Underwhelming and clearly the winner of the Pulitzer for political reasons that don’t have anything to do with literary merit. The use of language felUnderwhelming and clearly the winner of the Pulitzer for political reasons that don’t have anything to do with literary merit. The use of language felt generic and lazy. Is this really where the American arts and letters are now? ...more
COVID-19 is upon us, thus I was able to sit down uninterrupted to begin and finish The Underground Railroad in a day. The book has been on my shelf foCOVID-19 is upon us, thus I was able to sit down uninterrupted to begin and finish The Underground Railroad in a day. The book has been on my shelf for well over a year, and I knew I wanted to read it (and perhaps some of Whitehead's other works) before reading his newest novel, the lauded The Nickel Boys.
I found The Underground Railroad to be strikingly readable and very enjoyable––the perfect novel for a spare weekend. The narrative is the strongest element, though through the book's form (short character-based chapters scattered in between longer narratives of places/events) Whitehead attempts a character-driven tale. Ultimately, I didn't find individual characters that interesting or well developed, but I did buy into the overall plot. It's a plot that likely represents the suffering of tens of thousands, if not millions, of slaves. Thus, the the identities of characters like Cora, Mabel, Ceasar, and Royal become diffused in a larger historical narrative. This speculative story could have happened to any slave, anywhere in America.
Most striking were the likely influences that I found my mind returning to as I read. I would think that any American slave narrative has the overarching shadow of literary greats such as Morrison and Walker, though Whitehead seems to offer something much different. While The Underground Railroad has its disturbing, graphic scenes, I found it to be an almost Disney-fied version of books such as Beloved (and certainly of other types of slave narratives, i.e. Malamud's The Fixer). Whitehead seems to write for as broad a demographic as possible; but while democratizing a narrative has its merits, sacrificed was the potential for greater aesthetic merits.
Nonetheless, the book sets itself up to be the story of a journey––a journey with the stock characters of many enjoyable reads: the chased, the chaser, the long lost parent, the lover boys. At times, these archetypes reminded me of characters in Doerr's All the Light We Cannot See, especially comparing the "chasers" of each text. Here in The Underground Railroad, the slave catcher Ridgeway travels with a companion, Boseman, a man who wears a string of human ears around his neck. I found this detail interesting, as it reminded me of Toadvine, one of the scalp hunters in McCarthy's Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West. In fact, we learn that Boseman attained the string of ears from a Native American in the West. Then I came across the following passage, which stuck out for two reasons: 1) it's one of the most startling, evocative descriptions of place in the entire book, and 2) it seems pulled directly from McCarthy:
The world was scorched and harrowed as far as they could see, a sea of ash and char from the flat planes of the fields up to the hills and mountains. Black trees tilted, stunted black arms pointing as if to a distant place untouched by flame. They rode past the blackened bones of houses and barns without number, chimneys sticking up like grave markers, the husked stone walls of ravaged mills and granaries. Scorched fences marked where cattle had grazed, impossible now animals survived. (204)
Continuing the comparison: if Boseman parallels Toadvine from Blood Meridian, then Ridgeway parallels Judge Holden, the Biblical devil incarnate and evil personified. These archetypes abound in The Underground Railroad and are effective. Again, however, there is a level of aesthetic and literary liberty that simply is not present. Present here is a novel that will make a great film, rather than a novel that must remain a novel, or that can only exist as a cultural artifact as a novel.
Perhaps I'm being hard on Whitehead. I reiterate now that I enjoyed the book very much, and the very fact that it kept my non-stop attention for a day is laudable. I plan to return to Whitehead in the coming months, and look forward to it, not only by picking up The Nickel Boys, but going back to some of his earlier works. The Underground Railroad is a book I would surely recommend to many individuals and book groups. But in terms of meeting the heights of past Pulitzer Prize winners (again, such as Morrison, McCarthy, or Walker), the novel is compellingly written child's play....more
This is an excellent book that had me torn on a 4- or 5-star rating. I'll go with 4.5.
