moments? The Body Artist asks this question of us, being concerned not with where a plot is heading, but the metamorphosis that ensues along the journey. The final sections, including an editorial review of Lauren Hartke鈥檚 performance, tie the themes of language and change together upon the stage and makes them dance beautifully for the reader. Don DeLillo is an author that really knocks it out of the park for me when he is at the top of his game, and there are some fantastic existential quandaries brought to life through perfectly polished and flawlessly fluid sentences. Part ghost story, part linguistic and metaphysical metaphorical dissertation, The Body Artist is a slim powerhouse of ideas that is sure to charm the intellect and send the reader racing for more DeLillo.
4.5/5
鈥�Past, present and future are not amenities of language. Time unfolds into the seams of being. It passes through you, making and shaping.鈥�
鹿 Sherry Turkle鈥檚 is an excellent and insightful investigation into the DeLillo-esk implications of a post-modern technology reliant society and how it breeds human alienation. The story goes, according to the story I heard on NPR鈥檚 Radiolab, that Turkle fully endorsed technology and social media as an advancement in human interaction until the fateful day that she took her grad students on a field trip to a nursing home to watch the elderly people staying there interact with a 鈥榟airless seal鈥� robot that was designed to mimic empathy and respond to emotion. Turkle and her students were horrified, believing these dying people deserved more than simulated empathy and companionship in their twilight hours, and she began to examine life and technology from the other side. A worthwhile and intriguing book.
April 25, 2024
Is reality too powerful for you?
link:
We often find ourselves struggling with a critical and generally heart-wrenching dilemma of finding solace through grief, it is broadly accepted that there is no right way to experience and accept bereavement, for different people react differently to it. We know and understand that we have to move on however, we find it difficult to nudge ourselves over the loss of someone we love as if our own beings get stuck at that moment itself. And why should we move on? Why not let death let us sink into it?
The Body Artist is a careful and immaculate study and portrayal of how death affects those who live. Death, as we know is one of the strangest enigmas of humanity, we have explored it to the details possible; our religious scriptures speak about the place of death and its role in the continuity of life, but, time and again, we find ourselves lingering over the harsh reality of life. It appears that we usually crave grief and death in life, more than happiness and life, sometimes so much that our existence itself becomes a suspended mockery in that eventual event. We may not be doing it willfully as it seems to happen naturally to us, however, our brain certainly plays a trick or two on us.
The story starts with a seemingly mundane scene of a couple trying to have breakfast in an ordinary morning, however, the scene is stretched to its barest details, infusing it with beauty and emotions, so much so that you feel you are witnessing an event of grandeur and liveliness. There is nothing much happening in the story beyond this event, the narrative of the whole story gets suspended around it as if it is the focal point of the entire universe but we know that we are not reading it for actions, we are here for something deeper, something more emotional, something more humane, however tragic it may be.
You are taken aback by the shocking disclosure of the suicide by the husband, Rey, through a media report infused in the narrative. It is a technique quite aptly used by the author, to wake up the reader from the hallucinating, nauseatic effect of the prose and to open his/ her eyes to reality, to accept it. The rest of the story is how the wife, Lauren, copes with her life and being, physically, emotionally, and sexually, or rather how the reader copes with this haunting tale of grief and loss. She seems to be temporally stuck in the gravest accident of her life, her existence could not find the voice and means to express itself. She gets suspended in a timeless, formless limbo after that, though her mind takes strength from the surroundings and carves out a surreal, hypnotic, and eerie world that is unconnected and uninfluenced by this universe.
Bereavement may affect us in really strange ways, some of them are unfathomable to conceive, but that鈥檚 how life is- strange and incomprehensible. It is being said that the way we deal with such situations of immense unhappiness, depends upon our upbringing, surroundings, and social conditions. Even then, at times it may affect us in profound, unimaginable ways. Lauren forgets herself, boundaries of her-self, she gets transforms into someone else- something else, merges with art, changes forms and beings. as if part of a universal phenomenon. Art may help people to contain and understand their feelings, our history is filled with a plethora of examples wherein people have made peace with their grief to produce masterpieces of artistic expressions.
link:
She thought in words sometimes, outright and fully formed. She wasn鈥檛 sure when this began to happen, a day or a month ago, because it seemed to have been the case forever.
Lauren takes the plunge into one of the mysterious resorts of humanity, what could it be? Self-rumination, her inner voice, or an apparition or a smart trick by the author. She develops a voice that is devoid of forms, expressions, beings we know of. He is a continuum of consciousness that can鈥檛 be divided into this and that, now and then, he is someone or something whose existence doesn鈥檛 matter to our world, Lauren thinks he is a manifestation of Rey, though she does not press for details to not to suffer to find out that he is not, as if the consciousness of Rey has been infused into him, but eventually he proves to more than that, he may be a ghost or a creature of some higher dimensions, who may exist simultaneously in past, present and future. Perhaps he experiences another kind of reality, he is defenseless against the truth of our world or probably she has created him out of her consciousness to withstand the truth of the world. The story also touches upon the effect of technology on human existence, the way it affects our alienation, on emotional and psychic levels, to dehumanize and robotize humanity.
Coming and going I am leaving. I will go and come. Leaving has come to me. We all, shall all, will all be left. Because I am here and where. And I will go or not or never. And I have seen what I will see. If I am where I will be. Because nothing comes between me.
As we know, we live in a temporal universe wherein time is the only thing that matters, its role in our existence which is being controlled by time and gets meaning because of it. We are being imparted with a sense of living or moment by time itself, it enables us to endure the most grueling and punishing events of our life. The vigor to come out of death and suffering is bestowed upon us by time. It is said to be the best healer of our life, for it enables us to brave through our condemned existence. The voice, the being, or the apparition, Lauren lives with, threatens our assumptions of sanity, he is unaware of the language we speak, he (or it) violates the very limits of humanity, our expressions, emotions, our language.
Time is not a facility of language; it unfolds into seams of being, for the temporal spaces- past, present, and future- of the universe do not depend upon language. To express ourselves clearly and absolutely, we must encompass an imaginary point where language intersects with our perception of time and space, our universe per se. It highlights the ability or inability of our language to communicate, since language itself may communicate with the inherent meaning in the text and for we always need signifier to put across our essence and perception, still, more often than not, the unintended meaning is understood. And further to investigate if words can communicate themselves, on their own, do they have their own beings? It raises one of the fundamental questions we have been trying to answer since the development of our philosophical discourse and which is that could we really communicate ourselves or convey our feelings effectively, are our communication means and tools are equipped enough to do that?
The inability of our language to communicate forces Lauren to imbibe the voice into herself and find a way to express her grief through her art- the body art by transforming herself into someone else, something else- like an amalgamation of the consciousness of the universe. It is her attempt to become bodiless, formless, and achieve an infinite existence, and how well she has succeeded.
Be nice if I could say this is the drama of men and women versus death. I want to say that but I can鈥檛. It鈥檚 too small and secluded and complicated and I can鈥檛 and I can鈥檛 and I can鈥檛.
The author a basic question through the story and it is- what is reality? Is it as we conceive it, it befalls upon us or something else, something else? Is reality too powerful for us? And are we really capable to assimilate and comprehend reality, in the first place? And how much our myth play part in it? What we absorb as real, does it really happen in the fabric of space-time at that particular instant or we are just reliving a memory, an imagination, or a hallucination. This essentially means that our version of reality depends upon our perception which is limited by our ability to discern things, Jean-Paul Sartre mentioned that We have to deal with human reality as a being which is what it is not and which is not what it is. We know that the way we have moved from classical thought to modernism, then to post-modernism, made us truthful to the vagaries and ambiguities of human existence which gives some rays of hope, as we learned to look beyond the illusion of creating something solid and perpetual and to move towards the human condition, even though it means to create something illogical or silly.
link:
The author really showed his mastery over the art through this book, in a way that he has been able to draw a profound meditation on grief and loss, and at the same time shows us how it is being done. The prose is tightly woven and condensed as if each word has been selected with the careful precision of an artist so that each word may contribute in conveying the exact and intended emotions through the deliberate expression of every word.
Sometimes the reader may have to read the prose of DeLillo more than once and on each such reading, the reader may feel to acquire something new from the text, it is like an old wine that is to savored gradually. It is quite rare for a third-person narrative to emanate the real-life conversations, as, by and large, it is being seen in first-person narratives as in the case of Samuel Beckett and L谩szl贸 Krasznahorkai but it can certainly be expected from an author of the caliber of Don DeLillo. We may see the influence of Samuel Beckett in the prose as, like him, DeLillo has pushed the limit of novel or literature per se we may observe in Molloy trilogy and How It Is by Beckett.
Hartke鈥檚 work is not self-strutting or self-lacerating. She is acting, always in the process of becoming another or exploring some root identity.
Highly recommended.
4.5/5
link:
We often find ourselves struggling with a critical and generally heart-wrenching dilemma of finding solace through grief, it is broadly accepted that there is no right way to experience and accept bereavement, for different people react differently to it. We know and understand that we have to move on however, we find it difficult to nudge ourselves over the loss of someone we love as if our own beings get stuck at that moment itself. And why should we move on? Why not let death let us sink into it?
The Body Artist is a careful and immaculate study and portrayal of how death affects those who live. Death, as we know is one of the strangest enigmas of humanity, we have explored it to the details possible; our religious scriptures speak about the place of death and its role in the continuity of life, but, time and again, we find ourselves lingering over the harsh reality of life. It appears that we usually crave grief and death in life, more than happiness and life, sometimes so much that our existence itself becomes a suspended mockery in that eventual event. We may not be doing it willfully as it seems to happen naturally to us, however, our brain certainly plays a trick or two on us.
The story starts with a seemingly mundane scene of a couple trying to have breakfast in an ordinary morning, however, the scene is stretched to its barest details, infusing it with beauty and emotions, so much so that you feel you are witnessing an event of grandeur and liveliness. There is nothing much happening in the story beyond this event, the narrative of the whole story gets suspended around it as if it is the focal point of the entire universe but we know that we are not reading it for actions, we are here for something deeper, something more emotional, something more humane, however tragic it may be.
You are taken aback by the shocking disclosure of the suicide by the husband, Rey, through a media report infused in the narrative. It is a technique quite aptly used by the author, to wake up the reader from the hallucinating, nauseatic effect of the prose and to open his/ her eyes to reality, to accept it. The rest of the story is how the wife, Lauren, copes with her life and being, physically, emotionally, and sexually, or rather how the reader copes with this haunting tale of grief and loss. She seems to be temporally stuck in the gravest accident of her life, her existence could not find the voice and means to express itself. She gets suspended in a timeless, formless limbo after that, though her mind takes strength from the surroundings and carves out a surreal, hypnotic, and eerie world that is unconnected and uninfluenced by this universe.
Bereavement may affect us in really strange ways, some of them are unfathomable to conceive, but that鈥檚 how life is- strange and incomprehensible. It is being said that the way we deal with such situations of immense unhappiness, depends upon our upbringing, surroundings, and social conditions. Even then, at times it may affect us in profound, unimaginable ways. Lauren forgets herself, boundaries of her-self, she gets transforms into someone else- something else, merges with art, changes forms and beings. as if part of a universal phenomenon. Art may help people to contain and understand their feelings, our history is filled with a plethora of examples wherein people have made peace with their grief to produce masterpieces of artistic expressions.
link:
She thought in words sometimes, outright and fully formed. She wasn鈥檛 sure when this began to happen, a day or a month ago, because it seemed to have been the case forever.
Lauren takes the plunge into one of the mysterious resorts of humanity, what could it be? Self-rumination, her inner voice, or an apparition or a smart trick by the author. She develops a voice that is devoid of forms, expressions, beings we know of. He is a continuum of consciousness that can鈥檛 be divided into this and that, now and then, he is someone or something whose existence doesn鈥檛 matter to our world, Lauren thinks he is a manifestation of Rey, though she does not press for details to not to suffer to find out that he is not, as if the consciousness of Rey has been infused into him, but eventually he proves to more than that, he may be a ghost or a creature of some higher dimensions, who may exist simultaneously in past, present and future. Perhaps he experiences another kind of reality, he is defenseless against the truth of our world or probably she has created him out of her consciousness to withstand the truth of the world. The story also touches upon the effect of technology on human existence, the way it affects our alienation, on emotional and psychic levels, to dehumanize and robotize humanity.
Coming and going I am leaving. I will go and come. Leaving has come to me. We all, shall all, will all be left. Because I am here and where. And I will go or not or never. And I have seen what I will see. If I am where I will be. Because nothing comes between me.
As we know, we live in a temporal universe wherein time is the only thing that matters, its role in our existence which is being controlled by time and gets meaning because of it. We are being imparted with a sense of living or moment by time itself, it enables us to endure the most grueling and punishing events of our life. The vigor to come out of death and suffering is bestowed upon us by time. It is said to be the best healer of our life, for it enables us to brave through our condemned existence. The voice, the being, or the apparition, Lauren lives with, threatens our assumptions of sanity, he is unaware of the language we speak, he (or it) violates the very limits of humanity, our expressions, emotions, our language.
Time is not a facility of language; it unfolds into seams of being, for the temporal spaces- past, present, and future- of the universe do not depend upon language. To express ourselves clearly and absolutely, we must encompass an imaginary point where language intersects with our perception of time and space, our universe per se. It highlights the ability or inability of our language to communicate, since language itself may communicate with the inherent meaning in the text and for we always need signifier to put across our essence and perception, still, more often than not, the unintended meaning is understood. And further to investigate if words can communicate themselves, on their own, do they have their own beings? It raises one of the fundamental questions we have been trying to answer since the development of our philosophical discourse and which is that could we really communicate ourselves or convey our feelings effectively, are our communication means and tools are equipped enough to do that?
The inability of our language to communicate forces Lauren to imbibe the voice into herself and find a way to express her grief through her art- the body art by transforming herself into someone else, something else- like an amalgamation of the consciousness of the universe. It is her attempt to become bodiless, formless, and achieve an infinite existence, and how well she has succeeded.
Be nice if I could say this is the drama of men and women versus death. I want to say that but I can鈥檛. It鈥檚 too small and secluded and complicated and I can鈥檛 and I can鈥檛 and I can鈥檛.
The author a basic question through the story and it is- what is reality? Is it as we conceive it, it befalls upon us or something else, something else? Is reality too powerful for us? And are we really capable to assimilate and comprehend reality, in the first place? And how much our myth play part in it? What we absorb as real, does it really happen in the fabric of space-time at that particular instant or we are just reliving a memory, an imagination, or a hallucination. This essentially means that our version of reality depends upon our perception which is limited by our ability to discern things, Jean-Paul Sartre mentioned that We have to deal with human reality as a being which is what it is not and which is not what it is. We know that the way we have moved from classical thought to modernism, then to post-modernism, made us truthful to the vagaries and ambiguities of human existence which gives some rays of hope, as we learned to look beyond the illusion of creating something solid and perpetual and to move towards the human condition, even though it means to create something illogical or silly.
link:
The author really showed his mastery over the art through this book, in a way that he has been able to draw a profound meditation on grief and loss, and at the same time shows us how it is being done. The prose is tightly woven and condensed as if each word has been selected with the careful precision of an artist so that each word may contribute in conveying the exact and intended emotions through the deliberate expression of every word.
Sometimes the reader may have to read the prose of DeLillo more than once and on each such reading, the reader may feel to acquire something new from the text, it is like an old wine that is to savored gradually. It is quite rare for a third-person narrative to emanate the real-life conversations, as, by and large, it is being seen in first-person narratives as in the case of Samuel Beckett and L谩szl贸 Krasznahorkai but it can certainly be expected from an author of the caliber of Don DeLillo. We may see the influence of Samuel Beckett in the prose as, like him, DeLillo has pushed the limit of novel or literature per se we may observe in Molloy trilogy and How It Is by Beckett.
Hartke鈥檚 work is not self-strutting or self-lacerating. She is acting, always in the process of becoming another or exploring some root identity.
Highly recommended.
4.5/5
October 2, 2022
"There's something about the wind. It strips you of assurances, working into you, continuous, making you feel the hidden thinness of everything around you, all the solid stuff of a hundred undertakings - the barest makeshift flimsy."
Grief can do that too. The Body Artist begins with a domestic breakfast scene. Husband and wife talking at cross purposes. The wife has no inkling this is the last time she will ever see her husband, that he will be dead in a few hours. In this novel, a kind of ghost story, DeLillo strips everything down, pares everything back, scrubs everything down. Just as Lauren, the grieving wife, has to learn how to breathe again, it's like DeLillo is learning how to write again. The remote house Laura lives in does not belong to her. After a while she discovers she is not alone.
The Body Artist is a bit too hit and miss for me to give it a fanfare of praise. But no living writer writes better sentences than DeLillo. Here's the opening paragraph:
Time seems to pass. The world happens, unrolling into moments, and you stop to glance at a spider pressed to its web. There is a quickness of light and a sense of things outlined precisely and streaks of running lustre on the bay. You know more surely who you are on a strong bright day after a storm when the smallest falling leaf is stabbed with self-awareness. The wind makes a sound in the pines and the world comes into being, irreversibly, and the spider rides the wind-swayed web.
Grief can do that too. The Body Artist begins with a domestic breakfast scene. Husband and wife talking at cross purposes. The wife has no inkling this is the last time she will ever see her husband, that he will be dead in a few hours. In this novel, a kind of ghost story, DeLillo strips everything down, pares everything back, scrubs everything down. Just as Lauren, the grieving wife, has to learn how to breathe again, it's like DeLillo is learning how to write again. The remote house Laura lives in does not belong to her. After a while she discovers she is not alone.
The Body Artist is a bit too hit and miss for me to give it a fanfare of praise. But no living writer writes better sentences than DeLillo. Here's the opening paragraph:
Time seems to pass. The world happens, unrolling into moments, and you stop to glance at a spider pressed to its web. There is a quickness of light and a sense of things outlined precisely and streaks of running lustre on the bay. You know more surely who you are on a strong bright day after a storm when the smallest falling leaf is stabbed with self-awareness. The wind makes a sound in the pines and the world comes into being, irreversibly, and the spider rides the wind-swayed web.
Shelved as 'reviews-of-books-i-didnt-read'
October 8, 2017THERE'S 1000 STORIES IN THE CITY OF GOODREADS - THIS IS ONE OF THEM - Yes, Another Dreadful Reviewer/Author Encounter
I surfaced into consciousness unwillingly like a resurrecting Jesus with too much alimony to pay. A slap to the chin and I remembered whose cleancut chiselled features were going to be framing the next supercilious question.
"Feeling better, Mr Bryant?" Yes, of course. It was The Don. But I wasn't going to go quietly.
"Not really, you post-modern gargoyle of unmeaning. You can take your silvery convolutions of ungrammatical feverdreams and shove them where the sun has never shone in a cavern measureless to man down to a sunless sea, O Felchmeister of the English tongue."
Crack. That was my head bouncing off the dingy walls of whatever foul rag and bone shop DeLillo had me banged me up in.
"Less of your mouth, and more of mine," he sneered.
I felt two pairs of strong arms grip me from each side. I caught a glimpse of DeLillo's vile acolytes. Just as I guessed. Steve Erickson on one side and yep, the notorious transvestite Bret Easton Ellis (鈥淏retsy鈥� to his friends, of which there aren鈥檛 any) on the other. They were giggling like schoolgirls.
