This book is weird. But I think this very useful infographic (which, might I add, I painstakingly created myself) about sums it up:
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I also feel This book is weird. But I think this very useful infographic (which, might I add, I painstakingly created myself) about sums it up:
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I also feel a little bit nervous about giving my assessment about the overall message of the book; Herman Hesse has notoriously claimed that no one really understands this one. Curious, because the book does seem to straightforwardly deal with struggles of identity in light of both Western pessimism and Eastern philosophy. I’ve been wrong before, though.
A couple years ago, Frontline aired a documentary about teens and social media entitled “Generation Like.� The doc explores the phenomenon wherein teenagers derive their identity from the things that they like. Of course, teenagers have pretty much always done that (I can picture myself at 16, maudlin and surly, with a Sex Pistols t-shirt and Crime and Punishment under my arm), but the internet seems to make it much more insidious. Self-presentation is conflated with identity, and advertisers no longer need to advertise their products, because their “brand ambassadors� do it for them. However, before we get all curmudgeony about “kids these days,� we should recognize that this phenomenon has been happening at least since 1927. This is the exact ethos that Hesse rejects through his exploration of the Steppenwolf:
“The modern man...has lost the love of inanimate objects. He does not even love his most sacred object, his motorcar, but is ever hoping to exchange it as soon as he can for a later model...I was not a modern man, nor an old-fashioned one either."
Harry Haller sees himself as part wolf, not because he actually is a wolf, but because he represses those things inside him that do not fit with the image of himself that he wishes to present to the world. Anything that would mar his perfect portrait he deems to be base and animal, and he solipsistically concludes that no one else is clever enough to have a wolf-nature of their own. This ends up keeping him from fully living. It reads like a very, very awkward zen story in which the reader ultimately learns that they must accept themselves, en entier and without judgement. Admittedly, this idea might seem foreign to an individualistic Western consumer who thinks the best recourse for the alleviation of ennui is to kill one’s own wolf-nature by associating oneself with the most elite aspects of culture and buying more shit. Actually, I’m not surprised that people might have such skewed values that they relate to the frantic musings of the crazed Haller before he (possibly?) finds enlightenment.
I’m still not sure how to explain the last section of the book, but it reminds me of the section of Ulysses where Leopold and Stephen get high and get some prostitutes. So I’m assuming that Harry Haller was also on whatever crazy drug Leopold and Stephen were on, although I think he had a much worse trip....more
When people find out I have degrees in psychology, they tend to make a few assumptions. First, they ask me if I'm "psychoanalyzing" them, which I'm noWhen people find out I have degrees in psychology, they tend to make a few assumptions. First, they ask me if I'm "psychoanalyzing" them, which I'm not; not only because psychoanalysis is pseudoscience (only English majors love Freud, for reasons I'm sure Freud would trace back to genitals, their own or someone else's), but also because I'm generally more interested in my own cleverness than other people's problems. Second, they figure I've been trained as a clinician, as if I have a secret life as a therapist that no one knows about (I don't). Finally, they ask me about books they've read that they're sure I've read. Usually, they're just interested in self-help drivel, but sometimes they want to talk about this book.
Which is interesting, because this is not a book about psychology, in the same way that Animal Farm is not a book about agriculture. This is a novel by Ken Kesey, who went to graduate school for creative writing and also did a lot of drugs. He spent a fair amount of time hanging out on a bus with Neal Cassady, The Grateful Dead, and the rest of the Merry Pranksters, dosing the communal Kool-Aid bowl with LSD. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest is not supposed to be a realistic book about mental institutions (thank goodness, because the treatment people are getting in this book is completely unethical).
So what's it about? The man, man. The man is always trying to put you down, tell you how to be. And you just listen to the man, man, because the man just has you in his grip. And you've got to question this stuff. Throw off the shackles of the society into which you've been inculcated and expand your mind, man.
(Note: Kesey seems to think you should really only question the things about the world that make it less fun and stuff. Minorities are for stereotyping, and women are for reminding you how emasculated you've become and/or fucking you. When I say "you" I'm assuming you are a white, heterosexual male, because you don't even have to take drugs to realize that no one else really matters. Never mind the fact that the book is ostensibly written by a Native American, because that dude has no real voice and whatever, he's half-white so it's okay if we half care about him.)