I'm a sucker for an intense, complex, interesting narrative voiThis is an excellent book that had me torn on a 4- or 5-star rating. I'll go with 4.5.
I'm a sucker for an intense, complex, interesting narrative voice, so The Sympathizer was very compelling! It details a few years in the life of a Vietnamese revolutionary who seems to hold three contrasting identities: a Northern Vietnamese communist, a friendly and empathic Southern Vietnamese refugee, and an American spy. I'm not quite sure how Nguyen managed to develop such a multi-leveled character who seemingly has multiple dueling identities.
At the heart of what this character explores (and what the story is really about) can be found at the close of the novel:
What do those who struggle against power do when they seize power? What does the revolutionary do when the revolution triumphs? Why do those who call for independence and freedom take away the independence and freedom of others? (Chapter 23)
Especially in the context and aftermath of the "Vietnam War" (put in air quotes because one Vietnamese character in the book states that in Vietnam, the same war is considered the "America War"), these questions offer a jumping-off point for the action and plot of the novel. In a wry, cynical style, the work's narrator seeks to use his experiences to answer these questions, and to render fault for the millions of murdered individuals. The twist of the novel is the demonstration that everyone is at fault, communists and Westerners alike, freedom fighters and guerrilla terrorists, so much so that it is hard to discern where one ends and the next begins. "As Hegel said, tragedy was not the conflict between right and wrong but right and right, a dilemma none of us who wanted to participate in history could escape." (Cha. 6)
Several satirical lines that lead the main character to this realization: "Nothing was more American than wielding a gun and committing oneself to die for freedom and independence, unless it was wielding that gun to take away someone else's freedom and independence." "Americans on the average do not trust intellectuals, but they are cowed by power and stunned by celebrity." "Whatever people say about the General today, I can only testify that he was a sincere man who believed in everything he said, even if it was a lie, which makes him not so difference from most."
More aspects of this book that I found interesting were the common threads with earlier American literature, namely Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man. Indeed, The Sympathizer begins and ends like what is described by Ellison's unnamed narrator: a person who has been "reeducated" to lack an identity. Nguyen offers a departure from Ellison in that he personifies the nothingness of the main character through a question that is asked by the Commissar during a disturbingly rendered torture session:
'What is more important than independence and freedom?' Someone was screaming and I knew who it was. It was me, screaming the one word that had dangled before me since the question was first asked––nothing––the answer that I could neither see nor hear until now––nothing!––the answer I screamed again and again and again––nothing!––because I was at last enlightened. (Cha. 22)
Given the horrors of what the narrator has just incurred, it is as if the realization of the character's nothingness, or rather the realization that the answer to the Commissar's question is individualism, is offered as a horrific side effect of torture and unyieldingly violent war. This climax to the work was also strongly reminiscent of the torture scene at the end of Orwell's 1984, in addition to respective outcomes on the works' main characters: both Winston and The Sympathizer's unnamed narrator experience a "reeducation" that seems to separate them from their very souls. Lastly, in the fashion of both Ralph Ellison and Toni Morrison, Nguyen explores the ways in which the nature of nationalism, pride, and vindication has unalterable, negative effects on the hearts of both victims and victimizers (of which all of The Sympathizer's players could be described as).
I enjoyed learning about the history of the Vietnam War through the lens of Nguyen and his characters. His "other-ized" narrator seems to prove the argument that a single narrative (namely a solely Western, American narrative that we here in the US have learned) can be dangerous and propagandist. A compellingly crafted, complex read that is paced like a thriller. Highly recommend to those who appreciate the value of a work that's style is perfectly enmeshed in the depth and learnedness of its substance....more
The Goldfinch is a sprawling tale of a young protagonist (Theo) who steals a small painting during a terrorist attack at an art museum. His mother is The Goldfinch is a sprawling tale of a young protagonist (Theo) who steals a small painting during a terrorist attack at an art museum. His mother is killed by the attack and Theo's subsequent grief is recounted within the first 200 pages of the book––certainly the strongest writing of the nearly 800-page novel. The depth of Tartt's writing about loss and the purity of Theo's character set the story up to be a standard Bildungsroman, so I was only a little puzzled once Theo moves to Las Vegas and essentially becomes a middle school drug addict, allowing his life to spiral into ever-dire situations. I'm still not sure why, in the grand scheme of things, Theo had to move to Las Vegas, other than to be connected with Boris, who comes back later in the story. I'm also not sure Theo's character made sense being a 14-year-old. I'm also not sure if Tartt's imagining of male decision making/desiring is accurate, at all. I had difficulty relating to him after his move across the country (and back to NYC); at times it felt diminutive, if not problematic (I can imagine the backlash if the writer had been male and written a female character in this way).