鈥淥ooh, the things he said about me, and in public!鈥�
鈥淥ooh, let鈥檚 do page 149 and then page 301!鈥�
"You won't get away with this," I grunted.
"We will, you know, we aren't in the YA business and we're not going to blog about this!" hissed Bretsy.
The Don told them to shut up and they squeaked into silence. It was pretty clear to me that there were American postmodern novelists and there was The Don. His very eyebrow had been reviewed ecstatically in the NYRB more times than all the others' entire sets of genitalia. And they knew it. And now he was heating up a pair of ordinary garden secateurs over a pile of remaindered early Franzen novels ( the ones before Oprah spotted him).
鈥淪nip snip, Mr Bryant. One snip for every nasty little thing you said about me in your nasty reviews, and one more for encouraging your friends to mock me in surrealistic boxing match fantasies, and a final little snip for my two good buddies who have been really quite hurt by the dreadful things you say. I suppose you wish us all to write like your precious but sadly dead Raymond Carver? Hmm? 鈥楢nd then this sad alcoholic fell over and then this other sad alcoholic went shopping for a mop. The end.鈥� Is that it? That鈥檚 how you want us all to write?鈥�
I was about to demolish his crude travesties of my crude travesties of his and his good buddies鈥� rancid fictions 鈥� I had vowed wild horses wouldn鈥檛 get me to remind him that I鈥檇 given five stars to Libra 鈥� but the application of the secateurs to my dorsal extremeties put an end to rational thought. I heard the terrible giggling of Bretsy 鈥� 鈥淛ust one more finger, please! Hee hee!鈥� and I pitched back into the welcome abyss of no more book reviews ever.
I surfaced into consciousness unwillingly like a resurrecting Jesus with too much alimony to pay. A slap to the chin and I remembered whose cleancut chiselled features were going to be framing the next supercilious question.
"Feeling better, Mr Bryant?" Yes, of course. It was The Don. But I wasn't going to go quietly.
"Not really, you post-modern gargoyle of unmeaning. You can take your silvery convolutions of ungrammatical feverdreams and shove them where the sun has never shone in a cavern measureless to man down to a sunless sea, O Felchmeister of the English tongue."
Crack. That was my head bouncing off the dingy walls of whatever foul rag and bone shop DeLillo had me banged me up in.
"Less of your mouth, and more of mine," he sneered.
I felt two pairs of strong arms grip me from each side. I caught a glimpse of DeLillo's vile acolytes. Just as I guessed. Steve Erickson on one side and yep, the notorious transvestite Bret Easton Ellis (鈥淏retsy鈥� to his friends, of which there aren鈥檛 any) on the other. They were giggling like schoolgirls.
鈥淥ooh, the things he said about me, and in public!鈥�
鈥淥ooh, let鈥檚 do page 149 and then page 301!鈥�
"You won't get away with this," I grunted.
"We will, you know, we aren't in the YA business and we're not going to blog about this!" hissed Bretsy.
The Don told them to shut up and they squeaked into silence. It was pretty clear to me that there were American postmodern novelists and there was The Don. His very eyebrow had been reviewed ecstatically in the NYRB more times than all the others' entire sets of genitalia. And they knew it. And now he was heating up a pair of ordinary garden secateurs over a pile of remaindered early Franzen novels ( the ones before Oprah spotted him).
鈥淪nip snip, Mr Bryant. One snip for every nasty little thing you said about me in your nasty reviews, and one more for encouraging your friends to mock me in surrealistic boxing match fantasies, and a final little snip for my two good buddies who have been really quite hurt by the dreadful things you say. I suppose you wish us all to write like your precious but sadly dead Raymond Carver? Hmm? 鈥楢nd then this sad alcoholic fell over and then this other sad alcoholic went shopping for a mop. The end.鈥� Is that it? That鈥檚 how you want us all to write?鈥�
I was about to demolish his crude travesties of my crude travesties of his and his good buddies鈥� rancid fictions 鈥� I had vowed wild horses wouldn鈥檛 get me to remind him that I鈥檇 given five stars to Libra 鈥� but the application of the secateurs to my dorsal extremeties put an end to rational thought. I heard the terrible giggling of Bretsy 鈥� 鈥淛ust one more finger, please! Hee hee!鈥� and I pitched back into the welcome abyss of no more book reviews ever.
September 1, 2020
A sensual, hyper-real Delillian song. Donnie's poetic prose lilts in sustained focus through ghostly sibilance, sinusoidally evocative and throb-inducing.
A brief encounter and a drawn-out epiphany. An instant under a microscope reveals such texture as the merely human eye cannot perceive.
The hero of this novel is the author. Its heroine a quintessential artistic martyr. The protagonist embodies human transformations, encounters death, stews in it, and with palpable empathy, construes it into art.
Should an artist live in the world of their art? The story might have elapsed forever, unfolding into silent voids. The book is haunted, beware, but its slow regard of human animals will thrill like any previous susurration from the pen of this American maestro.
A brief encounter and a drawn-out epiphany. An instant under a microscope reveals such texture as the merely human eye cannot perceive.
The hero of this novel is the author. Its heroine a quintessential artistic martyr. The protagonist embodies human transformations, encounters death, stews in it, and with palpable empathy, construes it into art.
Should an artist live in the world of their art? The story might have elapsed forever, unfolding into silent voids. The book is haunted, beware, but its slow regard of human animals will thrill like any previous susurration from the pen of this American maestro.
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September 28, 2020袞懈谢邪-斜褍谢邪 褨 锌械褉械泻谢邪谢邪.
袨胁写芯胁褨谢邪 锌械褉褎芯褉屑邪薪褋懈褋褌泻邪 斜谢褍泻邪褦 写芯屑芯屑, 写械 卸懈谢邪 蟹褨 褋胁芯褩屑 锌芯泻褨泄薪懈屑 褔芯谢芯胁褨泻芯屑. 袛褨屑 邪斜芯 haunted, 邪斜芯 薪褨. 携泻褖芯 褌邪泻懈 haunted, 褌芯 泄芯谐芯 褏懈屑械褉薪懈泄 胁褨写胁褨写褍胁邪褔 褔懈 褌芯 褨褋薪褍褦 胁 褍褋褨褏 褔邪褋邪褏 芯写薪芯褔邪褋薪芯, 斜械蟹 锌芯写褨谢褍 薪邪 屑懈薪褍谢械 泄 褌械锌械褉褨褕薪褦 鈥� 邪 芯褌卸械, 胁褨薪 褨褋薪褍褦 蟹芯泻褉械屑邪 胁 褔邪褋褨, 写械 褔芯谢芯胁褨泻 谐芯褋锌芯写懈薪褨 写芯屑褍 褖械 卸懈胁懈泄 鈥� 邪斜芯 褑械 胁褋械 胁懈谐邪写泻懈. 袧邪褋泻褨谢褜泻懈 褟 锌邪屑鈥櫻徰傂把�, 肖褉芯泄写 褌谢褍屑邪褔懈胁 褨褋褌芯褉褨褩 锌褉芯 锌褉懈胁懈写褨胁 褟泻 褨褋褌芯褉褨褩 锌褉芯 锌芯胁械褉薪械薪薪褟 repressed 褌褉邪胁屑邪褌懈褔薪懈褏 褋锌芯谐邪写褨胁: 褌械, 褖芯 薪械屑芯卸谢懈胁芯 褨薪褌械谐褉褍胁邪褌懈 写芯 写芯褋胁褨写褍, 锌芯胁械褉褌邪褦褌褜褋褟 胁 褎芯褉屑褨 胁懈写褨薪褜. 孝邪泻 褨 褌褍褌: 谐芯褉械 蟹邪薪邪写褌芯 褋胁褨卸械 泄 蟹邪胁械谢懈泻械, 谢械谐褕械 写芯褋谢褨写卸褍胁邪褌懈 泄芯谐芯 锌械褉懈屑械褌褉, 薪褨卸 褋褍褌褜 鈥� 邪 褖芯, 褟泻褖芯 褔邪褋褍 薪械 褨褋薪褍褦 (写芯褋胁褨写 锌褉芯卸懈胁邪薪薪褟 褔邪褋褍 鈥� 褑械 蟹邪胁卸写懈 写褍卸械 褌褨谢械褋薪懈泄 写芯褋胁褨写, 褌芯卸 薪械胁懈锌邪写泻芯胁芯, 褖芯 谐芯谢芯胁薪邪 谐械褉芯褩薪褟 褏褍写芯卸薪懈褑褟 褌褨谢邪 褨 蟹写褨泄褋薪褞褦 胁褋褟泻褨 褎褨蟹懈褔薪褨 褌褉邪薪褋褎芯褉屑邪褑褨褩); 邪 褖芯, 褟泻 褔邪褋-蟹-芯写薪芯褋褌芯褉芯薪薪褨屑-褉褍褏芯屑 鈥� 褑械 褌褨谢褜泻懈 褏懈斜邪 薪邪褕芯谐芯 褋锌褉懈泄薪褟褌褌褟.
袛谢褟 锌械褉械泻谢邪写褍 - 褖械 褌械 锌械泻械谢褜褑械, 斜芯, 锌芯-锌械褉褕械, 锌芯胁褨褋褌懈薪泻邪 锌芯胁薪褨褋褌褞 锌芯斜褍写芯胁邪薪邪 薪邪 褌邪胁褌芯谢芯谐褨褟褏 褨 褋谢芯胁薪懈泻芯胁芯屑褍 蟹邪锌邪褋褨 褍 锌褉懈斜谢懈蟹薪芯 50 褋谢褨胁, 褌芯斜褌芯 胁褨写 褍褋褜芯谐芯, 褖芯 蟹胁懈泻谢芯褋褟 胁胁邪卸邪褌懈 锌褉懈泻屑械褌邪屑懈 写芯斜褉芯谐芯 锌懈褋褜屑邪 鈥� 褍薪懈泻邪泄 锌芯胁褌芯褉褨胁! 写械屑芯薪褋褌褉褍泄 斜邪谐邪褌褋褌胁芯 褋懈薪芯薪褨屑褨褔薪芯谐芯 褉褟写褍! 褨 褌邪泻 写邪谢褨, 褨 褌邪泻械 褨薪褕械 鈥� 褌褍褌 写芯胁芯写懈褌褜褋褟 胁褨写屑芯胁谢褟褌懈褋褟, 薪械褖邪写薪芯 斜鈥櫻幯囆� 褋械斜械 锌芯 褉褍泻邪褏. 袩芯-写褉褍谐械, 褍 写械 袥褨谢谢芯 褋胁芯褦褉褨写薪懈泄 褋懈薪褌邪泻褋懈褋, 褟泻懈泄 写邪褦 械褎械泻褌 蟹谢械谐泻邪 蟹邪锌褨蟹薪褨谢芯褩 褉械邪泻褑褨褩, 薪褨斜懈 褋懈谐薪邪谢 锌褉芯斜懈胁邪褦褌褜褋褟 泻褉褨蟹褜 褌芯胁褖褍 胁芯写懈 鈥� 芯蟹薪邪褔械薪薪褟 胁褨写薪芯褋褟褌褜褋褟 褌褉芯褕泻懈 写邪谢褨 胁谐谢懈斜 褉械褔械薪薪褟, 薪褨卸 褌懈 芯褔褨泻褍褦褕 (褕褌懈斜褍 鈥溞惭栃� 褍褋褌邪胁 褨 锌褨写褨泄褕芯胁 写芯 褋褌芯谢褍, 褔芯谢芯胁褨泻 褑械泄鈥�), 褨 褑械 balancing act 屑褨卸 褌懈屑, 褖芯斜 蟹斜械褉械谐褌懈 褋胁芯褦褉褨写薪褨褋褌褜, 褨 锌褉懈 褑褜芯屑褍 薪械 褋锌芯胁蟹褌懈 胁 薪械蟹褉芯蟹褍屑褨谢褍 泻褉褟泻芯蟹褟斜褉褍. 袗谢械 锌褉懈谐芯写邪 斜褍谢邪 褑褨泻邪胁邪.
袨胁写芯胁褨谢邪 锌械褉褎芯褉屑邪薪褋懈褋褌泻邪 斜谢褍泻邪褦 写芯屑芯屑, 写械 卸懈谢邪 蟹褨 褋胁芯褩屑 锌芯泻褨泄薪懈屑 褔芯谢芯胁褨泻芯屑. 袛褨屑 邪斜芯 haunted, 邪斜芯 薪褨. 携泻褖芯 褌邪泻懈 haunted, 褌芯 泄芯谐芯 褏懈屑械褉薪懈泄 胁褨写胁褨写褍胁邪褔 褔懈 褌芯 褨褋薪褍褦 胁 褍褋褨褏 褔邪褋邪褏 芯写薪芯褔邪褋薪芯, 斜械蟹 锌芯写褨谢褍 薪邪 屑懈薪褍谢械 泄 褌械锌械褉褨褕薪褦 鈥� 邪 芯褌卸械, 胁褨薪 褨褋薪褍褦 蟹芯泻褉械屑邪 胁 褔邪褋褨, 写械 褔芯谢芯胁褨泻 谐芯褋锌芯写懈薪褨 写芯屑褍 褖械 卸懈胁懈泄 鈥� 邪斜芯 褑械 胁褋械 胁懈谐邪写泻懈. 袧邪褋泻褨谢褜泻懈 褟 锌邪屑鈥櫻徰傂把�, 肖褉芯泄写 褌谢褍屑邪褔懈胁 褨褋褌芯褉褨褩 锌褉芯 锌褉懈胁懈写褨胁 褟泻 褨褋褌芯褉褨褩 锌褉芯 锌芯胁械褉薪械薪薪褟 repressed 褌褉邪胁屑邪褌懈褔薪懈褏 褋锌芯谐邪写褨胁: 褌械, 褖芯 薪械屑芯卸谢懈胁芯 褨薪褌械谐褉褍胁邪褌懈 写芯 写芯褋胁褨写褍, 锌芯胁械褉褌邪褦褌褜褋褟 胁 褎芯褉屑褨 胁懈写褨薪褜. 孝邪泻 褨 褌褍褌: 谐芯褉械 蟹邪薪邪写褌芯 褋胁褨卸械 泄 蟹邪胁械谢懈泻械, 谢械谐褕械 写芯褋谢褨写卸褍胁邪褌懈 泄芯谐芯 锌械褉懈屑械褌褉, 薪褨卸 褋褍褌褜 鈥� 邪 褖芯, 褟泻褖芯 褔邪褋褍 薪械 褨褋薪褍褦 (写芯褋胁褨写 锌褉芯卸懈胁邪薪薪褟 褔邪褋褍 鈥� 褑械 蟹邪胁卸写懈 写褍卸械 褌褨谢械褋薪懈泄 写芯褋胁褨写, 褌芯卸 薪械胁懈锌邪写泻芯胁芯, 褖芯 谐芯谢芯胁薪邪 谐械褉芯褩薪褟 褏褍写芯卸薪懈褑褟 褌褨谢邪 褨 蟹写褨泄褋薪褞褦 胁褋褟泻褨 褎褨蟹懈褔薪褨 褌褉邪薪褋褎芯褉屑邪褑褨褩); 邪 褖芯, 褟泻 褔邪褋-蟹-芯写薪芯褋褌芯褉芯薪薪褨屑-褉褍褏芯屑 鈥� 褑械 褌褨谢褜泻懈 褏懈斜邪 薪邪褕芯谐芯 褋锌褉懈泄薪褟褌褌褟.
袛谢褟 锌械褉械泻谢邪写褍 - 褖械 褌械 锌械泻械谢褜褑械, 斜芯, 锌芯-锌械褉褕械, 锌芯胁褨褋褌懈薪泻邪 锌芯胁薪褨褋褌褞 锌芯斜褍写芯胁邪薪邪 薪邪 褌邪胁褌芯谢芯谐褨褟褏 褨 褋谢芯胁薪懈泻芯胁芯屑褍 蟹邪锌邪褋褨 褍 锌褉懈斜谢懈蟹薪芯 50 褋谢褨胁, 褌芯斜褌芯 胁褨写 褍褋褜芯谐芯, 褖芯 蟹胁懈泻谢芯褋褟 胁胁邪卸邪褌懈 锌褉懈泻屑械褌邪屑懈 写芯斜褉芯谐芯 锌懈褋褜屑邪 鈥� 褍薪懈泻邪泄 锌芯胁褌芯褉褨胁! 写械屑芯薪褋褌褉褍泄 斜邪谐邪褌褋褌胁芯 褋懈薪芯薪褨屑褨褔薪芯谐芯 褉褟写褍! 褨 褌邪泻 写邪谢褨, 褨 褌邪泻械 褨薪褕械 鈥� 褌褍褌 写芯胁芯写懈褌褜褋褟 胁褨写屑芯胁谢褟褌懈褋褟, 薪械褖邪写薪芯 斜鈥櫻幯囆� 褋械斜械 锌芯 褉褍泻邪褏. 袩芯-写褉褍谐械, 褍 写械 袥褨谢谢芯 褋胁芯褦褉褨写薪懈泄 褋懈薪褌邪泻褋懈褋, 褟泻懈泄 写邪褦 械褎械泻褌 蟹谢械谐泻邪 蟹邪锌褨蟹薪褨谢芯褩 褉械邪泻褑褨褩, 薪褨斜懈 褋懈谐薪邪谢 锌褉芯斜懈胁邪褦褌褜褋褟 泻褉褨蟹褜 褌芯胁褖褍 胁芯写懈 鈥� 芯蟹薪邪褔械薪薪褟 胁褨写薪芯褋褟褌褜褋褟 褌褉芯褕泻懈 写邪谢褨 胁谐谢懈斜 褉械褔械薪薪褟, 薪褨卸 褌懈 芯褔褨泻褍褦褕 (褕褌懈斜褍 鈥溞惭栃� 褍褋褌邪胁 褨 锌褨写褨泄褕芯胁 写芯 褋褌芯谢褍, 褔芯谢芯胁褨泻 褑械泄鈥�), 褨 褑械 balancing act 屑褨卸 褌懈屑, 褖芯斜 蟹斜械褉械谐褌懈 褋胁芯褦褉褨写薪褨褋褌褜, 褨 锌褉懈 褑褜芯屑褍 薪械 褋锌芯胁蟹褌懈 胁 薪械蟹褉芯蟹褍屑褨谢褍 泻褉褟泻芯蟹褟斜褉褍. 袗谢械 锌褉懈谐芯写邪 斜褍谢邪 褑褨泻邪胁邪.
November 1, 2022
WTH did I read?
Okay so I was extremely confused in the beginning because I thought this would be about maybe a divorce and then the woman having to deal with the emotions after. I could not have been more wrong.
I was so disturbed while reading this and maybe this just wasn't for me but the main character was not only confusing but also extremely weird with the person that showed up in her house.
I had to reread pages because I thought I was reading everything wrong and mixing up words because the plot was just so weird.
The description of everything was really detailed and that was still interesting but the focus was wow confusing. Like did I really need to know every details of what it is like to scrub your dirty feet until dead skin falls off? no I did not.
The ending was good and I liked how the artwork in the end was inspired by the things she went through but no she needs help.
The things she did to the boy were disgusting and I was confused on how there were no consequences to anything.