Of course, the sexism is problematic: we're not supposed to mind that the "hero" has raped a woman, and we're supposed to cheer when the powerful women get put in their place. But my major issue with the book is the portrayal of mental health treatment as being mostly useless. Yes, things were not so great in the 50's, yes, shock therapy was terrifying and, yes, lobotomies were horrendous. However, mental illness isn't something you can just rebel your way out of: that's a bit like praying away cancer. Mental illness is already under-diagnosed, and this is another cultural artifact that suggests that people should be wary of treatment.
Anyway, I thought this book was vaguely interesting but mostly juvenile and lacking in nuance. I'm finding myself having a hard time reading topical books from mid-century US writers, which is perhaps another indication that my generation inhabits a completely different world. And, not to seem like an ingrate, but I just can't relate. I don't have a strong rebellious streak, and I don't possess an irrational fear of communists, and even though I know that big brother really could pay attention to anything I do, I also realize my group texts about where we should go for a beer after work are probably not getting much airtime at the NSA. Maybe this is the way my kids will feel when they go back and read books about student loan debt, denial of climate change, and inane iPhone apps. I hope so.
Then again, maybe this book truly has little substance, and maybe it will recede into the bowels of history. Maybe we should think of this book as evidence that drugs can make you paranoid enough to solipsistically conclude that everything is just a big conspiracy theory and you're the only one who can figure out the charade. That, my friends, is actually an empirical question. Please, someone, pass the Kool-Aid....more
I cringe when I hear someone say that a book is a classic of science fiction. What they mean is that the book has been well liked by a narrow subset oI cringe when I hear someone say that a book is a classic of science fiction. What they mean is that the book has been well liked by a narrow subset of readers, without any real value to elevate it out of a genre and into the realm of literature. Neuromancer is supposed to be both revolutionary and incredibly well written, but it doesn’t live up to the hype. Instead, it rehashes a simplistic yet still absurd noir plot with two-dimensional characters and a style so unnecessarily befuddling that it renders the book almost unreadable.
This purported “classic� of science fiction consists mostly of nonsensical techno-drivel punctuated by unexpected graphic sex. For example “Case flipped to cyberspace and sent a command pulsing down the crimson thread that pierced the library ice.� It’s hard to tell what’s going on here, because the technology that Gibson created don’t consist of anything more than of a sloppy vomit of invented jargon. I can’t tell how prescient the technology was, because it’s hard to make any sense of it at all.
And the plot. It starts out promising: a hacker who got banned from cyberspace after screwing over an employer gets one last chance to work, but the job is shrouded in mystery. It stays interesting for about two chapters, and then becomes completely absurd. At one point, the whole crew randomly ends up in space, and we meat a brand new hackneyed Rastafarian character who actually says, and I quote, “You ver� pale, mon…maybe you wan� eat somethin�.� Which just made me think of this:
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The only consentual mass hallucination going on here is that of the mainstream science fiction apologists, who put forward books like Neuromancer, Foundation, and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? as if they could stand up to the likes of Anna Karenina, Ulysses, or even Pride and Prejudice. They can’t. I don’t mean to imply that I’m turned off of the genre forever, but I’m done expecting these “classics� to hold their own as literature. Suits me well enough, anyway: I’ve always found Science Fiction to be at its best when it doesn’t take itself too seriously....more
Perfume has the potential to be awesomely bad. Consider the plot: dude has preternatural sense of smell and goes on a killing spree in an attempt to cPerfume has the potential to be awesomely bad. Consider the plot: dude has preternatural sense of smell and goes on a killing spree in an attempt to create the perfect perfume. People are onto him, and can tell that he’s evil, because he doesn’t have any body odor at all. In other words,
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However, it’s also on the list of 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die, so I figured I’d give it a shot.
Tangentially related: I don’t pay too much attention to scents, at least not most of the time. I mean, put a glass of wine in front of me and, like any good oenophile, I’ll easily be able to tell you if it’s overoaked and I’ll pick out berry or citrus or stone fruit notes, and I might even be able to guess where it’s from, but that happens when I’m actively trying. In my workaday life, scent means little to me.