I have no doubt about Tartt's abilities to write. Her descriptions are full of sensory detail and I found myself intrigued by several adjectives, metaphors, and descriptors used on a line-by-line basis (tasting water that is "dishwasher warm," a stature of "leukemic posture"). The issue for me was in the conception of the plot and what, exactly, the story was that she wanted to tell. Before The Goldfinch (2013), Tartt published The Little Friend in 2002. The length of time between publications was so evident in this Pulitzer-winning work. Large sections took on a different tone and style than what came before. The final 200 pages, for example, employed a number of short paragraphs comprised of short, one-to-two word sentences (perhaps to build tension around the climax?). The climax itself seemed quite underwhelming, especially since the portrait was aptly labeled the MacGuffin by Michiko Kakutani––the object puts in motion a series of events (some which made no sense to me), but is actually quite insignificant and has no place in the theme of the work (which, from the first 200 pages, set itself up to be about coping with grief).
There was also a sudden shift, two-thirds of the way through, toward making the novel read like a detective story (a genre that Tartt's previous works would fall into). It required certain decisions to be made by the characters that felt very unnatural and completely unrealistic. (view spoiler)[For example, Theo leaving his engagement party, two days before Christmas, to travel to Amsterdam with (essentially) a Russian-American mafia/gang seemed far fetched. Another example: Theo's entire engagement to Kitsey, even after making it clear he feels little for her. This in particular remained problematic, as she was rarely brought up again during the remainder of the novel. The Lucius character also felt oddly placed, a distraction. (hide spoiler)]
I'm giving this novel three stars because it started off wonderfully, five-star worthy, but slowly got worse and worse, until I became apathetic. The very end (last 40 pages) returned to the depth and universality that Tartt began with, I just wish The Goldfinch hadn't taken numerous unnecessary plot twists to get back to that voice. This is a novel steered off course; one thats lengthy time-to-publication caused either blindspots or an attempt at saving face, an inability to self-correct. ...more
Re-readability is high, simply to track the many characters as the narration shifts each chapter. I wish it was also highly re-readable for its thematRe-readability is high, simply to track the many characters as the narration shifts each chapter. I wish it was also highly re-readable for its thematic importance——it's actually really lacking, in this way. Some of the stories were quite good (for me, the novel started really good, then went downhill), but virtuosic writing doesn't always equate to depth. ...more
Two stars, mainly because the book wasn't to my personal liking. I found it quite unimpressive, unimportant, jumbled, and often glib. A mosaic approacTwo stars, mainly because the book wasn't to my personal liking. I found it quite unimpressive, unimportant, jumbled, and often glib. A mosaic approach to writing should still be cohesive & not obscure for its own sake. ...more
3.5 stars. This book has its merits, but just didn't persist in the mind like it had been made out to. The style is somewhat sentimental, which there 3.5 stars. This book has its merits, but just didn't persist in the mind like it had been made out to. The style is somewhat sentimental, which there is nothing wrong with, but each character felt written about in a similar, almost formulaic way. Each chapter is based around a different character; several pages are spent divulging that respective character's issues to the reader; the rest of the chapter offers context and explanation of the issue. Once I caught on to this style, I became much more patient at the outset of each chapter through knowing that whatever was not being made clear would become transparent a few more pages in. It wasn't that Strout routinely withholds information, it was the pattern in which she does so––a pattern that takes away the freedom a work (and characters) can have. Some of the stories felt as if they didn't need a clean resolution, while others felt that information did not need to be withheld at all.