Okay so I was extremely confused in the beginning because I thought this would be about maybe a divorce and then the woman having to deal with the emotions after. I could not have been more wrong.
I was so disturbed while reading this and maybe this just wasn't for me but the main character was not only confusing but also extremely weird with the person that showed up in her house.
I had to reread pages because I thought I was reading everything wrong and mixing up words because the plot was just so weird.
The description of everything was really detailed and that was still interesting but the focus was wow confusing. Like did I really need to know every details of what it is like to scrub your dirty feet until dead skin falls off? no I did not.
The ending was good and I liked how the artwork in the end was inspired by the things she went through but no she needs help.
The things she did to the boy were disgusting and I was confused on how there were no consequences to anything.
September 15, 2007
This is the third Don DiLillo book that I鈥檝e read. I read White Noise in college, right along with everyone else, and thought it was a truly a modern classic, just like everybody else. Then, in graduate school, I also read Libra in a 500-level literature class called 鈥�Post Post Modern Fiction.鈥� I thought it was terrible, although my reaction might have been warped the two utterly heartbreaking three-hour sessions my MA Literature classmates spent tearing the book apart, one-upping each othe谤鈥檚 vocabulary usage, and saying silly things about books in general. You might even say they tore tore the book apart.
I have mixed feelings about The Body Artist. It鈥檚 a slim, sparse book centered on a performance artist, Lauren, who is grieving for her late husband. In the wake of his death, a strange man (Ghost? Hobo?) appears in her house, acts really weird, and then disappears.
On the positive side, the book is beautifully written - it reads more like a prose poem then a novel. The majority of the book is spent inside Lauren鈥檚 head and DiLillo has just plain weird ability to capture how people spend time alone with themselves:
鈥淪he cleaned the bathroom, using the spray-gun bottle of disinfectant. Then she held the nozzle of the spray gun to her head, seeing herself as anyone might do, alone, without special reference to the person鈥檚 circumstances. It was the pine-scent bottle, the pistol-grip bottle of tile-and-grout cleaner, killer of mildew, and she held the nozzle to her head, finger pressed to the plastic trigger, with her tongue hanging out for effect. This is what people do, she thought, alone in their lives.鈥�
He also does an admirable job playing with time and perception - repeated actions, lines of dialogue, and images cement the airy-but-claustrophobic feel of the book and give it even more of the feel of a prose poem, as do the short second-person vignettes at the beginning of each chapter. It is, in all ways, pretty.
On the other hand, the book does suffer from a few issues that I also picked up on in his other books - he can be a little heavy-handed at times with the themes of the book. Sometimes it feels like he鈥檚 shouting, 鈥淭his book is about time and perception! And heart ache! Just in case you still 诲辞苍鈥檛 get it, I鈥檒l make Lauren鈥檚 last name is Hartke (Hart Take! Heart Take! Heart Ache!) and I鈥檒l have her do a performance art piece at the end of the book that summarizes the themes of the book all over again, in case you missed them.鈥�
It also comes down to a problem I often have with poetry - the actual plot of the story is so vague and stylized that I often didn鈥檛 understand what鈥檚 happening. Even the major reviews I read of the book contradict one another when it comes to basic plot points. Is the man in her home a figment of her imagination, a ghost, a homeless man, or her actual husband? I 诲辞苍鈥檛 mind subtly or delicacy, but I do like to sorta kinda know what鈥檚 going on. Or at least get a few hints? And 诲辞苍鈥檛 say, 鈥淚t is what is it鈥� or 鈥淚t is what you want it to be鈥� or 鈥渨ho he is isn鈥檛 important鈥� because I think those are all cheap cop-outs.
Either way, what it comes down to is that DiLillo can write a sentence and create an atmosphere. I鈥檝e heard I should read 鈥淯nderworld鈥� before I judge any further.
I have mixed feelings about The Body Artist. It鈥檚 a slim, sparse book centered on a performance artist, Lauren, who is grieving for her late husband. In the wake of his death, a strange man (Ghost? Hobo?) appears in her house, acts really weird, and then disappears.
On the positive side, the book is beautifully written - it reads more like a prose poem then a novel. The majority of the book is spent inside Lauren鈥檚 head and DiLillo has just plain weird ability to capture how people spend time alone with themselves:
鈥淪he cleaned the bathroom, using the spray-gun bottle of disinfectant. Then she held the nozzle of the spray gun to her head, seeing herself as anyone might do, alone, without special reference to the person鈥檚 circumstances. It was the pine-scent bottle, the pistol-grip bottle of tile-and-grout cleaner, killer of mildew, and she held the nozzle to her head, finger pressed to the plastic trigger, with her tongue hanging out for effect. This is what people do, she thought, alone in their lives.鈥�
He also does an admirable job playing with time and perception - repeated actions, lines of dialogue, and images cement the airy-but-claustrophobic feel of the book and give it even more of the feel of a prose poem, as do the short second-person vignettes at the beginning of each chapter. It is, in all ways, pretty.
On the other hand, the book does suffer from a few issues that I also picked up on in his other books - he can be a little heavy-handed at times with the themes of the book. Sometimes it feels like he鈥檚 shouting, 鈥淭his book is about time and perception! And heart ache! Just in case you still 诲辞苍鈥檛 get it, I鈥檒l make Lauren鈥檚 last name is Hartke (Hart Take! Heart Take! Heart Ache!) and I鈥檒l have her do a performance art piece at the end of the book that summarizes the themes of the book all over again, in case you missed them.鈥�
It also comes down to a problem I often have with poetry - the actual plot of the story is so vague and stylized that I often didn鈥檛 understand what鈥檚 happening. Even the major reviews I read of the book contradict one another when it comes to basic plot points. Is the man in her home a figment of her imagination, a ghost, a homeless man, or her actual husband? I 诲辞苍鈥檛 mind subtly or delicacy, but I do like to sorta kinda know what鈥檚 going on. Or at least get a few hints? And 诲辞苍鈥檛 say, 鈥淚t is what is it鈥� or 鈥淚t is what you want it to be鈥� or 鈥渨ho he is isn鈥檛 important鈥� because I think those are all cheap cop-outs.
Either way, what it comes down to is that DiLillo can write a sentence and create an atmosphere. I鈥檝e heard I should read 鈥淯nderworld鈥� before I judge any further.
October 28, 2017
The body artist: a novel, Don DeLillo
The Body Artist is a novella written in 2001 by Don DeLillo. It explores the grieving process of a young performance artist, Lauren Hartke, following the suicide of her significantly older husband. The novella is sometimes described as a ghost story due to the appearance of an enigmatic figure that Lauren discovers hiding in an upstairs room of the house following her husband's death.
鬲丕乇蹖禺 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 禺賵丕賳卮: 賴卮鬲賲 賲丕賴 丕讴鬲亘乇 爻丕賱 2008 賲蹖賱丕丿蹖
毓賳賵丕賳: 亘丕丿蹖 丌乇鬲蹖爻鬲貨 丕孬乇: 丿丕賳 丿賱蹖賱賵貨 賲鬲乇噩賲: 賲賳氐賵乇賴 賵賮丕蹖蹖貨 賲卮禺氐丕鬲 賳卮乇: 芦賳卮乇 賳蹖貙 1386貙 丿乇 108 氐貙 卮丕亘讴: 9643128857禄貨 賲賵囟賵毓: 丿丕爻鬲丕賳賴丕蹖 賳賵蹖爻賳丿诏丕賳 丌賲乇蹖讴丕蹖蹖 賯乇賳 20 賲
丕賳诏丕乇 亘賴 賳賲丕蹖卮 丿乇 芦丕賳鬲馗丕乇 诏賵丿賵禄蹖 爻丕賲賵卅賱 亘讴鬲 亘蹖 卮亘丕賴鬲 賳蹖爻鬲. 賲賳鬲賯丿蹖 禺賵丕賳丿賳 賮氐賱 丌睾丕夭蹖賳 賴賲蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 乇丕 亘賴 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖 趩蹖夭蹖 丿乇 鬲丕乇蹖讴 乇賵卮賳丕蹖 氐亘丨诏丕賴蹖 丕鬲丕賯貙 丌賳 賴賲 倬蹖卮 丕夭 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 蹖讴 賮賳噩丕賳 賯賴賵賴貙 鬲卮亘蹖賴 賲蹖讴賳丿. 爻丕禺鬲丕乇 芦亘丕丿蹖 丌乇鬲蹖爻鬲禄 亘蹖 卮亘丕賴鬲 亘賴 賴丕蹖讴賵 賳蹖爻鬲. 賮氐賵賱 丕蹖賳 乇賲丕賳 賲孬賱 噩賲賱賴 賴丕蹖 讴賵鬲丕賴 丿賵倬賴賱賵蹖蹖 爻鬲 讴賴 亘丕 賴賲 趩賮鬲 賳賲蹖卮賵賳丿貙 賵 賴賲蹖卮賴 賲乇夭 亘丕乇蹖讴 賵 禺蹖丕賱 丕賳诏蹖夭 賲蹖丕賳卮丕賳 丕丨爻丕爻 賲蹖卮賵丿. 亘禺賵丕賳蹖丿: 乇賵夭 爻賮蹖丿 賲賴 丌賱賵丿蹖 爻鬲貙 賵 亘夭乇诏乇丕賴 鬲丕 丌爻賲丕賳 禺卮讴蹖丿賴 亘丕賱丕 賲蹖乇賵丿. 趩賴丕乇 亘丕賳丿 卮賲丕賱蹖 丿丕乇丿貙 賵 鬲賵 丿乇 亘丕賳丿 爻賵賲 賲蹖乇丕賳蹖 賵 賲丕卮蹖賳賴丕 噩賱賵丕賳丿貙 賵 倬卮鬲 爻乇 賵 丿賵 胤乇賮貙 丕賲丕 賳賴 禺蹖賱蹖 夭蹖丕丿 賵 賳賴 禺蹖賱蹖 賳夭丿蹖讴. 亘丕賱丕蹖 爻乇丕卮蹖亘蹖 讴賴 賲蹖乇爻蹖 趩蹖夭蹖 丕鬲賮丕賯 賲蹖丕賮鬲丿 賵 丨丕賱丕爻鬲 讴賴 丿蹖诏乇 賲丕卮蹖賳賴丕 亘蹖 毓噩賱賴 賲蹖乇賵賳丿. 丕賳诏丕乇 禺賵丿 亘賴 禺賵丿 乇丕賳丿賴 賲蹖卮賵賳丿. 賳乇賲 亘丕 丿賳丿賴 禺賱丕氐 亘乇 乇賵蹖 丌賳 爻胤丨 倬丕蹖蹖賳 賲蹖乇賵賳丿. 賴賲賴 趩蹖夭 讴賳丿 丕爻鬲 賵 賲賴 丌賱賵丿 賵 禺卮讴蹖丿賴 賵 賴賲賴 蹖 丕蹖賳賴丕 丨賵賱 丕賳诏丕乇 丕鬲賮丕賯 賲蹖丕賮鬲丿. 賴賲賴 蹖 賲丕卮蹖賳賴丕 丕夭 噩賲賱賴 賲丕賱 鬲賵貙 丕賳诏丕乇貙 亘乇蹖丿賴 亘乇蹖丿賴 丨乇讴鬲 賲蹖讴賳賳丿貙 丨囟賵乇卮丕賳 乇丕 賳卮丕賳 賲蹖丿賴賳丿 蹖丕 禺賵丿 乇丕 亘賴 乇禺 賲蹖讴卮賳丿貙 賵 亘夭乇诏乇丕賴 賲蹖丕賳 賴賲賴賲賴 蹖 爻賮蹖丿蹖 丕賲鬲丿丕丿 賲蹖蹖丕亘丿. 亘毓丿 丨爻 賵 丨丕賱 毓賵囟 賲蹖卮賵丿. 爻乇 賵 氐丿丕 賵 賴蹖丕賴賵 賵 卮賱賵睾蹖 倬卮鬲 爻乇 丕賳丿 賵 鬲賵 讴賴 丿乇丿 爻賳诏蹖賳蹖 乇丕 乇賵蹖 賯賮爻賴 蹖 爻蹖賳賴 丕鬲 丕丨爻丕爻 賲蹖讴賳蹖 丿賵亘丕乇賴 亘賴 夭賳丿诏蹖 讴卮丕賳丿賴 賲蹖卮賵蹖. 倬丕蹖丕賳 賳賯賱. 丕. 卮乇亘蹖丕賳蹖
The Body Artist is a novella written in 2001 by Don DeLillo. It explores the grieving process of a young performance artist, Lauren Hartke, following the suicide of her significantly older husband. The novella is sometimes described as a ghost story due to the appearance of an enigmatic figure that Lauren discovers hiding in an upstairs room of the house following her husband's death.
鬲丕乇蹖禺 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 禺賵丕賳卮: 賴卮鬲賲 賲丕賴 丕讴鬲亘乇 爻丕賱 2008 賲蹖賱丕丿蹖
毓賳賵丕賳: 亘丕丿蹖 丌乇鬲蹖爻鬲貨 丕孬乇: 丿丕賳 丿賱蹖賱賵貨 賲鬲乇噩賲: 賲賳氐賵乇賴 賵賮丕蹖蹖貨 賲卮禺氐丕鬲 賳卮乇: 芦賳卮乇 賳蹖貙 1386貙 丿乇 108 氐貙 卮丕亘讴: 9643128857禄貨 賲賵囟賵毓: 丿丕爻鬲丕賳賴丕蹖 賳賵蹖爻賳丿诏丕賳 丌賲乇蹖讴丕蹖蹖 賯乇賳 20 賲
丕賳诏丕乇 亘賴 賳賲丕蹖卮 丿乇 芦丕賳鬲馗丕乇 诏賵丿賵禄蹖 爻丕賲賵卅賱 亘讴鬲 亘蹖 卮亘丕賴鬲 賳蹖爻鬲. 賲賳鬲賯丿蹖 禺賵丕賳丿賳 賮氐賱 丌睾丕夭蹖賳 賴賲蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 乇丕 亘賴 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖 趩蹖夭蹖 丿乇 鬲丕乇蹖讴 乇賵卮賳丕蹖 氐亘丨诏丕賴蹖 丕鬲丕賯貙 丌賳 賴賲 倬蹖卮 丕夭 賳賵卮蹖丿賳 蹖讴 賮賳噩丕賳 賯賴賵賴貙 鬲卮亘蹖賴 賲蹖讴賳丿. 爻丕禺鬲丕乇 芦亘丕丿蹖 丌乇鬲蹖爻鬲禄 亘蹖 卮亘丕賴鬲 亘賴 賴丕蹖讴賵 賳蹖爻鬲. 賮氐賵賱 丕蹖賳 乇賲丕賳 賲孬賱 噩賲賱賴 賴丕蹖 讴賵鬲丕賴 丿賵倬賴賱賵蹖蹖 爻鬲 讴賴 亘丕 賴賲 趩賮鬲 賳賲蹖卮賵賳丿貙 賵 賴賲蹖卮賴 賲乇夭 亘丕乇蹖讴 賵 禺蹖丕賱 丕賳诏蹖夭 賲蹖丕賳卮丕賳 丕丨爻丕爻 賲蹖卮賵丿. 亘禺賵丕賳蹖丿: 乇賵夭 爻賮蹖丿 賲賴 丌賱賵丿蹖 爻鬲貙 賵 亘夭乇诏乇丕賴 鬲丕 丌爻賲丕賳 禺卮讴蹖丿賴 亘丕賱丕 賲蹖乇賵丿. 趩賴丕乇 亘丕賳丿 卮賲丕賱蹖 丿丕乇丿貙 賵 鬲賵 丿乇 亘丕賳丿 爻賵賲 賲蹖乇丕賳蹖 賵 賲丕卮蹖賳賴丕 噩賱賵丕賳丿貙 賵 倬卮鬲 爻乇 賵 丿賵 胤乇賮貙 丕賲丕 賳賴 禺蹖賱蹖 夭蹖丕丿 賵 賳賴 禺蹖賱蹖 賳夭丿蹖讴. 亘丕賱丕蹖 爻乇丕卮蹖亘蹖 讴賴 賲蹖乇爻蹖 趩蹖夭蹖 丕鬲賮丕賯 賲蹖丕賮鬲丿 賵 丨丕賱丕爻鬲 讴賴 丿蹖诏乇 賲丕卮蹖賳賴丕 亘蹖 毓噩賱賴 賲蹖乇賵賳丿. 丕賳诏丕乇 禺賵丿 亘賴 禺賵丿 乇丕賳丿賴 賲蹖卮賵賳丿. 賳乇賲 亘丕 丿賳丿賴 禺賱丕氐 亘乇 乇賵蹖 丌賳 爻胤丨 倬丕蹖蹖賳 賲蹖乇賵賳丿. 賴賲賴 趩蹖夭 讴賳丿 丕爻鬲 賵 賲賴 丌賱賵丿 賵 禺卮讴蹖丿賴 賵 賴賲賴 蹖 丕蹖賳賴丕 丨賵賱 丕賳诏丕乇 丕鬲賮丕賯 賲蹖丕賮鬲丿. 賴賲賴 蹖 賲丕卮蹖賳賴丕 丕夭 噩賲賱賴 賲丕賱 鬲賵貙 丕賳诏丕乇貙 亘乇蹖丿賴 亘乇蹖丿賴 丨乇讴鬲 賲蹖讴賳賳丿貙 丨囟賵乇卮丕賳 乇丕 賳卮丕賳 賲蹖丿賴賳丿 蹖丕 禺賵丿 乇丕 亘賴 乇禺 賲蹖讴卮賳丿貙 賵 亘夭乇诏乇丕賴 賲蹖丕賳 賴賲賴賲賴 蹖 爻賮蹖丿蹖 丕賲鬲丿丕丿 賲蹖蹖丕亘丿. 亘毓丿 丨爻 賵 丨丕賱 毓賵囟 賲蹖卮賵丿. 爻乇 賵 氐丿丕 賵 賴蹖丕賴賵 賵 卮賱賵睾蹖 倬卮鬲 爻乇 丕賳丿 賵 鬲賵 讴賴 丿乇丿 爻賳诏蹖賳蹖 乇丕 乇賵蹖 賯賮爻賴 蹖 爻蹖賳賴 丕鬲 丕丨爻丕爻 賲蹖讴賳蹖 丿賵亘丕乇賴 亘賴 夭賳丿诏蹖 讴卮丕賳丿賴 賲蹖卮賵蹖. 倬丕蹖丕賳 賳賯賱. 丕. 卮乇亘蹖丕賳蹖
May 30, 2021
CRITIQUE:
Public and Private Spheres
Up to the point of "Underworld", Don Delillo seemed to be simultaneously interested in the public sphere and the private sphere of the participants in the public sphere. When it comes to personal relationships, we see mother and son, brother to brother, husband and wife, spouse/self and extramarital lover.
In "Underworld" itself, the private sphere grew so interesting that it almost took over the book and its focus on baseball, nuclear weapons and waste. DeLillo became increasingly interested in the Bronx of his own youth. For the first time, one of his novels was almost autobiographical.
"The Body Artist" was his first novel after the publication of "Underworld", and he continued his interest in the personal sphere.