For a book with such a strange concept, Perfume is surprisingly gripping. Grenouille, the main character, is a particularly effective anti-hero. He’s creepily inconspicuous: he passes through his world mostly unseen, and commits his crimes with little notice. He’s not one of those anti-heroes that the reader roots for, either: as I read this book, I felt as if I were watching a snake from behind glass, feeding on some unassuming (and probably cute and cuddly) prey. The books makes you disgusted, but unable to turn away.
I felt that I should dislike this book: it’s strange, it’s creepy, it’s far outside of my comfort zone. If you’ve seen American Hustle, you likely remember Jennifer Lawrence’s character saying “Well, he must like it on some level. He must want it, because he keeps coming back for it. It's like that perfume that you love, that you can't stop smelling even when there's something sour in it. Can't get enough of it.�
Which, I think, is also a good way to sum up this book....more
What happens to small Pennsylvania steel town after the steel mill shuts down? How do the people who once had a good life, with security and benefits,What happens to small Pennsylvania steel town after the steel mill shuts down? How do the people who once had a good life, with security and benefits, cope? American Rust deals with this: the American Dream, and its failure. What’s interesting is that the characters in this book don’t pine for the life that left them behind. Instead, they become resigned, they hope for nothing more. Take this quote, for example.
“He had slept through life, let the currents take him. He had let the currents take him faster and faster and he had not noticed.�
The main conflict in American Rust comes from a murder; that alone is enough to suck you in and keep you turning the pages. There’s more to it then that, though. Through a grisly (but somehow unsurprising) event in a small town, author Philipp Meyer explores blue collar America, and the (limited) ways out. There’s football, and there’s college, but neither are guarantees. Take, for example, Lee, a character who leaves for Yale. At one point in the book, she feels “an incredible isolation, a suspicion she'd always had, she didn't belong anywhere, she was going to outlive everyone she knew. She was going to be alone, the same as her mother. �
Which resonated with me, because I get it. I don’t belong, either, in my small town, filled with the people who have settled for life the way it has been handed to them. But I also find it hard to fit in with the people who have hometowns worth going back to, populated with pleasant, educated people who are just like them. I can try to be one of them, and most of the time I fake it pretty well. But I have to try too hard. Eventually, people see right through me, down to the rural little girl who didn’t dream much bigger than living closer to the ocean.
The most liked quote from this book on Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ is the following “You ought to be able to grow up in a place and not have to get the hell out of it when you turn eighteen.â€� Anyone who finds themselves nodding their head in agreement will connect deeply with this book. And anyone who doesn’t should also read it, just to see how lucky they are....more
I just sent the following text message to a dear bookish friend of mine, explaining why I wasn't completely enamored with Fear and Loathing in Las VegI just sent the following text message to a dear bookish friend of mine, explaining why I wasn't completely enamored with Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas:
"But really, Hunter S. Thompson talking about being super high is fun for like, the first two mentions of reptiles everywhere but then it’s like, dude, maybe lay off the mescaline and get a plot or something."
And, basically, the sums it up, but perhaps here I should expand on that a bit. Fear and Loathing is supposed to be a subversive book about all manner of hallucinogenic drugs, pills, weed, alcohol, and general debauchery. It's the kind of book that teenagers who wouldn't dare to actually take LSD might dare to claim as their favorite book, in a vain attempt to convince the kids that are actually into LSD that they are, in fact, cool.
There's not much of a plot here, and the drug use is reminiscent of anything one might see at any unremarkable summer music festival. The main difference is that the pseudo-Thompson character is supposed to be working in Vegas whilst on all these drugs, which seems like a somewhat bad idea. I mean, mescaline and writing serious journalistic pieces don't seem like they'd mix particularly well. Then again, hallucinogens would .
Anyway, I'm sure that high school students who want to be cool will continue to read this and then brag about having read this, and no one will really care. But it's all good, because eventually these high schoolers will turn into college students who might be able to participate in actual Vegas trips, where they will discover that what actually happens in Vegas is a lot more interesting and unpredictable than this quasi-counterculture pseudo-intellectual bullshit. ...more
Most books are bad, not because they're actively terrible, but simply because they're not good. These types of books are easy to dislike, but difficulMost books are bad, not because they're actively terrible, but simply because they're not good. These types of books are easy to dislike, but difficult to despise: it's hard to find the will to hate something that never really stirred up a strong emotion in the first place. Rabbit, Run is not this kind of bad book. No, it's a carefully crafted, well written piece of misogynistic wish-fulfillment that's so unlikeable and so offensive that its status as a beloved American classic is, to this reader, inexplicable.