Each chapter revolves around one Everyman-type character, all with their problems and skeletons in the closet. It is through these characters that we always meet/come back to Olive Kitteridge, a female curmudgeon, who everyone seems to know or know of. I enjoyed reading details related to the relationship between Olive and her son, and found Strout does an impressive job at highlighting the inability for people to truly understand one another, although they may try with noble effort. Descriptions of the setting––or developing a mood/atmosphere––of the small coastal Maine town were also on point and felt quintessentially American (likely a big reason the Pulitzer was awarded to Strout).
It's an easy, quick read. I would recommend it to all who are searching for something to spend a couple of days with. Perhaps I was just in the mood for a more necessary, lasting work. ...more
This novel demands such attention. The mix of Spanglish and colloquialisms seemed off-putting at first. I wondered if the text would ever feel elevatiThis novel demands such attention. The mix of Spanglish and colloquialisms seemed off-putting at first. I wondered if the text would ever feel elevating, then realized part of the craft of the work is that very characteristic--the stylized, but ever clear voice of the narrator.
In a strange way, I would compare Oscar Wao with Foer's Everything is Illuminated (except, without as much vulnerability) and Roy's The God of Small Things (for it's cynical, clever voice). Both Diaz & Foer's works explore the family lineage of the protagonists & delve into the heinous crimes their kin fell victim to. Both derive their style from shifts in genre and timelines. (Both these works also end with a letter, I've just realized.)
In summary, a good reading experience, as the book demanded my time and astute reading....more
Reading The Road feels oppressive because of it's tone and bleak style. The stripped-down sentence structure (and easy-to-follow macro-structure of thReading The Road feels oppressive because of it's tone and bleak style. The stripped-down sentence structure (and easy-to-follow macro-structure of the entire work) made it a quick read, and one that I won't forget. There are rarely moments of hope; when they do arise, they're short lived. The enduring love between father and son is most memorable. In a such a desolate setting, and one in which the characters secretly wish for death, they derive meaning & purpose from one another. McCarthy's careful metaphors emphasize this point so masterfully and seamlessly, especially as the book comes to a close. These main characters are just vague enough in description (McCarthy refers to them simply as "the man" and "the boy") that they become almost like souls wandering through post-apocalyptic America, never asking 'why?' but observing and doing their best at self-preservation. ...more
In many ways, Gilead defies being rated; it challenges the traditional structure of a novel, shying away from simply showcasing a mastery of narrativeIn many ways, Gilead defies being rated; it challenges the traditional structure of a novel, shying away from simply showcasing a mastery of narrative arc, drama, dialogue, or character development. Stripped of its agency (and sense of payoff that comes from a sense of agency), the work arrives at a more fulfilling, enriched approach to creating a portrait of setting and narrator.
Through an epistolary format, the book chronicles the somewhat-aphoristic writing of John Ames, a dying pastor in middle America. Ames's intended reader: his young son who is, in all likelihood, soon-to-be fatherless. Given the circumstance, the writing is an ode to life and a love letter, not only to his child but more universally to all who may read it.
His letters detail stories from his own life, descriptions of his relationships with his family and friends, musings on religious themes, and words of wisdom about how to embrace the beauty of existence. Since all of these topics are so personal, the tone of the entire book is intimate and inspired. From the very first paragraph, one gets the sense of an old soul whispering to all who joyously humble themselves to listen.
Like Debussy, Coppola, and many Pulitzer Prize-winning novelists, the style (and entire conception) of their works is an acquired taste, but one that persists in the mind. Gilead begs for re-read after re-read, each slower and more mindful than its preceding completion. ...more
An excellent book and one that was always so enjoyable to pick up. The writing was masterful for about 400 pages––moment after moment I wondered how EAn excellent book and one that was always so enjoyable to pick up. The writing was masterful for about 400 pages––moment after moment I wondered how Eugenides was able to write with such voice and tone, with such aptly chosen words, with such expression, and with such tight control to his conception of the sprawling plot. Section by section, the novel seemed to echo works that had come before it: Part 1, Safran Foer's Everything Is Illuminated (a generational story of ancestry/origins) and Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay (a story of immigrants establishing new identities while coming of age); elements of Parts 2 and 3, The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love (a story of relationships, told in a quirky, cinematic style).