"This is Art, Sex, Aggression, Cultural Criticism and Truth"
The eponymous body artist is 36 year old Lauren Hartke, who is the third wife of 64 year old film director, Rey Robles, born Alejandro Alquezar in Barcelona. He directed two "world-renowned" movies in the late 1970鈥檚, while one of his films, "My Life for Yours", won the Palm d鈥橭r. His next film, "Polaris", mixed American crime drama and Spanish surrealism, and became an art house success with a cult following.
Fictional film critic Philip Stansky wrote, "His work at its best extends the language of film. His subject is people in landscapes of estrangement. He found a spiritual knife-edge in the poetry of alien places, where extreme situations become inevitable and characters are forced toward life-defining moments."
His subsequent films were commercial and critical failures, which were partly a result of alcoholism and intermittent depression.
"This Strange Contained Reality"
By the time we encounter Rey, he is about to leave their rented beach house to return to New York, in order to commit suicide. Rey and Lauren circle each other in the kitchen while they prepare and eat breakfast. They observe objects closely, but not each other. They struggle to find a language with which to communicate.
Lauren concentrates on reading the Sunday newspaper, "the strange contained reality of paper and ink seeps through the house for a week and when you look at a page and distinguish one line from another it begins to gather you into it and there are people being tortured halfway around the world, who speak another language..." Other people live "somewhere in the words" of the newspaper, which distracts and estranges them (or at least reinforces their estrangement).
Lauren is most conscious of Rey's body, "the aura of the man, a residue of smoke and unbroken habit". These are physical, if not emotional 貌r spiritual, details.
We, the readers, learn of Rey's death by reading a fictional newspaper article at the end of the first chapter, in which we hear about his discovery of a "spiritual knife-edge in alien places", although it seems that this knife-edge slices through familiar people and places as well.
Mr. Tuttle
Post-suicide, Lauren continues to walk absent-mindedly through the beach-house. One day (as had occurred three months before when Rey was there), she hears a noise upstairs. This time it turns out to be a young boy, "medicated maybe", sitting on the edge of the bed in his underwear: "He had a foundling quality". He was like a cross between a squatter and an idiot savant:
Names and Numbers
Lauren gives the boy the name "Mr. Tuttle" after her science teacher, because she thought "it would make him easier to see."
Names and numbers have always been vital to DeLillo's understanding of language and communication. Soon Lauren realises that the boy has overheard her disconnected conversations with Rey, has memorized them, and is able to repeat them verbatim, even if he doesn't comprehend their meaning. Just because he is able to mimic those whom he hears, doesn't mean that the mere utterance of language is an act of communication. He's missing the code that turns language into a social bond:
It's interesting that DeLillo and the "body artist" discuss this semiotic code in terms of the language of touch or sensation.
"The Thing is Communicated Somehow"
Then she extrapolates: "Maybe this man is defenceless against the truth of the world."
How can there be truth without consensus?
Equally, "there is nothing he can do to imagine time existing in reassuring sequence, passing, flowing, happening 鈥� the world happens, it has to, we feel it 鈥� with names and dates and distinctions...
She suspects that he must be in a different state of being to her and other people: "She didn't think his eye was able to search out and shape things. Not like normal anyway. The eye is supposed to shape and process and paint. It tells us a story we want to believe."
So he is unable to name anything, let alone to tell a story, which consists of "the standard sun-kissed chronology of events...It is time that defines your existence."
He can't even name himself..."like a man anonymous to himself."
She concludes that "there were no stirrings of tremulous self...The thing that made them higher, made them modern, the gaze that demonstrates we are lonely in our souls..."
She thinks of him as a "surplus of vulnerability" and wonders whether he feels lonely.
"Maybe It Was All An Erotic Reverie"
Even though they can't communicate, for both Lauren and DeLillo, "there is a story, a flow of consciousness and possibility. The future comes into being."
And so a novel, or at least a novella, came into being. Or perhaps it's the story of Lauren鈥檚 most recent introspective performance piece?
SOUNDTRACK:
Public and Private Spheres
Up to the point of "Underworld", Don Delillo seemed to be simultaneously interested in the public sphere and the private sphere of the participants in the public sphere. When it comes to personal relationships, we see mother and son, brother to brother, husband and wife, spouse/self and extramarital lover.
In "Underworld" itself, the private sphere grew so interesting that it almost took over the book and its focus on baseball, nuclear weapons and waste. DeLillo became increasingly interested in the Bronx of his own youth. For the first time, one of his novels was almost autobiographical.
"The Body Artist" was his first novel after the publication of "Underworld", and he continued his interest in the personal sphere.
"This is Art, Sex, Aggression, Cultural Criticism and Truth"
The eponymous body artist is 36 year old Lauren Hartke, who is the third wife of 64 year old film director, Rey Robles, born Alejandro Alquezar in Barcelona. He directed two "world-renowned" movies in the late 1970鈥檚, while one of his films, "My Life for Yours", won the Palm d鈥橭r. His next film, "Polaris", mixed American crime drama and Spanish surrealism, and became an art house success with a cult following.
Fictional film critic Philip Stansky wrote, "His work at its best extends the language of film. His subject is people in landscapes of estrangement. He found a spiritual knife-edge in the poetry of alien places, where extreme situations become inevitable and characters are forced toward life-defining moments."
His subsequent films were commercial and critical failures, which were partly a result of alcoholism and intermittent depression.
"This Strange Contained Reality"
By the time we encounter Rey, he is about to leave their rented beach house to return to New York, in order to commit suicide. Rey and Lauren circle each other in the kitchen while they prepare and eat breakfast. They observe objects closely, but not each other. They struggle to find a language with which to communicate.
Lauren concentrates on reading the Sunday newspaper, "the strange contained reality of paper and ink seeps through the house for a week and when you look at a page and distinguish one line from another it begins to gather you into it and there are people being tortured halfway around the world, who speak another language..." Other people live "somewhere in the words" of the newspaper, which distracts and estranges them (or at least reinforces their estrangement).
Lauren is most conscious of Rey's body, "the aura of the man, a residue of smoke and unbroken habit". These are physical, if not emotional 貌r spiritual, details.
"Sometimes she doesn't think of what she wants to say to him until he walks out of whatever room they're in. Then she thinks of it. Then she either calls after him or doesn't and he responds or doesn't."
We, the readers, learn of Rey's death by reading a fictional newspaper article at the end of the first chapter, in which we hear about his discovery of a "spiritual knife-edge in alien places", although it seems that this knife-edge slices through familiar people and places as well.
Mr. Tuttle
Post-suicide, Lauren continues to walk absent-mindedly through the beach-house. One day (as had occurred three months before when Rey was there), she hears a noise upstairs. This time it turns out to be a young boy, "medicated maybe", sitting on the edge of the bed in his underwear: "He had a foundling quality". He was like a cross between a squatter and an idiot savant:
"She tried not to press him for information. She found the distance interesting, the halting quality of his speech and actions, the self-taught quality, his seeming unconcern about what would happen to him now. Not apathy or indifference, she thought, but his limited ability to consider the implications. She wasn't sure what it meant to him, being found in someone else's house."
Names and Numbers
Lauren gives the boy the name "Mr. Tuttle" after her science teacher, because she thought "it would make him easier to see."
Names and numbers have always been vital to DeLillo's understanding of language and communication. Soon Lauren realises that the boy has overheard her disconnected conversations with Rey, has memorized them, and is able to repeat them verbatim, even if he doesn't comprehend their meaning. Just because he is able to mimic those whom he hears, doesn't mean that the mere utterance of language is an act of communication. He's missing the code that turns language into a social bond:
"There's a code in the simplest conversation that tells the speakers what's going on outside the bare acoustics. This was missing when they talked...She lost touch with him..."
It's interesting that DeLillo and the "body artist" discuss this semiotic code in terms of the language of touch or sensation.
"The Thing is Communicated Somehow"
Then she extrapolates: "Maybe this man is defenceless against the truth of the world."
How can there be truth without consensus?
Equally, "there is nothing he can do to imagine time existing in reassuring sequence, passing, flowing, happening 鈥� the world happens, it has to, we feel it 鈥� with names and dates and distinctions...
"His future is unnamed. It is simultaneous, somehow, with the present. Neither happens before or after the other and they are equally accessible, perhaps, if only in his mind."
She suspects that he must be in a different state of being to her and other people: "She didn't think his eye was able to search out and shape things. Not like normal anyway. The eye is supposed to shape and process and paint. It tells us a story we want to believe."
So he is unable to name anything, let alone to tell a story, which consists of "the standard sun-kissed chronology of events...It is time that defines your existence."
He can't even name himself..."like a man anonymous to himself."
She concludes that "there were no stirrings of tremulous self...The thing that made them higher, made them modern, the gaze that demonstrates we are lonely in our souls..."
"He is in another structure, another culture, where time is something like itself, sheer and bare, empty of shelter."
She thinks of him as a "surplus of vulnerability" and wonders whether he feels lonely.
"Maybe It Was All An Erotic Reverie"
Even though they can't communicate, for both Lauren and DeLillo, "there is a story, a flow of consciousness and possibility. The future comes into being."
And so a novel, or at least a novella, came into being. Or perhaps it's the story of Lauren鈥檚 most recent introspective performance piece?
SOUNDTRACK:
September 17, 2016
A minimalistic, intimate and slightly odd look at the grieving process of Lauren, who after her husband takes his own life returns to their home on the coast of New England to be alone only to discover a strange man hiding out in one of rooms, but just who is he and how long has he been there?.This reads as a modern ghost story and a meditation of time with a profound sense of isolation from the rest of the living. There is this eerie feeling hanging over everything which keeps what little story there is above par, as a fan of DeLillo this is probably his least accessible work. Best read in one sitting.
Read
April 3, 2021袣邪卸褍褌褜, 锌械褉械泻谢邪写 褍卸械 锌褨褕芯胁 褍 写褉褍泻!
袦褨泄 胁褨写谐褍泻 薪邪 芯褉懈谐褨薪邪谢 褌褍褌.
校 锌械褉械泻谢邪写褨 斜褍写械 锌褉械泻褉邪褋薪邪 锌械褉械写屑芯胁邪 袦邪泻褋懈屑邪 袧械褋褌械谢褦褦胁邪, 褟泻邪 胁胁芯写懈褌褜 锌芯胁褨褋褌褜 褍 泻芯薪褌械泻褋褌 褨 胁懈褌懈褋泻邪褦 蟹 薪械褩 屑邪泻褋懈屑褍屑 褋械薪褋褨胁 - 锌芯褔邪褌芯泻 锌械褉械写屑芯胁懈 袦邪泻褋 褑懈褌褍褦 褌褍褌.
袩械褉褕褨 邪斜蟹邪褑懈 锌芯胁褨褋褌懈薪泻懈 薪邪 锌褉芯斜褍:
效邪褋, 褋褏芯卸械, 屑懈薪邪褦. 小胁褨褌 蟹写褨泄褋薪褞褦褌褜褋褟, 褉芯蟹谐芯褉褌邪褦褌褜褋褟 薪邪 芯泻褉械屑褨 屑懈褌褨, 褌懈 褋锌懈薪褟褦褕褋褟 锌芯谐谢褟薪褍褌懈 薪邪 锌邪胁褍泻邪, 褟泻懈泄 褌褍谢懈褌褜褋褟 写芯 褋胁芯褦褩 锌邪胁褍褌懈薪懈. 袆 锌褉褍写泻褨褋褌褜 褋胁褨褌谢邪, 胁褨写褔褍褌褌褟 褔褨褌泻芯褋褌褨 芯斜褉懈褋褨胁 褍褋褨褏 褉械褔械泄, 斜谢懈褋泻褍褔褨 锌邪褌褜芯泻懈 胁 蟹邪褌芯褑褨. 孝懈 薪邪泄谐芯褋褌褉褨褕械 褉芯蟹褍屑褨褦褕, 泻懈屑 褌懈 褦, 写褍卸芯谐芯, 褟褋泻褉邪胁芯谐芯 写薪褟 锌褨褋谢褟 斜褍褉褨, 泻芯谢懈 薪邪胁褨褌褜 薪邪泄屑械薪褕懈泄 芯斜谢械褌褨谢懈泄 谢懈褋褌芯泻 锌褉芯褕懈褌芯 褋邪屑芯褍褋胁褨写芯屑谢械薪薪褟屑. 袙褨褌械褉 褕褍屑懈褌褜 褍 褋芯褋薪邪褏, 褋胁褨褌 斜械蟹锌芯胁芯褉芯褌薪芯 胁褏芯写懈褌褜 褍 斜褍褌褌褟, 锌邪胁褍泻 谐芯泄写邪褦褌褜褋褟 薪邪 褉芯蟹泻芯谢懈褋邪薪褨泄 胁褨褌褉芯屑 锌邪胁褍褌懈薪褨.
笑械 褋褌邪谢芯褋褟 芯褋褌邪薪薪褜芯谐芯 褉邪薪泻褍, 泻芯谢懈 胁芯薪懈 斜褍谢懈 褌褍褌, 薪邪 泻褍褏薪褨, 芯写薪芯褔邪褋薪芯: 胁芯薪懈 褕胁械薪写褟谢懈 芯写薪械 锌芯胁蟹 芯写薪芯谐芯, 褖芯斜懈 写褨褋褌邪褌懈 褖芯褋褜 褨蟹 褕邪褎懈 褔懈 褕褍褏谢褟写懈, 褔械泻邪谢懈, 写芯泻懈 褨薪褕懈泄 胁褨写褨泄写械 胁褨写 褍屑懈胁邪谢褜薪懈泻邪 褔懈 褏芯谢芯写懈谢褜薪懈泻邪, 薪邪胁泻芯谢芯 薪懈褏 写芯褋褨 褌邪薪褍谢懈 褋薪懈, 胁芯薪邪 褌褉懈屑邪谢邪 卸屑械薪褞 褔芯褉薪懈褑褨 锌褨写 褋褌褉褍屑械薪械屑 褨蟹 泻褉邪薪邪, 蟹邪锌谢褞褖懈胁褕懈 芯褔褨, 褨 胁写懈褏邪谢邪 蟹邪锌邪褏, 褟泻懈泄 蟹写褨泄屑邪胁褋褟 胁褨写 褟谐褨写.
袙褨薪 褋懈写褨胁 褨蟹 谐邪蟹械褌芯褞 泄 锌芯屑褨褕褍胁邪胁 泻邪胁褍. 小胁芯褞 泻邪胁褍, 褍 褋胁芯褩泄 褔邪褕褑褨. 袚邪蟹械褌褍 褔懈褌邪谢懈 褉邪蟹芯屑, 邪谢械 蟹邪 薪械锌褉芯谐芯胁芯褉械薪芯褞 写芯屑芯胁谢械薪褨褋褌褞 褌邪 薪邪谢械卸邪谢邪 褩泄.
鈥� 携 褏芯褌褨胁 褌芯斜褨 写械褖芯 褋泻邪蟹邪褌懈, 邪谢械 褖芯.
袙芯薪邪 锌褍褋褌懈谢邪 胁芯写褍 蟹 泻褉邪薪邪 褨 蟹胁械褉薪褍谢邪 褍胁邪谐褍. 校锌械褉褕械 胁 卸懈褌褌褨 蟹胁械褉薪褍谢邪 薪邪 褑械 褍胁邪谐褍.
鈥� 袩褉芯 写褨屑. 袨褌 褖芯, 鈥� 褋泻邪蟹邪胁 胁褨薪. 鈥� 携 褏芯褌褨胁 褌芯斜褨 写械褖芯 褋泻邪蟹邪褌懈.
袦褨泄 胁褨写谐褍泻 薪邪 芯褉懈谐褨薪邪谢 褌褍褌.
校 锌械褉械泻谢邪写褨 斜褍写械 锌褉械泻褉邪褋薪邪 锌械褉械写屑芯胁邪 袦邪泻褋懈屑邪 袧械褋褌械谢褦褦胁邪, 褟泻邪 胁胁芯写懈褌褜 锌芯胁褨褋褌褜 褍 泻芯薪褌械泻褋褌 褨 胁懈褌懈褋泻邪褦 蟹 薪械褩 屑邪泻褋懈屑褍屑 褋械薪褋褨胁 - 锌芯褔邪褌芯泻 锌械褉械写屑芯胁懈 袦邪泻褋 褑懈褌褍褦 褌褍褌.
袩械褉褕褨 邪斜蟹邪褑懈 锌芯胁褨褋褌懈薪泻懈 薪邪 锌褉芯斜褍:
效邪褋, 褋褏芯卸械, 屑懈薪邪褦. 小胁褨褌 蟹写褨泄褋薪褞褦褌褜褋褟, 褉芯蟹谐芯褉褌邪褦褌褜褋褟 薪邪 芯泻褉械屑褨 屑懈褌褨, 褌懈 褋锌懈薪褟褦褕褋褟 锌芯谐谢褟薪褍褌懈 薪邪 锌邪胁褍泻邪, 褟泻懈泄 褌褍谢懈褌褜褋褟 写芯 褋胁芯褦褩 锌邪胁褍褌懈薪懈. 袆 锌褉褍写泻褨褋褌褜 褋胁褨褌谢邪, 胁褨写褔褍褌褌褟 褔褨褌泻芯褋褌褨 芯斜褉懈褋褨胁 褍褋褨褏 褉械褔械泄, 斜谢懈褋泻褍褔褨 锌邪褌褜芯泻懈 胁 蟹邪褌芯褑褨. 孝懈 薪邪泄谐芯褋褌褉褨褕械 褉芯蟹褍屑褨褦褕, 泻懈屑 褌懈 褦, 写褍卸芯谐芯, 褟褋泻褉邪胁芯谐芯 写薪褟 锌褨褋谢褟 斜褍褉褨, 泻芯谢懈 薪邪胁褨褌褜 薪邪泄屑械薪褕懈泄 芯斜谢械褌褨谢懈泄 谢懈褋褌芯泻 锌褉芯褕懈褌芯 褋邪屑芯褍褋胁褨写芯屑谢械薪薪褟屑. 袙褨褌械褉 褕褍屑懈褌褜 褍 褋芯褋薪邪褏, 褋胁褨褌 斜械蟹锌芯胁芯褉芯褌薪芯 胁褏芯写懈褌褜 褍 斜褍褌褌褟, 锌邪胁褍泻 谐芯泄写邪褦褌褜褋褟 薪邪 褉芯蟹泻芯谢懈褋邪薪褨泄 胁褨褌褉芯屑 锌邪胁褍褌懈薪褨.
笑械 褋褌邪谢芯褋褟 芯褋褌邪薪薪褜芯谐芯 褉邪薪泻褍, 泻芯谢懈 胁芯薪懈 斜褍谢懈 褌褍褌, 薪邪 泻褍褏薪褨, 芯写薪芯褔邪褋薪芯: 胁芯薪懈 褕胁械薪写褟谢懈 芯写薪械 锌芯胁蟹 芯写薪芯谐芯, 褖芯斜懈 写褨褋褌邪褌懈 褖芯褋褜 褨蟹 褕邪褎懈 褔懈 褕褍褏谢褟写懈, 褔械泻邪谢懈, 写芯泻懈 褨薪褕懈泄 胁褨写褨泄写械 胁褨写 褍屑懈胁邪谢褜薪懈泻邪 褔懈 褏芯谢芯写懈谢褜薪懈泻邪, 薪邪胁泻芯谢芯 薪懈褏 写芯褋褨 褌邪薪褍谢懈 褋薪懈, 胁芯薪邪 褌褉懈屑邪谢邪 卸屑械薪褞 褔芯褉薪懈褑褨 锌褨写 褋褌褉褍屑械薪械屑 褨蟹 泻褉邪薪邪, 蟹邪锌谢褞褖懈胁褕懈 芯褔褨, 褨 胁写懈褏邪谢邪 蟹邪锌邪褏, 褟泻懈泄 蟹写褨泄屑邪胁褋褟 胁褨写 褟谐褨写.