Does this review make me sound overly vitriolic? Well, consider this example: (view spoiler)[Rabbit manipulates a "fat" woman into sleeping with him by giving her enough money to pay her rent. He insists that she cannot wear her diaphragm while they have sex, and goes so far as to make her leave the door to the restroom open so that he can watch her as she pees so he can make sure that she doesn't slip it in there. He then forcibly washes off her makeup, despite her clear protests. Somehow, in Updike's world, she has the best orgasm she's ever had. (hide spoiler)]
This is the kind of book that made me look up from my Kindle and say to reading "You know, we've had a long run, but this whole reading thing just isn't working out for me. It's not anything either of us did, it's just the way this book has been making me feel recently. I think I'm going to have to sit on the couch, watch some tv, and think things through."
To which reading replied "I'm not ready to give up on you. We've had so many good times together. Remember when we sat in the park and gasped over plot twists in The Count of Monte Cristo? Remember reading Anna Karenina over and over again? Think about all the good things we have ahead of us: think about the George Eliot novels you haven't read, not the mention the Dickens. You haven't even finished Les Miserables yet! We promised we would do that together."
And, while reading was right, my intense dislike of Rabbit, Run caused us to go through something of a trial separation. Luckily, nothing can stop true love.
Anyway, I still feel terribly conflicted, because I wanted to like Rabbit, Run. The schadenfreude-rooted story that I had been told as bookish teenager with more angst than friends, was that the basketball stars and homecoming queens would be miserable, that they would peak in high school. In some versions of the story, they ended up fat, working late shifts at sleazy bars; in other versions, they ended up working for me. Importantly, in all versions of this story, they end up miserable.
Rabbit is supposed to be the miserable type: he's supposed to realize there's more to life than having 2.5 kids, and he's supposed to decide that he wants more than that. Rabbit, Run is supposed to be a cautionary story that tells those high school basketball types to wake up and get out. But, you know what, that story is just an untrue as the stories I was told. Because those insufferable high school kids have turned into insufferable adults with lovely homes and nice jobs and adorable families. I wouldn't trade my life for a second, but that doesn't stop me from occasionally lusting after their in-home washer and dryers.
And so it is, too, for Rabbit. For Rabbit, despite the running, despite understanding that there's more out there, never really changes anything, just bounces around and gets upset that he never quite has exactly what he thinks he deserves (spoiler alert: what he thinks he deserves is a lot of kinky sex with a wide array of women, and for everyone to fawn over him because he used to be okay at basketball in high school).
Rabbit, Run is surely important as a chronicle of the type of sexual and emotional abuse that women were expected to suffer with during the 1950's and 60's, all the while wearing a girdle and a smile and asking whether they can make their husbands a sandwich. I sighed with disgust when (view spoiler)[Rabbit shames Ruth for having given other men blow jobs, then demands that he give her one (despite her clear "no"), then shames her again for not enjoying it. I quote "Listen. Tonight you turned against me. I need to see you on your knees. I need you to" - he still can't say it - "do it." (emphasis mine). Followed by this thought from Rabbit "IF she didn't want to, if it would spoil him for her, why didn't she say No?" She did, you asshole.(view spoiler)[
But, if I thought that was difficult, I cried for poor Janice when (view spoiler)[Rabbit forces himself on her right after she has his baby. He feels that he deserves sex, because he has "turned down" the perceived sexual advances of another women. Janice loudly says no, but of course that doesn't stop Rabbit. However, when she continues to say no, he turns her over and anally rapes her. Understandably, this sends her into a breakdown.(view spoiler)[
I can't, in good faith, recommend this book except as an example of how women were treated like second class citizens in recent history. That Rabbit, Run is still given a place in the literary canon is just another example of male hegemony at work. And I'm not the type to throw around phrases like "male hegemony" lightly. I don't expect my protagonists to be relatable and my plot lines to be filled with rainbows and unicorns; far from it. However, I also don't expect to find that an acclaimed novel should actually come with a trigger warning. So, skip this, unless you want to feel disgusted. (hide spoiler)](hide spoiler)](hide spoiler)](hide spoiler)]...more
I always felt ashamed of not having read Sense and Sensibility: it seemed as egregious a cultural oversight as not having seen The Godfather or not haI always felt ashamed of not having read Sense and Sensibility: it seemed as egregious a cultural oversight as not having seen The Godfather or not having listened to The White Album. However, my shame never induced me to actually read the book. Of all of Austen’s work, Sense and Sensibility is the most straightforward marriage plot, and while I admire the charm involved I typically prefer my literature more scathing. Additionally, I can only roll my eyes when Austen’s heroines bemoan the idea of being an unmarried woman of seven and twenty, especially as I recently turned 28.