The final hundred pages shifted quite a bit in tone, which didn't make sense. The narrator is always telling the story from the same point in time (a 40-something American living in Berlin), so why does the tone change to a more straightforward, narrative-driven, less fanciful voice? Those last pages just weren't as rich or original in style as the previous 400. I personally did not like the plot shift around the climax, as well, but that is just personal opinion. It seemed to shift from a universal theme to an identity plot, riddled with research and (only slightly) preachiness. (view spoiler)[(Calliope's journey west to California also reminded me of Theo Decker's relocation to Vegas in The Goldfinch–� an element of plot that I found extraneous, unnecessary, and a bit contrived. (Though I'm aware that Tartt's work came over a decade after Eugenides'!) I couldn't help but think Eugenides had fallen into the same trap as Tartt: taking too long to finish a book (9 years), thus not having the continuity in style/voice from beginning to end. (hide spoiler)]
Since it deals with now-hot-button issues of gender identity and expression, I found the text has aged well, perhaps a tribute to Eugenides' empathy and noble intent as a writer. With all said, I would definitely recommend this book to all readers. One of the more enjoyable works I've read in the past couple of years, and done at the level of literary greats. What more could a reader ask for?...more
If there is such thing as a perfect novel, this is it. In form, construction, language, character development—it’s a masterclass in all of these. I paIf there is such thing as a perfect novel, this is it. In form, construction, language, character development—it’s a masterclass in all of these. I particularly liked the start of each large section of the book, which were basically flashbacks of the main character’s childhood. These were written almost as short stories that, by themselves, could stand alone as great 10-20 page works.
Personally, I prefer literature that pushes some boundaries or progresses the form of the novel. (Note: this is seldom achieved through fragmenting a narrative, as Strout’s Olive Kitteridge or Egan’s A Visit From The Goon Squad, two mediocre books, in my opinion.) Although Empire Falls does not seek to redefine forms/genres or push boundaries, it was immensely pleasurable to read and was clearly demonstrative of Russo’s refined skills, if not his upstanding character or virtue as a person....more
I've realized that while I enjoy books with heavier subject matter, there is a fine line before a novel begins to wallow in its own hyper-depressive mI've realized that while I enjoy books with heavier subject matter, there is a fine line before a novel begins to wallow in its own hyper-depressive mood. Cunningham seems to try to counteract such a mood by crafting straightforward, often shorter but well-rounded sentences. In terms of organization, I understood the novel and did enjoy the interweaving of main characters from three different eras. However, each sub-story (each character) seemed like its own novella––as if Cunningham began with simple writing exercises somehow related to Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway. My favorite of the three characters was Mrs. Brown; the rest of it, I really enjoyed...I think.
The Hours took me all of 4-5 hours to complete, in multiple sittings. For some reason, by the time I reached the end (which does, in fact, have a bit of a fulfilling twist) I found myself questioning why the Pulitzer Prize committee found it to be so elevating. Perhaps it was simply the safest nominee for the 1999 award? ...more
Some of the smartest, most critical writing in all of fiction. I did read the Zuckerman trilogy before this book (a set of books I would recommend, thSome of the smartest, most critical writing in all of fiction. I did read the Zuckerman trilogy before this book (a set of books I would recommend, though aren't required for American Pastoral). It's nice to see Roth's alter-ego so mellow; though Zuckerman's existential struggle and self-rage seem to be converted to a pessimism towards post-WWII American government and society.