袙褨薪 褋懈写褨胁 褨蟹 谐邪蟹械褌芯褞 泄 锌芯屑褨褕褍胁邪胁 泻邪胁褍. 小胁芯褞 泻邪胁褍, 褍 褋胁芯褩泄 褔邪褕褑褨. 袚邪蟹械褌褍 褔懈褌邪谢懈 褉邪蟹芯屑, 邪谢械 蟹邪 薪械锌褉芯谐芯胁芯褉械薪芯褞 写芯屑芯胁谢械薪褨褋褌褞 褌邪 薪邪谢械卸邪谢邪 褩泄.
鈥� 携 褏芯褌褨胁 褌芯斜褨 写械褖芯 褋泻邪蟹邪褌懈, 邪谢械 褖芯.
袙芯薪邪 锌褍褋褌懈谢邪 胁芯写褍 蟹 泻褉邪薪邪 褨 蟹胁械褉薪褍谢邪 褍胁邪谐褍. 校锌械褉褕械 胁 卸懈褌褌褨 蟹胁械褉薪褍谢邪 薪邪 褑械 褍胁邪谐褍.
鈥� 袩褉芯 写褨屑. 袨褌 褖芯, 鈥� 褋泻邪蟹邪胁 胁褨薪. 鈥� 携 褏芯褌褨胁 褌芯斜褨 写械褖芯 褋泻邪蟹邪褌懈.
April 28, 2022
Ve膰 i vrapci znaju da ameri膷ka knji啪evnost ne ta啪i moj 膷itala膷ki apetit i da ne uspevam da se otmem utisku da svaki tamo拧nji pisac jednim okom i拧膷itava tek prvo napisano poglavlje, a drugim ve膰 bira kravatu za sastanak sa filmskim producentom.
De Lilo u ovom slu膷aju puca na bergmanovski fazon i poga膽a metu uz samo jedan prestup: smetnuo je s uma osnovni princip minimalizma, pa je dodavao, nekako najvi拧e ba拧 tamo gde se moralo oduzimati. Time je postigao da pogledam 拧ta je jo拧 napisao: rekla bih da bi mu drugi centri bili lak拧e dometni. Ovaj je pak, a o膷ekivano, proma拧io (Bolanjo, 膷ini mi se, negde pi拧e o razlici izme膽u peciva iz mikrotalasne i francuske pekare, nije tu u pitanju puka komparativna prednost), zbog 膷ega je Bodi artist sasvim bezveze izvedba prili膷no dobre zamisli.
Ne radi se samo o tome 拧to se ne sla啪emo oko toga 拧ta je umetnost a 拧ta izraz (za mene je slikanje vaginom isklju膷ivo za膷udni izraz). Ni o tome 拧to ne mislim da je potrebno uvoditi babu Japanku kao simbol smirene samosvesti (recimo, iako ne znam koji 膰e mu ta baba, i s jaknom i bez nje). Ni 拧to bi ona scena u kadi bila tristasedamnaest puta funkcionalnija da me je pustio da pretpostavljam pipkanje za genitalije. Ni o tome 拧to ovoliko prazna protagonistkinja ne mo啪e biti ni epizodista, a kamoli sto啪er fabule. Ni o tome 拧to sveznaju膰i pisac treba da ume da odglumi objektivnost, makar iz pristojnosti.
Radi se o tome 拧to se ne mo啪ete oslanjati na usporenost ako nemate strpljenja da izvedete ne拧to inventivnije od spu拧tanja broja obrtaja. Drugim re膷ima, kad pustite Sepulturu* unazad slu拧ate Sepulturu unazad.
艩teta za ideju.
*De Lilo ne spominje Sepulturu (sre膰om po Sepulturu), nego mu je postavka jednako nesretna kao i onima 拧to veruju u svemo膰 i neumitnost gospodara zla koji dolazi na jedan tako glupavi poziv.
De Lilo u ovom slu膷aju puca na bergmanovski fazon i poga膽a metu uz samo jedan prestup: smetnuo je s uma osnovni princip minimalizma, pa je dodavao, nekako najvi拧e ba拧 tamo gde se moralo oduzimati. Time je postigao da pogledam 拧ta je jo拧 napisao: rekla bih da bi mu drugi centri bili lak拧e dometni. Ovaj je pak, a o膷ekivano, proma拧io (Bolanjo, 膷ini mi se, negde pi拧e o razlici izme膽u peciva iz mikrotalasne i francuske pekare, nije tu u pitanju puka komparativna prednost), zbog 膷ega je Bodi artist sasvim bezveze izvedba prili膷no dobre zamisli.
Ne radi se samo o tome 拧to se ne sla啪emo oko toga 拧ta je umetnost a 拧ta izraz (za mene je slikanje vaginom isklju膷ivo za膷udni izraz). Ni o tome 拧to ne mislim da je potrebno uvoditi babu Japanku kao simbol smirene samosvesti (recimo, iako ne znam koji 膰e mu ta baba, i s jaknom i bez nje). Ni 拧to bi ona scena u kadi bila tristasedamnaest puta funkcionalnija da me je pustio da pretpostavljam pipkanje za genitalije. Ni o tome 拧to ovoliko prazna protagonistkinja ne mo啪e biti ni epizodista, a kamoli sto啪er fabule. Ni o tome 拧to sveznaju膰i pisac treba da ume da odglumi objektivnost, makar iz pristojnosti.
Radi se o tome 拧to se ne mo啪ete oslanjati na usporenost ako nemate strpljenja da izvedete ne拧to inventivnije od spu拧tanja broja obrtaja. Drugim re膷ima, kad pustite Sepulturu* unazad slu拧ate Sepulturu unazad.
艩teta za ideju.
*De Lilo ne spominje Sepulturu (sre膰om po Sepulturu), nego mu je postavka jednako nesretna kao i onima 拧to veruju u svemo膰 i neumitnost gospodara zla koji dolazi na jedan tako glupavi poziv.
April 3, 2021
泻芯屑斜芯: 锌芯械褌懈褔薪邪 锌褉芯蟹邪 胁褨写 袛芯薪邪 袛械谢褨谢谢芯. 锌褉械泻褉邪褋薪懈泄 锌械褉械泻谢邪写 胁褨写 携褉芯褋谢邪胁懈 小褌褉褨褏懈.
P.S. + 屑芯褟 锌褨褋谢褟屑芯胁邪, 褟泻邪 锌芯褔懈薪邪褦褌褜褋褟 褌邪泻 -
效邪褋, 屑芯胁邪 褨 谢褞写褋褜泻械 谐芯褉械
校 蟹邪谐芯谢芯胁泻褍 鈥� 胁褨写锌芯胁褨写褜 袛械谢褨谢谢芯 薪邪 锌懈褌邪薪薪褟 锌褉芯 褌械屑褍 芦啸褍写芯卸薪懈褑褨 褌褨谢邪禄 褨 褉芯蟹褌谢褍屑邪褔褍胁邪褌懈 褩褩 鈥� 褑械 褟泻 写芯泻谢邪写薪芯 锌芯褟褋薪褞胁邪褌懈 写懈胁芯, 芯锌懈褋邪薪械 胁 泄芯谐芯 写胁邪薪邪写褑褟褌芯屑褍 褉芯屑邪薪褨, 褏芯褔 锌懈褋褜屑械薪薪懈泻褍 写芯 褑褜芯谐芯 薪械 蟹胁懈泻邪褌懈: 胁褨薪 薪械 胁褌芯屑谢褞褦褌褜褋褟 写懈胁褍胁邪褌懈 褋胁芯褩褏 褔懈褌邪褔褨胁 蟹 1960 褉芯泻褍.
袉褋薪褍褦 斜械蟹谢褨褔 泻谢邪褋懈褎褨泻邪褑褨泄 斜邪谐邪褌芯写械褋褟褌懈谢褨褌薪褜芯褩 褌胁芯褉褔芯褋褌褨 袛械谢褨谢谢芯, 芯写薪邪泻 薪邪泄褔邪褋褌褨褕械 屑械卸邪 锌褉芯褏芯写懈褌褜 褟泻褉邪蟹 锌芯 褌芯屑褍 褉芯屑邪薪褍, 褟泻懈泄 胁懈 褌褉懈屑邪褦褌械 褍 褉褍泻邪褏. 孝邪泻 袛卸芯蟹械褎 袛鈥櫻幯� 锌芯写褨谢褟褦 褌胁芯褉褔褨褋褌褜 锌懈褋褜屑械薪薪懈泻邪 薪邪 褌褉懈 褏褉芯薪芯谢芯谐褨褔薪褨 械褌邪锌懈, 褖芯, 胁 泄芯谐芯 褨薪褌械褉锌褉械褌邪褑褨褩, 锌褉械写褋褌邪胁谢褟褞褌褜 褉褨蟹薪褨 褋褌褉邪褌械谐褨褩 胁褨写薪芯胁谢械薪薪褟 邪胁褌械薪褌懈褔薪芯褋褌褨 胁谢邪褋薪芯谐芯 芦褟禄 锌褨褋谢褟 锌芯泻邪褉邪薪薪褟 芦薪械锌芯褏懈褌薪芯褞 斜械蟹锌芯褉邪写薪褨褋褌褞禄, 锌械褉械卸懈褌芯谐芯 邪屑械褉懈泻邪薪褑褟屑懈 蟹邪 芯褋褌邪薪薪褨 50 褉芯泻褨胁:
1) 邪胁褌芯褉 芦褋锌褉懈泄薪褟胁 胁褍谢懈褑褞禄: 胁褨写 芦袗屑械褉懈泻邪薪懈禄 (1971) 写芯 芦小芯斜邪泻懈-锌芯褋褨锌邪泻懈禄 (1978);
2) 胁懈锌褉芯斜褍胁邪胁 褋胁芯褦 谐谢懈斜芯泻械 蟹邪褏芯锌谢械薪薪褟 褋谢芯胁芯屑: 胁褨写 芦袉屑械薪禄 (1982) 写芯 芦袦邪芯 袉袉禄 (1991);
3) 蟹胁械褉薪褍胁褋褟 写芯 芦锌褨写褌械泻褋褌褨胁 写褍褕褨禄: 胁褨写 芦袩褨写蟹械屑薪芯谐芯 褋胁褨褌褍禄 (1997) 写芯 芦袥褞写懈薪邪, 褖芯 锌邪写邪褦禄 (2007).
袨褋褌邪薪薪褨泄 薪邪褌械锌械褉 褌褉械褌褨泄 械褌邪锌 褌邪泻芯卸 薪邪蟹懈胁邪褞褌褜 褎褨谢芯褋芯褎褋褜泻懈屑 邪斜芯 屑褨薪褨屑邪谢褨褋褌懈褔薪懈屑, 褟泻褖芯 蟹胁邪卸懈褌懈 薪邪 褌械, 褖芯 锌芯锌械褉械写薪褦 褋褌芯谢褨褌褌褟 袛芯薪 袛械谢褨谢谢芯 蟹邪胁械褉褕懈胁 827-褋褌芯褉褨薪泻芯胁懈屑 褉芯屑邪薪芯屑 芦袩褨写蟹械屑薪懈泄 褋胁褨褌禄, 邪 薪邪褕械 锌芯褔邪胁 蟹 锌芯胁褨褋褌懈薪泻懈 褍 褋褨屑 褉邪蟹褨胁 屑械薪褕芯褩, 褟泻邪 锌褨写斜懈胁邪谢邪 锌褨写褋褍屑泻懈 啸啸 胁褨泻褍. 袧邪 写褍屑泻褍 锌懈褋褜屑械薪薪懈泻邪, 写胁褨 锌芯写褨褩 胁懈蟹薪邪褔懈谢懈 邪屑械褉懈泻邪薪褋褜泻褍 褨褋褌芯褉褨褞 屑懈薪褍谢芯谐芯 褋褌芯谢褨褌褌褟 鈥� 褍斜懈胁褋褌胁芯 袣械薪薪械写褨 (1963) 褌邪 褌褉邪谐械写褨褟 11 胁械褉械褋薪褟 (2001). 袨褋褌邪薪薪褟 鈥� 屑械卸芯胁邪 写邪褌邪, 褨蟹 褟泻芯褞 斜邪谐邪褌芯 褏褌芯 锌芯胁鈥櫻徯费冄� 褋懈屑胁芯谢褨褔薪懈泄 锌芯褔邪褌芯泻 薪芯胁芯谐芯 褋褌芯谢褨褌褌褟, 邪 泻褍谢褜褌褍褉芯谢芯谐懈 鈥� 泻褨薪械褑褜 锌芯褋褌屑芯写械褉薪褨蟹屑褍, 泄 芯斜懈写胁褨 胁芯薪懈 薪械 屑芯谐谢懈 芯屑懈薪褍褌懈 褍胁邪卸薪懈泄 胁褨蟹褨芯薪械褉褋褜泻懈泄 锌芯谐谢褟写 袛芯薪邪 袛械谢褨谢谢芯. 袪芯蟹褋谢褨写褍胁邪薪薪褞 胁褋褨褏 芯斜褋褌邪胁懈薪 褨 泻芯薪褌械泻褋褌褨胁 蟹邪谐懈斜械谢褨 锌褉械蟹懈写械薪褌邪 胁褨薪 锌褉懈褋胁褟褌懈胁 褉芯屑邪薪 芦孝械褉械蟹懈禄, 褖芯 芯锌褍斜谢褨泻褍胁邪谢懈 蟹邪 25 褉芯泻褨胁 锌褨褋谢褟 褋邪屑芯褩 锌芯写褨褩, 邪 写谢褟 芯褋屑懈褋谢械薪薪褟 褌褉邪谐械写褨褩 9/11 泄芯屑褍 胁卸械 蟹薪邪写芯斜懈谢芯褋褟 蟹薪邪褔薪芯 屑械薪褕械 褔邪褋褍 鈥� 褉芯屑邪薪 芦袥褞写懈薪邪, 褖芯 锌邪写邪褦禄 薪邪写褉褍泻褍胁邪谢懈 蟹邪 6 褉芯泻褨胁 锌褨褋谢褟 褌械褉邪泻褌褍.
芦啸褍写芯卸薪懈褑褟 褌褨谢邪禄 胁懈泄褕谢邪 胁 2001 褉芯褑褨, 邪谢械 胁 谢褞褌芯屑褍, 褌芯卸, 蟹褉芯蟹褍屑褨谢芯, 褖芯 锌褉芯 胁械谢懈泻褍 邪屑械褉懈泻邪薪褋褜泻褍 褌褉邪谐械写褨褞 胁 薪褜芯屑褍 褖械 薪械 泄写械褌褜褋褟, 薪邪褌芯屑褨褋褌褜 袛械谢褨谢谢芯 芯褋屑懈褋谢褞褦 褌褉邪谐械写褨褞 屑邪谢械薪褜泻褍, 褋褨屑械泄薪褍, 褍 褟泻褨泄, 褟泻 褍 写蟹械褉泻邪谢褨, 胁褨写斜懈胁邪褦褌褜褋褟 谢褞写懈薪邪 薪芯胁芯谐芯 褌懈褋褟褔芯谢褨褌褌褟. 袩芯锌褉懈 薪械蟹薪邪褔薪懈泄 芯斜褋褟谐 芦啸褍写芯卸薪懈褑褟 褌褨谢邪禄 鈥� 褑械 锌褉邪泻褌懈褔薪芯 锌芯械屑邪 胁 锌褉芯蟹褨, 谢褨褉芯械锌褨褔薪懈泄 械褌褞写, 褖芯, 芯谐谢褟写邪褞褔懈 泄芯谐芯 薪芯胁褨褌薪褞 锌褉芯蟹褍, 褋锌芯泻褍褕邪褦 锌械褉械胁懈蟹薪邪褔懈褌懈 胁械褋褜 薪芯胁褨褌薪褨泄 锌械褉褨芯写 褌胁芯褉褔芯褋褌褨 锌懈褋褜屑械薪薪懈泻邪 褟泻 锌芯械褌懈褔薪懈泄...
邪 蟹邪泻褨薪褔褍褦褌褜褋褟 胁卸械 胁 锌邪锌械褉芯胁褨泄 胁械褉褋褨褩 ;)
P.S. + 屑芯褟 锌褨褋谢褟屑芯胁邪, 褟泻邪 锌芯褔懈薪邪褦褌褜褋褟 褌邪泻 -
效邪褋, 屑芯胁邪 褨 谢褞写褋褜泻械 谐芯褉械
校 蟹邪谐芯谢芯胁泻褍 鈥� 胁褨写锌芯胁褨写褜 袛械谢褨谢谢芯 薪邪 锌懈褌邪薪薪褟 锌褉芯 褌械屑褍 芦啸褍写芯卸薪懈褑褨 褌褨谢邪禄 褨 褉芯蟹褌谢褍屑邪褔褍胁邪褌懈 褩褩 鈥� 褑械 褟泻 写芯泻谢邪写薪芯 锌芯褟褋薪褞胁邪褌懈 写懈胁芯, 芯锌懈褋邪薪械 胁 泄芯谐芯 写胁邪薪邪写褑褟褌芯屑褍 褉芯屑邪薪褨, 褏芯褔 锌懈褋褜屑械薪薪懈泻褍 写芯 褑褜芯谐芯 薪械 蟹胁懈泻邪褌懈: 胁褨薪 薪械 胁褌芯屑谢褞褦褌褜褋褟 写懈胁褍胁邪褌懈 褋胁芯褩褏 褔懈褌邪褔褨胁 蟹 1960 褉芯泻褍.
袉褋薪褍褦 斜械蟹谢褨褔 泻谢邪褋懈褎褨泻邪褑褨泄 斜邪谐邪褌芯写械褋褟褌懈谢褨褌薪褜芯褩 褌胁芯褉褔芯褋褌褨 袛械谢褨谢谢芯, 芯写薪邪泻 薪邪泄褔邪褋褌褨褕械 屑械卸邪 锌褉芯褏芯写懈褌褜 褟泻褉邪蟹 锌芯 褌芯屑褍 褉芯屑邪薪褍, 褟泻懈泄 胁懈 褌褉懈屑邪褦褌械 褍 褉褍泻邪褏. 孝邪泻 袛卸芯蟹械褎 袛鈥櫻幯� 锌芯写褨谢褟褦 褌胁芯褉褔褨褋褌褜 锌懈褋褜屑械薪薪懈泻邪 薪邪 褌褉懈 褏褉芯薪芯谢芯谐褨褔薪褨 械褌邪锌懈, 褖芯, 胁 泄芯谐芯 褨薪褌械褉锌褉械褌邪褑褨褩, 锌褉械写褋褌邪胁谢褟褞褌褜 褉褨蟹薪褨 褋褌褉邪褌械谐褨褩 胁褨写薪芯胁谢械薪薪褟 邪胁褌械薪褌懈褔薪芯褋褌褨 胁谢邪褋薪芯谐芯 芦褟禄 锌褨褋谢褟 锌芯泻邪褉邪薪薪褟 芦薪械锌芯褏懈褌薪芯褞 斜械蟹锌芯褉邪写薪褨褋褌褞禄, 锌械褉械卸懈褌芯谐芯 邪屑械褉懈泻邪薪褑褟屑懈 蟹邪 芯褋褌邪薪薪褨 50 褉芯泻褨胁:
1) 邪胁褌芯褉 芦褋锌褉懈泄薪褟胁 胁褍谢懈褑褞禄: 胁褨写 芦袗屑械褉懈泻邪薪懈禄 (1971) 写芯 芦小芯斜邪泻懈-锌芯褋褨锌邪泻懈禄 (1978);
2) 胁懈锌褉芯斜褍胁邪胁 褋胁芯褦 谐谢懈斜芯泻械 蟹邪褏芯锌谢械薪薪褟 褋谢芯胁芯屑: 胁褨写 芦袉屑械薪禄 (1982) 写芯 芦袦邪芯 袉袉禄 (1991);
3) 蟹胁械褉薪褍胁褋褟 写芯 芦锌褨写褌械泻褋褌褨胁 写褍褕褨禄: 胁褨写 芦袩褨写蟹械屑薪芯谐芯 褋胁褨褌褍禄 (1997) 写芯 芦袥褞写懈薪邪, 褖芯 锌邪写邪褦禄 (2007).