Sometimes, though, we’re drawn to a particular book not by inclination, but by situation. And, while I cannot yet write coherently about the more difficult events happening around me, I can say that a regency era comedy of manners is as far away from my current situation as I’m likely to get.
I have to admit that I loved Sense and Sensibility, despite my reservations. As the title suggests, it follows the story of two different sisters: Elinor, who is ruled by sense, and Marianne, who is guided by sensibility. The novel opens with their father’s death, which means that their family home will go to their half-brother and his greedy wife. In order to return to their old lifestyle, they need to marry well.
I should note here that part of what makes Austen seem so relevant in the 21st century, when women have many opportunities beyond marrying well, is that she allows herself to be blunt in describing the cultural mores of the 18th century, when a fortuitous marriage was the best that could be expected.
Sense and Sensibility has earned itself a place on my “read it again soon� list: it’s escapist while still being smart, and as charming as it is socially conscious. ...more
I really used to think that Tolstoy was pretty sane, for the most part. Then I went and read this little book, and now I have to give up that idea becI really used to think that Tolstoy was pretty sane, for the most part. Then I went and read this little book, and now I have to give up that idea because, seriously, this book is completely....bizarre. But mostly in a good way.
I find it strange that, in Tolstoy's Russia, your companion on the train may have just happened to have murdered his wife (that's not a spoiler; it's on the synopsis in the back of the book, and we find out about it right upfront). He gives all these reasons why the bitch had it coming, including some random stuff about why marriage is bad, and why it's totally wrong to have sex for reasons other than procreation, but he also talks about how children ruin marriages (which is actually somewhat supported by empirical research, sad sad, but I digress). So I think the main point is that no one should ever bang anyone for any reason, ever, because it leads to jealousy and death.
Anyway, this is a great novella, but a little bit too awkward in theme for me to give it my usual "Tolstoy deserves all the stars" rating. Definitely worth a read, though, and you can probably knock it out in a day (I didn't, because I started reading this while I was way too busy with other stuff, and that might have impacted what I thought about this in a negative way. Oh well.).
Tolstoy slyly inserts this little bit of intertextual commentary, which I found amusing "These sufferings were so intense that I remember I was tempted to go out on the track and throw myself under the train and so end it." Well played, sir. I'll end with that.
Actually, I'll end with the suggestion that you really do listen to the Beethoven sonata that lends its name to this novel. Classical music and Tolstoy! All you need is a fur coat, a lorgnette, and maybe a nightcap or two. Combine those with the polar vortex we've been having recently and you'll be in a very 19th century Russian mood....more
I couldn't help but imagine young Werther as a high school, tweeting about all his troubles to the ether. So, without further ado, I present to you: TI couldn't help but imagine young Werther as a high school, tweeting about all his troubles to the ether. So, without further ado, I present to you: The Tweets of Young Werther.
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This is the kind of book that high school teachers should be making self-absorbed teenagers read. They can totally relate, both to the intense feelings of emotion and the complete conviction that no one in the world has ever felt the same way before. I couldn't relate that well, because really Werther just needs to man up and bang someone else, but I still (inexplicably) liked this book. Actually, my affection is explicable: we're talking about Goethe, after all.
I should really step away from photoshop and get back to work....more
Here's what I knew about A Tale of Two Cities before
Here's what I knew about A Tale of Two Cities before I read it:
-It starts with "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." -Charles Dickens wrote it -The two cities are Paris and London -It involves something about the French Revolution
A Tale of Two Cities is a weird book; I'm taken to understand that it's kind of a departure from the type of stuff Dickens typically wrote. I liked it, but I'm not exactly sure how much I liked it. It's about the reign of terror, so you probably won't be surprised to hear that it's not particularly uplifting. There's a lot of ominous knitting, though, so that's cool.