We encounter Zuckerman, the infamous writer, remembering his high school days––a reunion is approaching. Seymore Levov, or "the Swede," was a peer who everyone looked up to: the sports star, the inheritor of a successful glove manufacturing business; the blonde-haired, blue-eyed husband of a former Ms. New Jersey pageant contestant; the landowner in pastoral New Jersey; the dedicated father. After only a couple of encounters through the decades, Zuckerman goes to the reunion wondering what's happened to the Swede. The Swede's brother informs Zuckerman that his brother is dead, destroyed by the devastating events of his life.
Never re-entering into the present time (the reunion), the novel seamlessly drifts from Zuckerman's narration to the Swede's. I found this attribute to be the most striking. Everything past the nearly 100-page prologue is Zuckerman's imagining of the Swede's life (a writing trick we, the reader, forget about). Only in hindsight am I able to see the inconsistencies in Zuckerman's account of the Swede's life vs. the small tidbits of actual information we gather from 1. Zuckerman's brief, chance encounters with the Swede, 2. Jerry Levov's preliminary account of what became of his brother, and 3. Zuckerman's limited research around the protagonist's life. For example: at the reunion, Jerry's brother mentions the Swede divorced; in Zuckerman's account, the Swede remains married. During a dinner meeting, the Swede tells Zuckerman he has two sons and is very proud of them; in Zuckerman's retelling, he excludes these sons from the entire narrative––instead, focusing on the Swede's daughter, Merry Levov. Again, though, the novel's point-of-view shifts from Zuckerman to the Swede, so these inconsistencies don't actually stick out while reading. In a sense, the novel strikes a powerful balance between Zuckerman's imaginings and what could have actually happened to the high school hero from yesteryear. Not only does this operate as a frame story, but a meta-narrative (so typical with Roth that some critics have it labeled "Rothian").
We uncover that Merry Levov was responsible for a post office bombing in their hometown of New Jersey, which led to the death of one person. Throughout the Swede's narration (which, again, is actually Zuckerman's imaginative retelling), we get inside the mind of a man whose entire world seems collapsing: his New Jersey manufacturing town turns from a perfect American city to a town of violence, vandalism, and mayhem; his glove making business is slowly dying; his relationship with his parents is fraught, and his brother grows bitter towards him; his daughter is the perpetrator of terrorism, runs away, is raped multiple times, continues her revolutionary deeds around the country, and falls into mental illness; his friends betray him; his wife grows to hate their life together and (view spoiler)[is caught cheating on the Swede (hide spoiler)].
It's coincidence that I read Bernard Malamud's The Fixer recently, as I found the two books similar. Of course, the stories are entirely different––Malamud's about a Jew in Russia facing the worst sort of persecution of the 20th century, and Roth's about the downfall of a man whose American dream devolves into a nightmare. Both books, however, deal with protagonists who have their lives taken from them by outside forces; both are psychological and existential; both's treatment of their protagonists is sadistic; the antagonists of both books seem to be the society, itself, waging war with the individual. In a sense, they're both Job narratives that swap God for society/government: what happens when a man has everything taken from him? What is the role of hope, in the end? This latter question is where the contrast lies. Malamud's work is realistic in its depiction of suffering, yet becomes emblematic of an optimist's view of the direction of society––the trust that humans will recognize injustice and suffering as an antithesis to humankind. Roth, however, begins a pessimist, persists as a pessimist, and ends a pessimist. His perspective makes no mention of God, thus never pondering the ability for his protagonist to proclaim his suffering to the cosmos. Nearly the entire novel exists in the character's head, whether through flashbacks or internal monologue.
Through the Levov's, Roth has created a critique of the American political climate of the post-WWII era, capitalism, and postmodern society's slip into the "desperation of the counterpastoral," the "American berserk." With the Levov's isolated farm life in mind, the "American pastoral" is a more literal reference to the farcical American dream. From the outside, the Swede did everything right and was looked up to like a God. He spent his entire life trying to make the right decisions, only to find that that decision was, in fact, the wrong one. Breaking the fourth wall, the wry, sardonic the final lines:
And what is wrong with their life? What on earth is less reprehensible than the life of the Levov's?
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