袨褋褌邪薪薪褨泄 薪邪褌械锌械褉 褌褉械褌褨泄 械褌邪锌 褌邪泻芯卸 薪邪蟹懈胁邪褞褌褜 褎褨谢芯褋芯褎褋褜泻懈屑 邪斜芯 屑褨薪褨屑邪谢褨褋褌懈褔薪懈屑, 褟泻褖芯 蟹胁邪卸懈褌懈 薪邪 褌械, 褖芯 锌芯锌械褉械写薪褦 褋褌芯谢褨褌褌褟 袛芯薪 袛械谢褨谢谢芯 蟹邪胁械褉褕懈胁 827-褋褌芯褉褨薪泻芯胁懈屑 褉芯屑邪薪芯屑 芦袩褨写蟹械屑薪懈泄 褋胁褨褌禄, 邪 薪邪褕械 锌芯褔邪胁 蟹 锌芯胁褨褋褌懈薪泻懈 褍 褋褨屑 褉邪蟹褨胁 屑械薪褕芯褩, 褟泻邪 锌褨写斜懈胁邪谢邪 锌褨写褋褍屑泻懈 啸啸 胁褨泻褍. 袧邪 写褍屑泻褍 锌懈褋褜屑械薪薪懈泻邪, 写胁褨 锌芯写褨褩 胁懈蟹薪邪褔懈谢懈 邪屑械褉懈泻邪薪褋褜泻褍 褨褋褌芯褉褨褞 屑懈薪褍谢芯谐芯 褋褌芯谢褨褌褌褟 鈥� 褍斜懈胁褋褌胁芯 袣械薪薪械写褨 (1963) 褌邪 褌褉邪谐械写褨褟 11 胁械褉械褋薪褟 (2001). 袨褋褌邪薪薪褟 鈥� 屑械卸芯胁邪 写邪褌邪, 褨蟹 褟泻芯褞 斜邪谐邪褌芯 褏褌芯 锌芯胁鈥櫻徯费冄� 褋懈屑胁芯谢褨褔薪懈泄 锌芯褔邪褌芯泻 薪芯胁芯谐芯 褋褌芯谢褨褌褌褟, 邪 泻褍谢褜褌褍褉芯谢芯谐懈 鈥� 泻褨薪械褑褜 锌芯褋褌屑芯写械褉薪褨蟹屑褍, 泄 芯斜懈写胁褨 胁芯薪懈 薪械 屑芯谐谢懈 芯屑懈薪褍褌懈 褍胁邪卸薪懈泄 胁褨蟹褨芯薪械褉褋褜泻懈泄 锌芯谐谢褟写 袛芯薪邪 袛械谢褨谢谢芯. 袪芯蟹褋谢褨写褍胁邪薪薪褞 胁褋褨褏 芯斜褋褌邪胁懈薪 褨 泻芯薪褌械泻褋褌褨胁 蟹邪谐懈斜械谢褨 锌褉械蟹懈写械薪褌邪 胁褨薪 锌褉懈褋胁褟褌懈胁 褉芯屑邪薪 芦孝械褉械蟹懈禄, 褖芯 芯锌褍斜谢褨泻褍胁邪谢懈 蟹邪 25 褉芯泻褨胁 锌褨褋谢褟 褋邪屑芯褩 锌芯写褨褩, 邪 写谢褟 芯褋屑懈褋谢械薪薪褟 褌褉邪谐械写褨褩 9/11 泄芯屑褍 胁卸械 蟹薪邪写芯斜懈谢芯褋褟 蟹薪邪褔薪芯 屑械薪褕械 褔邪褋褍 鈥� 褉芯屑邪薪 芦袥褞写懈薪邪, 褖芯 锌邪写邪褦禄 薪邪写褉褍泻褍胁邪谢懈 蟹邪 6 褉芯泻褨胁 锌褨褋谢褟 褌械褉邪泻褌褍.
芦啸褍写芯卸薪懈褑褟 褌褨谢邪禄 胁懈泄褕谢邪 胁 2001 褉芯褑褨, 邪谢械 胁 谢褞褌芯屑褍, 褌芯卸, 蟹褉芯蟹褍屑褨谢芯, 褖芯 锌褉芯 胁械谢懈泻褍 邪屑械褉懈泻邪薪褋褜泻褍 褌褉邪谐械写褨褞 胁 薪褜芯屑褍 褖械 薪械 泄写械褌褜褋褟, 薪邪褌芯屑褨褋褌褜 袛械谢褨谢谢芯 芯褋屑懈褋谢褞褦 褌褉邪谐械写褨褞 屑邪谢械薪褜泻褍, 褋褨屑械泄薪褍, 褍 褟泻褨泄, 褟泻 褍 写蟹械褉泻邪谢褨, 胁褨写斜懈胁邪褦褌褜褋褟 谢褞写懈薪邪 薪芯胁芯谐芯 褌懈褋褟褔芯谢褨褌褌褟. 袩芯锌褉懈 薪械蟹薪邪褔薪懈泄 芯斜褋褟谐 芦啸褍写芯卸薪懈褑褟 褌褨谢邪禄 鈥� 褑械 锌褉邪泻褌懈褔薪芯 锌芯械屑邪 胁 锌褉芯蟹褨, 谢褨褉芯械锌褨褔薪懈泄 械褌褞写, 褖芯, 芯谐谢褟写邪褞褔懈 泄芯谐芯 薪芯胁褨褌薪褞 锌褉芯蟹褍, 褋锌芯泻褍褕邪褦 锌械褉械胁懈蟹薪邪褔懈褌懈 胁械褋褜 薪芯胁褨褌薪褨泄 锌械褉褨芯写 褌胁芯褉褔芯褋褌褨 锌懈褋褜屑械薪薪懈泻邪 褟泻 锌芯械褌懈褔薪懈泄...
邪 蟹邪泻褨薪褔褍褦褌褜褋褟 胁卸械 胁 锌邪锌械褉芯胁褨泄 胁械褉褋褨褩 ;)
November 13, 2011
I picked this book from the 1001 books list based on the title - "The Body Artist". I will also shamefacedly admit that it was part of my cherry picking short books off the 1001 list in a bid to cheat my way to a higher number of "read" books. Don't do this people, it can backfire. It is also a good reminder that we should read for pleasure and not to fulfil a list, or make up numbers or as a sort of enforced chore. Which was what this book became.
It appealed to me, mainly because I spend a lot of time digging up bodies and thinking about the human condition in a non philosophical sense. I'm not very philosophical. Despite what the grave digger in Hamlet would have you believe, spending your time up to your arse in charnel and musing upon the bony visages of the long departed will not turn you into a thoughtful poet. It will turn you into a slightly ghoulish cynic who sees us for what we are, mobile worm food which has not started rotting yet.
Anyway, a friend had already warned me off Don DeLillo but foolishly I chose not to heed that warning and stumbled off into the cover of this book instead. Really, really wish I had not. Half a day of my life (it's a mercifully short book) which is not reclaimable and means I am now officially half a day closer to my annelid snack-fest destiny while having lost out to a load of self indulgent piffle. The premise is OK but the sentence structure and stylistic traits of the book are not for me. "Lauren ate her breakfast, or not, it didn't matte". Come on Don! They're your characters so please decide whether or not they performed an action. Otherwise that's just lazy.
For those of you who also read this and decided that Don DeLillo had had his one and only chance on your bookshelves, don't lose heart! I recently read White Noise and it endeared me to Don, really it did. I'm just about to start reading Cosmopolis and have Underworld lined up like a threatening bulky bully on my shelf too. I'll get back to you once it's finished pummelling my face with its daunting word mass.
It appealed to me, mainly because I spend a lot of time digging up bodies and thinking about the human condition in a non philosophical sense. I'm not very philosophical. Despite what the grave digger in Hamlet would have you believe, spending your time up to your arse in charnel and musing upon the bony visages of the long departed will not turn you into a thoughtful poet. It will turn you into a slightly ghoulish cynic who sees us for what we are, mobile worm food which has not started rotting yet.
Anyway, a friend had already warned me off Don DeLillo but foolishly I chose not to heed that warning and stumbled off into the cover of this book instead. Really, really wish I had not. Half a day of my life (it's a mercifully short book) which is not reclaimable and means I am now officially half a day closer to my annelid snack-fest destiny while having lost out to a load of self indulgent piffle. The premise is OK but the sentence structure and stylistic traits of the book are not for me. "Lauren ate her breakfast, or not, it didn't matte". Come on Don! They're your characters so please decide whether or not they performed an action. Otherwise that's just lazy.
For those of you who also read this and decided that Don DeLillo had had his one and only chance on your bookshelves, don't lose heart! I recently read White Noise and it endeared me to Don, really it did. I'm just about to start reading Cosmopolis and have Underworld lined up like a threatening bulky bully on my shelf too. I'll get back to you once it's finished pummelling my face with its daunting word mass.
August 25, 2023
Holy shit this was so haunting and gorgeous.
January 8, 2021
A very strange book. I don't know how to even review it. This book opens with a couple: Rey an old filmmaker and Lauren a body artist, quite recently wed, having their breakfast at their home. This scene is very interesting, confusing and strange. They converse, but neither are listening. They want to talk more, but they don't know what. Lauren is fascinated by the birds that come to visit them and she doesn't listen to what Rey says to her. She talks to him about a strange sound in the house, as if there is another person inside it. They had already checked the home but couldn't find anyone. After the breakfast, Rey goes to his ex-wife's apartment and commits suicide!
Are we missing something??
After a few days, Lauren finds someone inside the house. A strange boy/man whose age she cannot determine. He doesn't speak anything except parts of the entire conversation she had with Rey. She calls him Mr.Tuttle. She takes care of him, feeds him and he in return tells him more of the conversation as if played from a recording device.
This book reminded me so much about Wylding Hall, though I'm not sure why. Towards the end I wondered if Tuttle was Lauren's way of coping with the grief of her husband's loss, as she did not listen to his words during breakfast. I'm still confused about this book and will have to read it again sometime soon.
Are we missing something??
After a few days, Lauren finds someone inside the house. A strange boy/man whose age she cannot determine. He doesn't speak anything except parts of the entire conversation she had with Rey. She calls him Mr.Tuttle. She takes care of him, feeds him and he in return tells him more of the conversation as if played from a recording device.
This book reminded me so much about Wylding Hall, though I'm not sure why. Towards the end I wondered if Tuttle was Lauren's way of coping with the grief of her husband's loss, as she did not listen to his words during breakfast. I'm still confused about this book and will have to read it again sometime soon.
September 19, 2022
褟泻芯褋褜 谐芯谢芯胁薪邪 谐械褉芯褩薪褟 (褍 薪械褩 褦 褨屑鈥櫻�, 邪谢械 胁 褌械泻褋褌褨 胁芯薪邪 锌褨写泻褉械褋谢械薪芯 芦胁芯薪邪禄, 褌芯 薪邪 褑褜芯屑褍 泄 蟹邪谢懈褕屑芯褋褟) 蟹薪邪褏芯写懈褌褜 褍 褋械斜械 胁 褋薪褨写邪薪泻褍 褔褍卸褍 胁芯谢芯褋懈薪褍, 邪 锌褨蟹薪褨褕械 褌芯谐芯 褋邪屑芯谐芯 写薪褟 褩褩 褔芯谢芯胁褨泻邪 蟹薪邪褏芯写褟褌褜 褨蟹 锌褉芯褋褌褉械谢械薪芯褞 谐芯谢芯胁芯褞 褍 胁褨褌邪谢褜薪褨 泻芯谢懈褕薪褜芯褩. 泻芯褉芯褌褕械, 褨蟹 褋邪屑芯谐芯 褉邪薪泻褍 褖芯褋褜 锌褨褕谢芯 薪械 褌邪泻. 邪谢械 锌褉懈泻褉褨 褌褉邪锌褍薪泻懈 薪邪 褌芯屑褍 薪械 蟹邪泻褨薪褔褍褞褌褜褋褟, 褨 薪械胁写芯胁蟹褨 胁写芯屑邪 胁 谐械褉芯褩薪褨 蟹薪邪褏芯写懈褌褜褋褟 褏褌芯褋褜, 蟹芯胁薪褨 薪邪褔械 蟹胁懈褔邪泄薪邪 谢褞写懈薪邪, 芯写薪邪泻 褍 褋锌褨谢泻褍胁邪薪薪褨 鈥� 薪邪褔械 泄 薪械 蟹芯胁褋褨屑.
屑芯卸械, 褑械 锌械褉褋芯薪褨褎褨泻邪褑褨褟 褩褩 谐芯褉褟, 褍褋械-褌邪泻懈 谐械褉芯褩薪褟 写褍卸械 谢褞斜懈谢邪 褋胁芯谐芯 褔芯谢芯胁褨泻邪 (写芯斜褉械, 褖芯 胁芯薪邪 薪邪屑 锌褉芯 褑械 泻褨谢褜泻邪 褉邪蟹褨胁 薪邪谐邪写褍褦, 斜芯 蟹褨 褋褑械薪懈 褩褏薪褜芯谐芯 褋锌褨谢褜薪芯谐芯 褋薪褨写邪薪泻褍 褋泻谢邪写薪芯 斜褍谢芯 斜懈 蟹褉芯蟹褍屑褨褌懈); 屑芯卸械, 褑械 斜芯卸械胁褨谢褜薪懈泄, 褟泻懈泄 褍褌褨泻 褨蟹 褟泻芯谐芯褋褜 锌芯斜谢懈蟹褜泻芯谐芯 锌褉懈褌褍谢泻褍 (邪谢械 褑械 锌褉懈锌褍褖械薪薪褟 薪械 褋锌懈薪褟褦 谐械褉芯褩薪褞 胁褨写 褌芯谐芯, 褖芯斜 蟹邪泄薪褟褌懈褋褟 蟹 薪懈屑 褋械泻褋芯屑, 写芯 褟泻芯谐芯 胁褨薪 薪械 胁懈褟胁懈胁 卸芯写薪芯褩 褨薪褨褑褨邪褌懈胁懈); 屑芯卸械, 褑械 胁蟹邪谐邪谢褨 褨薪芯锌谢邪薪械褌褟薪懈薪 (褨 写褍屑泻邪 谐械褉芯褩薪褨 芦谐屑, 邪 褉邪锌褌芯屑 褟 锌械褉褕邪 谢褞写懈薪邪, 褖芯 胁懈泻褉邪谢邪 褨薪芯锌谢邪薪械褌褟薪懈薪邪?禄 褑械 屑芯褦 褍谢褞斜谢械薪械 屑褨褋褑械 胁 泻薪懈卸褑褨). 褍 泻芯卸薪芯屑褍 褉邪蟹褨, 褑械 胁褨写褔邪泄写褍褕薪懈泄 锌芯褋褌屑芯写械褉薪褨蟹屑, 褌芯卸 芯写薪芯蟹薪邪褔薪芯褩 胁褨写锌芯胁褨写褨 薪械屑邪褦, 褨 胁邪褕褨 褨薪褌械褉锌褉械褌邪褑褨褩 薪褨褔懈屑 薪械 谐褨褉褕褨 蟹邪 邪胁褌芯褉褋褜泻褍, 斜芯 邪胁褌芯褉 锌芯屑械褉. (邪谢械 薪械 写械谢褨谢谢芯, 褨蟹 写械谢褨谢谢芯 锌芯泻懈 褖芯 胁褋械 薪芯褉屑; 薪褍, 泻褉褨屑 褌芯谐芯, 褖芯 锌褉芯 谢褞斜芯胁 褍 薪褜芯谐芯 胁懈褏芯写懈褌褜 薪械 褌邪泻 写芯斜褉械, 褟泻 锌褉芯 邪泻邪写械屑褨褔薪械 褋邪屑芯蟹胁邪薪褋褌胁芯).
屑芯卸械, 褑械 锌械褉褋芯薪褨褎褨泻邪褑褨褟 褩褩 谐芯褉褟, 褍褋械-褌邪泻懈 谐械褉芯褩薪褟 写褍卸械 谢褞斜懈谢邪 褋胁芯谐芯 褔芯谢芯胁褨泻邪 (写芯斜褉械, 褖芯 胁芯薪邪 薪邪屑 锌褉芯 褑械 泻褨谢褜泻邪 褉邪蟹褨胁 薪邪谐邪写褍褦, 斜芯 蟹褨 褋褑械薪懈 褩褏薪褜芯谐芯 褋锌褨谢褜薪芯谐芯 褋薪褨写邪薪泻褍 褋泻谢邪写薪芯 斜褍谢芯 斜懈 蟹褉芯蟹褍屑褨褌懈); 屑芯卸械, 褑械 斜芯卸械胁褨谢褜薪懈泄, 褟泻懈泄 褍褌褨泻 褨蟹 褟泻芯谐芯褋褜 锌芯斜谢懈蟹褜泻芯谐芯 锌褉懈褌褍谢泻褍 (邪谢械 褑械 锌褉懈锌褍褖械薪薪褟 薪械 褋锌懈薪褟褦 谐械褉芯褩薪褞 胁褨写 褌芯谐芯, 褖芯斜 蟹邪泄薪褟褌懈褋褟 蟹 薪懈屑 褋械泻褋芯屑, 写芯 褟泻芯谐芯 胁褨薪 薪械 胁懈褟胁懈胁 卸芯写薪芯褩 褨薪褨褑褨邪褌懈胁懈); 屑芯卸械, 褑械 胁蟹邪谐邪谢褨 褨薪芯锌谢邪薪械褌褟薪懈薪 (褨 写褍屑泻邪 谐械褉芯褩薪褨 芦谐屑, 邪 褉邪锌褌芯屑 褟 锌械褉褕邪 谢褞写懈薪邪, 褖芯 胁懈泻褉邪谢邪 褨薪芯锌谢邪薪械褌褟薪懈薪邪?禄 褑械 屑芯褦 褍谢褞斜谢械薪械 屑褨褋褑械 胁 泻薪懈卸褑褨). 褍 泻芯卸薪芯屑褍 褉邪蟹褨, 褑械 胁褨写褔邪泄写褍褕薪懈泄 锌芯褋褌屑芯写械褉薪褨蟹屑, 褌芯卸 芯写薪芯蟹薪邪褔薪芯褩 胁褨写锌芯胁褨写褨 薪械屑邪褦, 褨 胁邪褕褨 褨薪褌械褉锌褉械褌邪褑褨褩 薪褨褔懈屑 薪械 谐褨褉褕褨 蟹邪 邪胁褌芯褉褋褜泻褍, 斜芯 邪胁褌芯褉 锌芯屑械褉. (邪谢械 薪械 写械谢褨谢谢芯, 褨蟹 写械谢褨谢谢芯 锌芯泻懈 褖芯 胁褋械 薪芯褉屑; 薪褍, 泻褉褨屑 褌芯谐芯, 褖芯 锌褉芯 谢褞斜芯胁 褍 薪褜芯谐芯 胁懈褏芯写懈褌褜 薪械 褌邪泻 写芯斜褉械, 褟泻 锌褉芯 邪泻邪写械屑褨褔薪械 褋邪屑芯蟹胁邪薪褋褌胁芯).