(view spoiler)[I'm not sure what to think about the ending. It felt a little too...convenient I guess. I don't really get Carton's motivation for sacrificing himself for Darnay. Actually, I don't much get anyone's motivations for anything, and I think that's what prevents me from thinking this book is truly brilliant. (hide spoiler)]...more
True story: I just finished reading The Shining and I'm completely freaked out right now. While writing this review, I've turned on The Daily Show (coTrue story: I just finished reading The Shining and I'm completely freaked out right now. While writing this review, I've turned on The Daily Show (comedy) and started making bacon mac and cheese (comfort) in an attempt to return to the real world, where the only thing that scares me with relative frequency is the economy. I don't know how well that will work, because I have an irrational desire to lock my bathroom door from the outside. If all else fails, at least there's wine....unless (and it's possible) Stephen King has also ruined that for me forever.
Deep breath. There are no creepy dead ghost zombie things in my bathroom. I am a scientist and I'm like 99.9% sure of that. If that degree of certainty is good enough for the journals Science and Nature, it's good enough for me.
My history with The Shining began spring quarter, Freshman year of college. I was taking Intro to Film Studies, a course which required a weekly screening of a pedagogically relevant film. For horror, we watched The Shining. Now, Film Studies was in a large lecture hall, with a large movie screen and a state of the art sound system. I walked in expecting some campy old "scary" film. What I saw was Kurbick's masterpiece in all it's analog glory. Let me tell you, biking from Buchanan back to my dorm that night was pure torture. And when I arrived in the Francisco Torres lobby, this is what I saw:
I lived on the 7th floor. I took the stairs.
Anyway, I kind of ended up avoiding reading The Shining for a long time, for a couple of reasons. First of all, I couldn't imagine that the book could be scarier than the movie (and it's not, but it's on par with the movie, which is pretty damn scary). More importantly, though, I knew that Stephen King hated the adaptation, which gave me pause. See, I thought The Shining (film) was brilliant, and I heard The Shining (book) had such contrivances as moving topiary. So, I figured that this was one of those times where a mediocre book somehow became one of the greatest films of all time.
I was wrong, both about the topiary (OMG please do not let me go near any topiary right now and also I am very, very happy that it is winter and all the plants are dead and I do not want them to come to life and try and kill me), and about the book.
Flash-forward to January 2014: I'm snowed in. A so-called "polar vortex" descends upon the Midwest, and for a few days it's too dangerous to venture outside. My brilliant idea is to read The Shining, because that seems fitting. Way to make the feelings of cabin fever dissipate, Casey. Luckily, The Shining (novel), which really is fundamentally different from The Shining (film), is actually incredibly good, and I'm kicking myself for not getting to it sooner. And I'm sure I'll stop being scared of it eventually.
Unrelated: I think I'll be using the bathroom at the Starbucks down the street until further notice. You know, just in case....more
Get ready to suspend your disbelief, because the plot of The Secret History is outlandish, to say the least. A group of Classics students gets into soGet ready to suspend your disbelief, because the plot of The Secret History is outlandish, to say the least. A group of Classics students gets into some trouble following an incident during some Bacchanalian activities. And I mean Bacchanalian in the most literal sense of the world, Ã la Sebastiano Ricci:
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(See, I can make cultural references too. Being set at a college, and being written by a 28 year old, The Secret History sometimes goes eye-rollingly over the top with references that are supposed to be impressive, but mostly make one feel as if one is taking part in a pseudo-intellectual circle jerk. I think this kind of stuff is only effective when Joyce does it, but à chacun son goût.)
Anyway, combine a bacchanal, intensely dislikable characters, bad decisions, classical references, and lots of blow, and you've got The Secret History. It's more or less Crime and Punishment with sophomoric upper-class hipsters. The major problem is that Tartt seems to write them as if they really were the cognoscenti, which prevents her from adding in any .