February 5, 2018
鈥淲hat did it mean, the first time, a thinking creature looked deeply into another's eyes? Did it take a hundred thousand years before this happened or it was the first thing they did, transcendingly, the thing that made them higher, made them modern, the gaze that demonstrates we are lonely in our souls?鈥�The Body Artist es una poderosa novelette sobre el dolor, el delirio y la corriente temporal que se lo lleva todo. Esperaba muy poco de esta obra secundaria de DeLillo, pero me termin贸 sorprendiendo. La prosa, por supuesto, es fascinante y la historia se desenvuelve de manera minimalista, lo que hace que cada hecho constitutivo resulte asfixiante y efectivo en la exposici贸n del sufrimiento inmediato. Es, probablemente, su libro m谩s deprimente.
Lo recomiendo mucho, especialmente para leer en una noche.
February 16, 2024
丌丿賲 賮讴乇 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁� 卮丕蹖丿 賳賵卮鬲賴 賴丕蹖 亘讴鬲 亘丕卮賴貙賵賱蹖鈥屫�
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亘乇丕蹖 賴賷趩 夭賳蹖 丕夭賷賳 亘丿鬲乇 賳賲蹖鈥屫促堌�.
鬲賵蹖 禺丕賳賴 賲賳鬲馗乇賲丕賳丿貙 讴鬲丕亘 亘賴 丿爻鬲貙 倬卮鬲 亘賴 賷讴 鬲讴賷賴鈥屭з� 賳卮爻鬲賴 亘賵丿
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亘乇丕蹖 賴賷趩 夭賳蹖 丕夭賷賳 亘丿鬲乇 賳賲蹖鈥屫促堌�.
February 5, 2017
蟿蔚位蔚喂蠅蟽伪 魏伪喂 渭蔚 蟿慰 2慰 尾喂尾位喂慰 蟿慰蠀 Delillo.渭蟺慰蟻蠅 谓伪 蟺蠅 慰蟿喂 渭慰蠀 伪蟻蔚蟽蔚 蟺慰位蠀 蟺蔚蟻喂蟽蟽慰蟿蔚蟻慰 伪蟺慰 蟿慰 point omega.
螚 喂蟽蟿慰蟻喂伪 尉蔚魏喂谓伪 渭蔚 渭喂伪 蟿蟻慰渭蔚蟻伪 蟺蔚蟻喂纬蟻伪蠁喂魏畏 蟽魏畏谓畏 蔚谓慰蟼 蟺蟻蠅喂谓慰蠀 蟺慰蠀 蟺伪喂蟻谓蔚喂 蔚谓伪 味蔚蠀纬伪蟻喂 蔚谓慰蟼 60+ 魏蠀蟻喂慰蠀 魏伪喂 渭喂伪蟼 35蠂蟻慰谓畏蟼 body artist.蟽蔚 伪蠀蟿畏 蟿畏 蟽魏畏谓畏 蟽蠀渭渭蔚蟿蔚蠂慰蠀谓 渭蔚 蔚谓伪谓 渭伪纬喂魏慰 蟿蟻慰蟺慰 慰位蔚蟼 慰喂 伪喂蟽胃畏蟽蔚喂蟼 蟿慰蠀 伪谓伪纬谓蠅蟽蟿畏.蟺蠋蟼? 伪蟻魏蔚喂 谓伪 蟺慰蠀渭蔚 慰蟿喂 畏 蟽魏畏谓畏 伪蠀蟿畏 蔚魏蟿蠀位喂蟽蟽蔚蟿伪喂 蟽蔚 魏慰谓蟿伪 25 蟽蔚位喂未蔚蟼(!)蟽蠀谓蔚蠂喂味慰谓蟿伪蟼, 慰 伪谓蟿蟻伪蟼 蠁蔚蠀纬蔚喂 魏伪喂 伪蠀蟿慰魏蟿慰谓蔚喂.蔚未蠅 位慰喂蟺慰谓 尉蔚魏喂谓伪 蟿慰 慰位慰 胃蔚渭伪 蟿慰蠀 尾喂尾位喂慰蠀.蟿慰 蟺蠅蟼 伪蠀蟿畏 畏 纬蠀谓伪喂魏伪 渭蔚谓蔚喂 渭慰谓畏 谓伪 伪谓蟿喂渭蔚蟿蠅蟺喂蟽蔚喂 蟿畏谓 伪蟺蠅位蔚喂伪.蟽蟿喂蟼 蠀蟺慰位慰喂蟺蔚蟼 位慰喂蟺慰谓 125 蟽蔚位喂未蔚蟼 蟺蔚蟻喂纬蟻伪蠁蔚蟿伪喂 渭蔚 位蔚蟺蟿慰渭蔚蟻蔚喂伪 伪魏蟻喂尾蠅蟼 伪蠀蟿畏 畏 伪喂蟽胃畏蟽畏 伪蟺蠅位蔚喂伪蟼, 渭慰谓伪尉喂伪蟼, 伪谓喂魏伪谓慰蟿畏蟿伪蟼 谓伪 未蔚蠂蟿蔚喂 魏伪谓蔚喂蟼 慰蟿喂 伪蠀蟿畏 畏 渭伪胃畏渭伪蟿喂魏畏蟼 伪魏蟻喂尾蔚喂伪蟼 魏伪胃畏渭蔚蟻喂谓慰蟿畏蟿伪 蟺慰蠀 蟺蔚蟻喂纬蟻伪蠁蔚蟿伪喂 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺蟻蠅蟿畏 蟽魏畏谓畏 未蔚谓 胃伪 蠀蟺伪蟻尉蔚喂 蟺慰蟿蔚 尉伪谓伪..畏 蟺蟻蠅蟿伪纬蠅谓喂蟽蟿蟻喂伪 位慰喂蟺慰谓 渭畏 渭蟺慰蟻蠋谓蟿伪蟼 谓伪 未蔚蠂蟿蔚喂 魏伪蟿喂 蟿蔚蟿慰喂慰, 未畏渭喂慰蠀蟻纬蔚喂 渭蔚 蟿畏 蠁伪谓蟿伪蟽喂伪 蟿畏蟼 蔚谓伪 伪纬慰蟻喂-伪谓蟿蟻伪 蟺慰蠀 蠀蟺慰蟿喂胃蔚蟿伪喂 蟺蠅蟼 尾蟻喂蟽魏蔚喂 蟽蟿畏 蟽慰蠁喂蟿伪 魏伪喂 渭喂位伪 渭蔚 蠁蟻伪蟽蔚喂蟼 蟿慰蠀 伪谓蟿蟻伪 蟿畏蟼..
蟿慰 尾喂尾位喂慰 伪蠀蟿慰 位慰喂蟺慰谓 畏蟿伪谓 蟺慰位蠀 蟺慰位蠀 未蠀谓伪蟿慰.蟽蔚 伪谓伪纬魏伪味蔚喂 谓伪 尾喂蠅蟽蔚喂蟼 伪魏蟻喂尾蠅蟼 慰位伪 蟿伪 蟽蠀谓伪喂蟽胃畏渭伪蟿伪 伪蟺慰 蟿伪 慰蟺慰喂伪 蟺蔚蟻谓伪 畏 蟺蟻蠅蟿伪纬蠅谓喂蟽蟿蟻喂伪, 谓伪 尾喂蠅蟽蔚喂蟼 蟿慰谓 蟺慰谓慰 蟿畏蟼 伪蟺蠅位蔚喂伪蟼 蟿慰谓 慰蟺慰喂慰 蟽蠅渭伪蟿慰蟺慰喂蔚喂 魏蠀蟻喂慰位蔚魏蟿喂魏伪(蠅蟼 body artist) 魏伪喂 慰 慰蟺慰喂慰蟼 伪蟺蔚喂位蔚喂 谓伪 蟿畏谓 蔚尉伪蠁伪谓喂蟽蔚喂.蟿蟻慰渭伪魏蟿喂魏伪 蠅渭慰 魏伪喂 渭蠀蟽蟿畏蟻喂蠅未蔚蟼.渭慰蠀 未畏渭喂慰蠀蟻纬畏蟽蔚 蔚谓伪 伪喂蟽胃畏渭伪 喂位喂纬纬慰蠀..蠂蠅蟻喂蟼 伪渭蠁喂尾慰位喂伪 慰 Delillo 蔚喂谓伪喂 蔚尉伪喂蟻蔚蟿喂魏慰蟼 蟽蟿慰 谓伪 未畏渭喂慰蠀蟻纬蔚喂 蠅渭伪 蟽蠀谓伪喂蟽胃畏渭伪蟿伪 渭蔚 蟿慰 蠂蔚喂蟻喂蟽渭慰 蟿蠅谓 位蔚尉蔚蠅谓 蟺慰蠀 蔚蟺喂位蔚纬蔚喂. 3.5 伪蟽蟿蔚蟻喂伪!!
"..蟿慰蟿蔚 尾位蔚蟺蔚喂 蟿慰谓 蔚伪蠀蟿慰 蟿畏蟼 谓伪 蟽蔚蟻谓蔚蟿伪喂 蟺蟻慰蟼 蟿慰 渭蔚蟻慰蟼 蟿慰蠀.蔚蠂蔚喂 蟿畏谓 蔚喂魏慰谓伪 渭蟺蟻慰蟽蟿伪 蟽蟿伪 渭伪蟿喂伪 蟿畏蟼.蟽蔚蟻谓蔚蟿伪喂 渭蔚 蟿伪 4 蟽蟿慰 蟺伪蟿蠅渭伪 魏伪喂 蟿畏蟼 蠁伪喂谓蔚蟿伪喂 蟿慰蟽慰 伪位畏胃喂谓慰, 蟽伪谓 谓伪 蟽蠀渭尾伪喂谓蔚喂.伪喂蟽胃伪谓蔚蟿伪喂 谓伪 蔚蠂蔚喂 伪蟺慰蟽蟺伪蟽蟿蔚喂 渭伪位伪魏伪 魏伪喂 尾位蔚蟺蔚喂 慰蟿喂 蟺蟻慰蟽蟺伪胃蔚喂 谓伪 蟿慰谓 蟿蟻伪尾畏尉蔚喂 魏伪蟿蠅 蟽蟿慰 蟺伪蟿蠅渭伪 渭伪味喂 蟿畏蟼, 谓伪 蟿慰谓 蟽蟿伪渭伪蟿畏蟽蔚喂, 谓伪 蟿慰谓 魏蟻伪蟿畏蟽蔚喂 蔚未蠅, 萎 慰蟿喂 蟽魏伪蟻蠁伪位蠅谓蔚喂 蟺伪谓蠅 蟿慰蠀, 慰蟿喂 未喂伪位蠀蔚蟿伪喂 魏伪喂 蠂蠅谓蔚蟿伪喂 渭蔚蟽伪 蟿慰蠀 萎 伪蟺位蠅蟼 慰蟿喂 渭蔚谓蔚喂 渭蟺蟻慰蠀渭蠀蟿伪 蟽蟿慰 蟺伪蟿蠅渭伪 魏伪喂 尉蔚蟽蟺伪蔚喂 蟽蔚 伪蟽蟿伪渭伪蟿畏蟿慰蠀蟼 位蠀纬渭慰蠀蟼 蔚谓蠅 慰 蔚伪蠀蟿慰蟼 蟿畏蟼 蟿畏谓 魏慰喂蟿维味蔚喂 伪蟺慰 蠄畏位伪."
螚 喂蟽蟿慰蟻喂伪 尉蔚魏喂谓伪 渭蔚 渭喂伪 蟿蟻慰渭蔚蟻伪 蟺蔚蟻喂纬蟻伪蠁喂魏畏 蟽魏畏谓畏 蔚谓慰蟼 蟺蟻蠅喂谓慰蠀 蟺慰蠀 蟺伪喂蟻谓蔚喂 蔚谓伪 味蔚蠀纬伪蟻喂 蔚谓慰蟼 60+ 魏蠀蟻喂慰蠀 魏伪喂 渭喂伪蟼 35蠂蟻慰谓畏蟼 body artist.蟽蔚 伪蠀蟿畏 蟿畏 蟽魏畏谓畏 蟽蠀渭渭蔚蟿蔚蠂慰蠀谓 渭蔚 蔚谓伪谓 渭伪纬喂魏慰 蟿蟻慰蟺慰 慰位蔚蟼 慰喂 伪喂蟽胃畏蟽蔚喂蟼 蟿慰蠀 伪谓伪纬谓蠅蟽蟿畏.蟺蠋蟼? 伪蟻魏蔚喂 谓伪 蟺慰蠀渭蔚 慰蟿喂 畏 蟽魏畏谓畏 伪蠀蟿畏 蔚魏蟿蠀位喂蟽蟽蔚蟿伪喂 蟽蔚 魏慰谓蟿伪 25 蟽蔚位喂未蔚蟼(!)蟽蠀谓蔚蠂喂味慰谓蟿伪蟼, 慰 伪谓蟿蟻伪蟼 蠁蔚蠀纬蔚喂 魏伪喂 伪蠀蟿慰魏蟿慰谓蔚喂.蔚未蠅 位慰喂蟺慰谓 尉蔚魏喂谓伪 蟿慰 慰位慰 胃蔚渭伪 蟿慰蠀 尾喂尾位喂慰蠀.蟿慰 蟺蠅蟼 伪蠀蟿畏 畏 纬蠀谓伪喂魏伪 渭蔚谓蔚喂 渭慰谓畏 谓伪 伪谓蟿喂渭蔚蟿蠅蟺喂蟽蔚喂 蟿畏谓 伪蟺蠅位蔚喂伪.蟽蟿喂蟼 蠀蟺慰位慰喂蟺蔚蟼 位慰喂蟺慰谓 125 蟽蔚位喂未蔚蟼 蟺蔚蟻喂纬蟻伪蠁蔚蟿伪喂 渭蔚 位蔚蟺蟿慰渭蔚蟻蔚喂伪 伪魏蟻喂尾蠅蟼 伪蠀蟿畏 畏 伪喂蟽胃畏蟽畏 伪蟺蠅位蔚喂伪蟼, 渭慰谓伪尉喂伪蟼, 伪谓喂魏伪谓慰蟿畏蟿伪蟼 谓伪 未蔚蠂蟿蔚喂 魏伪谓蔚喂蟼 慰蟿喂 伪蠀蟿畏 畏 渭伪胃畏渭伪蟿喂魏畏蟼 伪魏蟻喂尾蔚喂伪蟼 魏伪胃畏渭蔚蟻喂谓慰蟿畏蟿伪 蟺慰蠀 蟺蔚蟻喂纬蟻伪蠁蔚蟿伪喂 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺蟻蠅蟿畏 蟽魏畏谓畏 未蔚谓 胃伪 蠀蟺伪蟻尉蔚喂 蟺慰蟿蔚 尉伪谓伪..畏 蟺蟻蠅蟿伪纬蠅谓喂蟽蟿蟻喂伪 位慰喂蟺慰谓 渭畏 渭蟺慰蟻蠋谓蟿伪蟼 谓伪 未蔚蠂蟿蔚喂 魏伪蟿喂 蟿蔚蟿慰喂慰, 未畏渭喂慰蠀蟻纬蔚喂 渭蔚 蟿畏 蠁伪谓蟿伪蟽喂伪 蟿畏蟼 蔚谓伪 伪纬慰蟻喂-伪谓蟿蟻伪 蟺慰蠀 蠀蟺慰蟿喂胃蔚蟿伪喂 蟺蠅蟼 尾蟻喂蟽魏蔚喂 蟽蟿畏 蟽慰蠁喂蟿伪 魏伪喂 渭喂位伪 渭蔚 蠁蟻伪蟽蔚喂蟼 蟿慰蠀 伪谓蟿蟻伪 蟿畏蟼..
蟿慰 尾喂尾位喂慰 伪蠀蟿慰 位慰喂蟺慰谓 畏蟿伪谓 蟺慰位蠀 蟺慰位蠀 未蠀谓伪蟿慰.蟽蔚 伪谓伪纬魏伪味蔚喂 谓伪 尾喂蠅蟽蔚喂蟼 伪魏蟻喂尾蠅蟼 慰位伪 蟿伪 蟽蠀谓伪喂蟽胃畏渭伪蟿伪 伪蟺慰 蟿伪 慰蟺慰喂伪 蟺蔚蟻谓伪 畏 蟺蟻蠅蟿伪纬蠅谓喂蟽蟿蟻喂伪, 谓伪 尾喂蠅蟽蔚喂蟼 蟿慰谓 蟺慰谓慰 蟿畏蟼 伪蟺蠅位蔚喂伪蟼 蟿慰谓 慰蟺慰喂慰 蟽蠅渭伪蟿慰蟺慰喂蔚喂 魏蠀蟻喂慰位蔚魏蟿喂魏伪(蠅蟼 body artist) 魏伪喂 慰 慰蟺慰喂慰蟼 伪蟺蔚喂位蔚喂 谓伪 蟿畏谓 蔚尉伪蠁伪谓喂蟽蔚喂.蟿蟻慰渭伪魏蟿喂魏伪 蠅渭慰 魏伪喂 渭蠀蟽蟿畏蟻喂蠅未蔚蟼.渭慰蠀 未畏渭喂慰蠀蟻纬畏蟽蔚 蔚谓伪 伪喂蟽胃畏渭伪 喂位喂纬纬慰蠀..蠂蠅蟻喂蟼 伪渭蠁喂尾慰位喂伪 慰 Delillo 蔚喂谓伪喂 蔚尉伪喂蟻蔚蟿喂魏慰蟼 蟽蟿慰 谓伪 未畏渭喂慰蠀蟻纬蔚喂 蠅渭伪 蟽蠀谓伪喂蟽胃畏渭伪蟿伪 渭蔚 蟿慰 蠂蔚喂蟻喂蟽渭慰 蟿蠅谓 位蔚尉蔚蠅谓 蟺慰蠀 蔚蟺喂位蔚纬蔚喂. 3.5 伪蟽蟿蔚蟻喂伪!!