The Secret History came out in 1992, when this year's college graduates were still gestating and Bret Easton Ellis was still relevant; as you can imagine, it doesn't display the maturity of The Goldfinch. However, it's a pretty fun ride, if you're into this sort of thing....more
Oh, Emma Bovary, you kill me! On the one hand, I think of you as a sophisticate stuck out in the country. In my mind, you're somewhat like Belle from Oh, Emma Bovary, you kill me! On the one hand, I think of you as a sophisticate stuck out in the country. In my mind, you're somewhat like Belle from the Disney version of Beauty and the Beast, nose in a book, singing "There must be more than this provincial life!" Comme ça:
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But life is not a Disney novel, and Emma Bovary is a much darker character than that. She's a woman with unrealistic expectations, who desires a life that no one could give her. She wants the kind of passion that only exists in romance novels, which means that she fails to see the love that she has right in front of her. She buys everything on credit, with little thought given to how she'll pay it back (and whether she really needs new silk drapes in the first place). And, in her many affairs, she makes insane, outlandish demands. She kind of comes across as that crazy lady in the attic, minus the attic.
In the words of Thom Yorke, Emma, .
Amazingly, though, Madame Bovary doesn't exactly come across as a cautionary tale. In this respect, it reminded me quite a bit of The House of Mirth. Both Emma Bovary and Lily Bart aspire to a life that, frankly, they can't afford. But they also suffer from a complete lack of agency and some pretty intense psychological demons that, given that they're of "the weaker sex," no one would take seriously. I wonder what they would be like today: maybe they'd have kick-ass corporate jobs, and they'd be able to buy their Louboutins in cash. However, it's just as likely that they'd be crippled by an expectation that they should be able to "have it all" and struggling with an overwhelming amount of credit card debit.
Even though this novel was published in 1856, it's pretty timely. When I think about all those women who obsess about Pride and Prejudice and aspire to land their own Mr. Darcy, I want to hand them this. Not as a cautionary tale, exactly. Just as a counterpoint. ...more
Sometimes, when I get distracted from what I'm reading (which is more often than I'd like to admit), I sample the first chapters of other books. Some Sometimes, when I get distracted from what I'm reading (which is more often than I'd like to admit), I sample the first chapters of other books. Some are so sublime that I jump in, feet first, and barely come up for air until I've finished the whole book (Middlemarch). Other first chapters I return to time and time again, without really feeling the need to read the rest of the book (Moby-Dick; or, The Whale, which I did finish eventually). Most often, I sample a first chapter and file it away, so that I can pick up the book again when I'm in the apposite mood.
If on a Winter's Night a Traveler is a collection of beginnings, with a parallel story that explains the beginnings in a way that makes more sense than you might imagine. Yes, this is meta-fiction, and I think that someone who doesn't really enjoy that might be disappointed. But if postmodernism is your thing, you'll probably enjoy this one. Perhaps unsurprisingly, mine edition became heavily annotated.
Of course, beginnings are only fun for so long. After reading just the first chapters of a bunch of different books, I start to feel a little dirty, like I've done something I'm not proud of. The same thing happened here: I'm glad to be back to reading novels that start, then have a middle, then end. That's really the way it's meant to be....more
The plot of The Magus is convoluted at best, but it may be more accurate to call it outlandish. On top of that, the writing is incredibly pretentious The plot of The Magus is convoluted at best, but it may be more accurate to call it outlandish. On top of that, the writing is incredibly pretentious (think literary allusions, tossed among art references, scattered with untranslated French). These sound like criticisms, but they are actually reasons why I loved The Magus (after all, à chacun son goût). As you may have gathered, this will not be an easy book to review.
Fundamentally, The Magus is a meditation on the meaning of fiction, both in content and style. Fowles writes with wink: he apes "one twist after another" writers like Alexandre Dumas, even as his high-minded characters dismiss them. Early in the novel, Conchis, the eccentric millionaire who drives the plot of the novel, claims "Words are for truth. For facts. Not fiction." He then begets a world so fantastic that it could never happen in reality.
And therein lies the paradox of fiction: we go into it knowing that stories aren't true. When we read (or watch a movie, or see a play, etc.) we tacitly agree to be a player in a game. If the players pretend it's real, we'll go along with it. The interesting thing is that, even though we know it's not real, we may experience intense emotions (catharsis, whatever you want to call it), whereas the characters are unable to feel anything.
This is post-modernism at it's best, and definitely worth a read if you're into that sort of thing. Or even if you're not. It's a damn good book....more
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