"..蟿慰蟿蔚 尾位蔚蟺蔚喂 蟿慰谓 蔚伪蠀蟿慰 蟿畏蟼 谓伪 蟽蔚蟻谓蔚蟿伪喂 蟺蟻慰蟼 蟿慰 渭蔚蟻慰蟼 蟿慰蠀.蔚蠂蔚喂 蟿畏谓 蔚喂魏慰谓伪 渭蟺蟻慰蟽蟿伪 蟽蟿伪 渭伪蟿喂伪 蟿畏蟼.蟽蔚蟻谓蔚蟿伪喂 渭蔚 蟿伪 4 蟽蟿慰 蟺伪蟿蠅渭伪 魏伪喂 蟿畏蟼 蠁伪喂谓蔚蟿伪喂 蟿慰蟽慰 伪位畏胃喂谓慰, 蟽伪谓 谓伪 蟽蠀渭尾伪喂谓蔚喂.伪喂蟽胃伪谓蔚蟿伪喂 谓伪 蔚蠂蔚喂 伪蟺慰蟽蟺伪蟽蟿蔚喂 渭伪位伪魏伪 魏伪喂 尾位蔚蟺蔚喂 慰蟿喂 蟺蟻慰蟽蟺伪胃蔚喂 谓伪 蟿慰谓 蟿蟻伪尾畏尉蔚喂 魏伪蟿蠅 蟽蟿慰 蟺伪蟿蠅渭伪 渭伪味喂 蟿畏蟼, 谓伪 蟿慰谓 蟽蟿伪渭伪蟿畏蟽蔚喂, 谓伪 蟿慰谓 魏蟻伪蟿畏蟽蔚喂 蔚未蠅, 萎 慰蟿喂 蟽魏伪蟻蠁伪位蠅谓蔚喂 蟺伪谓蠅 蟿慰蠀, 慰蟿喂 未喂伪位蠀蔚蟿伪喂 魏伪喂 蠂蠅谓蔚蟿伪喂 渭蔚蟽伪 蟿慰蠀 萎 伪蟺位蠅蟼 慰蟿喂 渭蔚谓蔚喂 渭蟺蟻慰蠀渭蠀蟿伪 蟽蟿慰 蟺伪蟿蠅渭伪 魏伪喂 尉蔚蟽蟺伪蔚喂 蟽蔚 伪蟽蟿伪渭伪蟿畏蟿慰蠀蟼 位蠀纬渭慰蠀蟼 蔚谓蠅 慰 蔚伪蠀蟿慰蟼 蟿畏蟼 蟿畏谓 魏慰喂蟿维味蔚喂 伪蟺慰 蠄畏位伪."
January 1, 2025
锌褉械泻褉邪褋薪懈泄 锌芯褔邪褌芯泻 薪芯胁芯谐芯 褉芯泻褍 褨蟹 蟹邪谢懈褕械薪懈屑 褋褌邪褉懈屑 锌懈褌邪薪薪褟屑 鈥� 芦褏褌芯 褌邪泻邪 谢褞写懈薪邪?禄
September 14, 2018
Sono molto tentata di mettere una stella anzich茅 due, ma sento che comunque lo stile di DeLillo ha un suo perch茅, e non 猫 da buttare. Non sono riuscita ad apprezzare nient'altro, per貌: la trama non esiste, i personaggi sono ombre che fanno (poche) cose che non vengono spiegate, o meglio, che vengono spiegate cos矛 tanto, analizzate cos矛 nel dettaglio, trascinate cos矛 per le lunghe, che finiscono per essere svuotate di qualsiasi significato. E, soprattutto, 猫 un libro di una noia mortale, le sue 100 pagine sembrano 400 e non si fanno affatto leggere con piacere.
EDIT: Pi霉 ci ripenso pi霉 mi dico che determinate scelte stilistiche dell'autore non vanno a compensare le cose che ho detestato di questo libro, ossia tutto il resto. Ho dato una stella per molto meno.
EDIT: Pi霉 ci ripenso pi霉 mi dico che determinate scelte stilistiche dell'autore non vanno a compensare le cose che ho detestato di questo libro, ossia tutto il resto. Ho dato una stella per molto meno.
March 18, 2020
when the early Japanese constructed their language, they blended all the shades of blue and green to concoct a single, homogenized term - ''ao'' (闈�). Even today, the Japanese refer to specific vegetation, apples and vegetables as ''ao'' (such as blue apples, blue leaf, blue grass). as someone who always took pride in her understanding of the words, I felt betrayed at this contrived attempt to synthesize the human experience of all the shades vastly different colours into a single, bare word - 'ao'.
no, it isn't an anomaly - their are far more subtle yet fierce ways that our language has failed us. while the reader in me dismays in our incompetence, the human in me corroborates the hidden fact that not everything can be encapsulated in writing. there are emotions that can't ever be justified on paper. I 诲辞苍鈥檛 have the words to explain the moment I first held my dog, a mass of tangled fur and bones and fleas, his brown eyes impossibly wide and tiny mouth opened in a screech of anguish. or how it felt to walk out into the screeching sunlight after my last exam, letting go of years toil that i held tight in my sweaty hands, instead filling it with fear of taking control of my life. or the smell of home after being away for days. so we just try, we find vague proxies, approximations of the true emotion, useless stand-in words shoved together, we use emoticons and gifs to encapsulate our emotions. this is what made this book powerful to me. don delillo exploring the various shades of grief. while the intensity of grief is reflected in the sentences, there's also a far more consuming interpretation of this emotion that hides in the space between words, sketching everything that a mere dictionary definition can't.
there are ways that our language fails us. and maybe that's okay. this way we can keep throwing words into the chasm of this human experience, not always trying to convey ours, rather giving birth to a new shade every time we let someone else touch it.
no, it isn't an anomaly - their are far more subtle yet fierce ways that our language has failed us. while the reader in me dismays in our incompetence, the human in me corroborates the hidden fact that not everything can be encapsulated in writing. there are emotions that can't ever be justified on paper. I 诲辞苍鈥檛 have the words to explain the moment I first held my dog, a mass of tangled fur and bones and fleas, his brown eyes impossibly wide and tiny mouth opened in a screech of anguish. or how it felt to walk out into the screeching sunlight after my last exam, letting go of years toil that i held tight in my sweaty hands, instead filling it with fear of taking control of my life. or the smell of home after being away for days. so we just try, we find vague proxies, approximations of the true emotion, useless stand-in words shoved together, we use emoticons and gifs to encapsulate our emotions. this is what made this book powerful to me. don delillo exploring the various shades of grief. while the intensity of grief is reflected in the sentences, there's also a far more consuming interpretation of this emotion that hides in the space between words, sketching everything that a mere dictionary definition can't.
there are ways that our language fails us. and maybe that's okay. this way we can keep throwing words into the chasm of this human experience, not always trying to convey ours, rather giving birth to a new shade every time we let someone else touch it.
June 8, 2017
Es admirable la capacidad que tiene DeLillo para hacer vibrar el interior del lector. Con su prosa precisa, como si de un bistur铆 se tratase, nos muestra de manera clara algunas de las cosas de la vida diaria, de las que sabemos su existencia pero no sabemos explicar con palabras, y que 茅l nos describe de forma deslumbrante. S贸lo conozco a otro escritor capaz de hacer los mismo, y es David Foster Wallace.
No es que haya le铆do muchos libros de DeLillo, de hecho estoy empezando a conocerlo, y no acaba de convencerme todo lo que escribe. Tengo pendientes sus obras m谩s importantes y espero que me gusten mucho m谩s. Y es que con DeLillo tengo un problema, sus primeros cap铆tulos son tan extraordinarios que despu茅s espero lo mismo de la parte central de la obra, y me llevo una desilusi贸n al no encontrarlo. Eso s铆, en el cap铆tulo final siempre reencuentro la genialidad del principio. Y el desarrollo de la novela no es que sea malo, incluso te encuentras con momentos brillantes, pero lo encuentro demasiado embrollado, como un rompecabezas del que s贸lo 茅l posee la muestra con la que guiarse, dej谩ndote a ti, pobre lector, a ciegas. Es de esos autores de los que parece que te pierdas algo y no puedes disfrutarlos a fondo.
La historia de 'Body Art' empieza con una pareja, Lauren y Rey, llevando a cabo las t铆picas cosas que se hacen durante el desayuno. Y DeLillo nos lo cuenta de manera impresionante y minuciosa, casi de forma minimalista. Mientras ellos siguen con la parafernalia de cada ma帽ana, mantienen una conversaci贸n en la que se deja entrever un misterio. Aunque m谩s que conversaci贸n parece que cada uno est茅 pensando en sus asuntos, sin apenas atender al otro. Tras esta escena, nos enteramos de un hecho decisivo para la vida de Lauren. Posteriormente le suceder谩 algo que volver谩 a trastocar su mundo, y que te deja con la mosca detr谩s de la oreja sobre lo que realmente est谩 sucediendo. Y precisamente aqu铆 es donde m谩s floja me parece la historia.
Pero esto no es 贸bice para no leer esta novela, llena de instantes y de significados brillantes. DeLillo siempre tiene algo que contar, y por eso me parece interesante.
No es que haya le铆do muchos libros de DeLillo, de hecho estoy empezando a conocerlo, y no acaba de convencerme todo lo que escribe. Tengo pendientes sus obras m谩s importantes y espero que me gusten mucho m谩s. Y es que con DeLillo tengo un problema, sus primeros cap铆tulos son tan extraordinarios que despu茅s espero lo mismo de la parte central de la obra, y me llevo una desilusi贸n al no encontrarlo. Eso s铆, en el cap铆tulo final siempre reencuentro la genialidad del principio. Y el desarrollo de la novela no es que sea malo, incluso te encuentras con momentos brillantes, pero lo encuentro demasiado embrollado, como un rompecabezas del que s贸lo 茅l posee la muestra con la que guiarse, dej谩ndote a ti, pobre lector, a ciegas. Es de esos autores de los que parece que te pierdas algo y no puedes disfrutarlos a fondo.
La historia de 'Body Art' empieza con una pareja, Lauren y Rey, llevando a cabo las t铆picas cosas que se hacen durante el desayuno. Y DeLillo nos lo cuenta de manera impresionante y minuciosa, casi de forma minimalista. Mientras ellos siguen con la parafernalia de cada ma帽ana, mantienen una conversaci贸n en la que se deja entrever un misterio. Aunque m谩s que conversaci贸n parece que cada uno est茅 pensando en sus asuntos, sin apenas atender al otro. Tras esta escena, nos enteramos de un hecho decisivo para la vida de Lauren. Posteriormente le suceder谩 algo que volver谩 a trastocar su mundo, y que te deja con la mosca detr谩s de la oreja sobre lo que realmente est谩 sucediendo. Y precisamente aqu铆 es donde m谩s floja me parece la historia.
Pero esto no es 贸bice para no leer esta novela, llena de instantes y de significados brillantes. DeLillo siempre tiene algo que contar, y por eso me parece interesante.
August 22, 2019
DeLillo is a wordsmith.
I'm one of those people who has no problem whatsoever with plotless books. Give me a bunch of interesting characters, and blow me away with beautiful, lyrical writing. I'm all game for such stuff.
The book has some exceptional writing. The repetitions (which I've come to believe is a must for writers,like DeLillo, who love to write satire), shape the tonality of the novel.
The opening breakfast scene is brilliant and the book held my attention for most of the part. But the final few pages though. I still admit I can't say in all honesty I understand the novel. Right after finishing it, I went through few summary notes online, and yes, they do comply with my interpretation of the novel. But I'm sure there is more depth to it than what my teeny tiny brain can stomach/fathom.
I'm happy to know this isn't this man's best work. Because I already own Underworld, White Noise and Americana. I'll be bummed if someone told me this is his masterpiece.
Great writing, but can't really say I loved it.
I'm one of those people who has no problem whatsoever with plotless books. Give me a bunch of interesting characters, and blow me away with beautiful, lyrical writing. I'm all game for such stuff.
The book has some exceptional writing. The repetitions (which I've come to believe is a must for writers,like DeLillo, who love to write satire), shape the tonality of the novel.
The opening breakfast scene is brilliant and the book held my attention for most of the part. But the final few pages though. I still admit I can't say in all honesty I understand the novel. Right after finishing it, I went through few summary notes online, and yes, they do comply with my interpretation of the novel. But I'm sure there is more depth to it than what my teeny tiny brain can stomach/fathom.
I'm happy to know this isn't this man's best work. Because I already own Underworld, White Noise and Americana. I'll be bummed if someone told me this is his masterpiece.
Great writing, but can't really say I loved it.
December 9, 2023
The Body Artist starts off with a very ordinary scene of a married couple in a kitchen making breakfast. The husband is a film director, the wife an artist.
Every action is magnified, thoroughly describing their actions, words, the process of the morning's routine.
It's excessively exacting, the day-to-day and trivial are dramatised to highlight the tragedy that soon follows. After the husband's suicide the artist is plunged into grief: of detachment, of a sunken despair that contorts reality.
A brief read at just over 130 pages, and full of DeLillo's trademark questioning into what makes us human, and how the boundaries between our many realities are in fact paper thin.
Every action is magnified, thoroughly describing their actions, words, the process of the morning's routine.
It's excessively exacting, the day-to-day and trivial are dramatised to highlight the tragedy that soon follows. After the husband's suicide the artist is plunged into grief: of detachment, of a sunken despair that contorts reality.
A brief read at just over 130 pages, and full of DeLillo's trademark questioning into what makes us human, and how the boundaries between our many realities are in fact paper thin.
November 5, 2020
I wasn't impressed with the last DeLillo book I read (Point Omega). And I sure as hell wasn't impressed with this one.
'The Body Artist' starts off with a breakfast. A breakfast between a woman and her husband in their home. A breakfast that runs on for TWENTY-SIX PAGES. Twenty-six pages of repetitive writing, navel-gazing, and viewing the mundane under a microscope to make up for the fact that nothing much actually happens... I mean, Christ, the book is only 128 pages in total, and we get to spend almost a fifth of it on breakfast. If the pace of a story is important to you, you'll be bouncing your face off a brick wall right at the beginning.
From there on the book gets a little better. The husband kills himself, the woman grieves in her own odd way, and a mysterious stranger suddenly appears in the house who is not quite human in the traditional sense. The encounters between the woman and the stranger bring into question the concepts of time, space, ability, and memory. The possibility of the stranger being something spectral, alien, time-traveling, or mentally handicapped are pondered. With these somewhat intriguing, eerie, and odd additives to the story, 'The Body Artist' is able to hold your attention just enough to make it to the end. And by the end you'll probably feel like you should like the book a lot more than you actually do... because of the author's pedigree.
We all know what DeLillo is trying to do. He fancies himself a performer of "High Art" with the written word. And in the world of High Art, if you have the clout, you can piss on a piece of canvas and have others declare it brilliant while simultaneously suggesting that anyone pissed off (pun intended) by your performance is just not smart enough to "get it".
Oh, I get it. Hell, DeLillo actually goes as far as putting this little lesson in High Art on the page for us all to see in a small segue where a writer interviews The Body Artist and reviews her performance art and blatantly states that people who found the "High Art" boring as fuck and intolerable were "missing out". Well, I have to be honest. Despite understanding all the depths the author was trying to mine out of this tale, part of me sure wishes I'd missed out. Apparently, pretentiousness is worth a whole lot more to DeLillo than any semblance of plot or pace.
But another part of me got a little something something (if you've read the story, you'll know that's a pun) out of this book. The writing is surreal; intimate at times, coldly detached at others. I didn't dig too much of it, but sometimes DeLillo's writing hit's the mark, making it hard to forget. There are particular ideas and scenes that stuck with me too. It's also mercifully short. For that, I'll grant 'The Body Artist' two stars.
'The Body Artist' starts off with a breakfast. A breakfast between a woman and her husband in their home. A breakfast that runs on for TWENTY-SIX PAGES. Twenty-six pages of repetitive writing, navel-gazing, and viewing the mundane under a microscope to make up for the fact that nothing much actually happens... I mean, Christ, the book is only 128 pages in total, and we get to spend almost a fifth of it on breakfast. If the pace of a story is important to you, you'll be bouncing your face off a brick wall right at the beginning.
From there on the book gets a little better. The husband kills himself, the woman grieves in her own odd way, and a mysterious stranger suddenly appears in the house who is not quite human in the traditional sense. The encounters between the woman and the stranger bring into question the concepts of time, space, ability, and memory. The possibility of the stranger being something spectral, alien, time-traveling, or mentally handicapped are pondered. With these somewhat intriguing, eerie, and odd additives to the story, 'The Body Artist' is able to hold your attention just enough to make it to the end. And by the end you'll probably feel like you should like the book a lot more than you actually do... because of the author's pedigree.
We all know what DeLillo is trying to do. He fancies himself a performer of "High Art" with the written word. And in the world of High Art, if you have the clout, you can piss on a piece of canvas and have others declare it brilliant while simultaneously suggesting that anyone pissed off (pun intended) by your performance is just not smart enough to "get it".
Oh, I get it. Hell, DeLillo actually goes as far as putting this little lesson in High Art on the page for us all to see in a small segue where a writer interviews The Body Artist and reviews her performance art and blatantly states that people who found the "High Art" boring as fuck and intolerable were "missing out". Well, I have to be honest. Despite understanding all the depths the author was trying to mine out of this tale, part of me sure wishes I'd missed out. Apparently, pretentiousness is worth a whole lot more to DeLillo than any semblance of plot or pace.
But another part of me got a little something something (if you've read the story, you'll know that's a pun) out of this book. The writing is surreal; intimate at times, coldly detached at others. I didn't dig too much of it, but sometimes DeLillo's writing hit's the mark, making it hard to forget. There are particular ideas and scenes that stuck with me too. It's also mercifully short. For that, I'll grant 'The Body Artist' two stars.
July 19, 2012
I hadn't read anything by Don DeLillo before so perhaps this was a bad book for a first experience.
After I finished this book, I had this very powerful sensation: You know how when you go to see some obscure foreign film with your friends or you see an art exhibit that everyone else feels is so profound and deep while you are just sitting there wondering if your friends are insane because you don't see anything at all? That is the same feeling I had when I finished this book.
I found this to be rather pointless, meandering, and more like a writing exercise than an actual work of fiction. There's no real plot, nothing really happens, and half the conversations in the book are disjointed and nonsensical. I tried to appreciate the nuances and just enjoy the writing style or the essence of the moments the writer was trying to convey, but I just felt disengaged.
After I finished this book, I had this very powerful sensation: You know how when you go to see some obscure foreign film with your friends or you see an art exhibit that everyone else feels is so profound and deep while you are just sitting there wondering if your friends are insane because you don't see anything at all? That is the same feeling I had when I finished this book.
I found this to be rather pointless, meandering, and more like a writing exercise than an actual work of fiction. There's no real plot, nothing really happens, and half the conversations in the book are disjointed and nonsensical. I tried to appreciate the nuances and just enjoy the writing style or the essence of the moments the writer was trying to convey, but I just felt disengaged.
October 11, 2022
鈥淲hen birds look into houses, what impossible worlds they see.鈥�
Okay, here's the thing: the writing was perfect, and the story itself was interesting, HOWEVER, I didn't connect with it one bit and kept getting distracted.
Maybe I was just not in the right mood for this.
Okay, here's the thing: the writing was perfect, and the story itself was interesting, HOWEVER, I didn't connect with it one bit and kept getting distracted.
Maybe I was just not in the right mood for this.
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