I chose to read this particular novel for no specific reason whatsoever, of course. Of course, those who know me (and my diet) know that I am no DickhI chose to read this particular novel for no specific reason whatsoever, of course. Of course, those who know me (and my diet) know that I am no Dickhead. That being said, those same folks would be not at all surprised to hear me suggest that Dick is something of an acquired taste.
Going into this with no expectations to see Dick do things that I've never found Dick to do, I did not struggle with any of the book's lack of poeticism in the prose, lack of any patience to the pacing, lack of any descriptive passages at all. In a certain sense (not to say there are no aesthetic merits to this work), the novel succeeds on the strength of its ideas alone. They are ideas fit to masticate. In particular, the mind-bending revelation of the denouement is fantastic. I've been thinking about it all day. It is, as an idea, probably doomed to be ever-interpreted in a far more literal way than it should be -- but who I am to complain about a writer being more insightful than their readers?
On that point, mild/major spoilers ahead: The revelation that the Axis Powers actually lost the war does not need to be directly interpreted as a typical Dickian reality-rug-pull. It is, rather, a multi-layered complication of all presented in the book up to that point. It would be naive to believe that this revelation is intended to be absorbed and analyzed as an inalienable in-universe fact -- to not also consider that this revelation could refer not to the immediate material "victory" of World War II, but rather to more nuanced sense of ideological war waged by the Axis Powers. It is quite telling that the portal to this alternate reality is in a sense opened by a piece of jewelry created by a Jewish man -- a Jew who has continues to survive in a world controlled by the Axis Powers. It is this point that serves to emphasize the failure of the Third Reich to execute total domination and genocide. It is the survival and ideological persistence of a would-be-exterminated people (along with their art, culture, and will to fight) that suggests the ultimate evidence that the Axis Powers have lost "the war". They have not "won".
On another level this revelation -- when one makes the natural flip of Grasshopper for High Castle, Abendsen for Dick -- makes one consider their own reality (our reality (?)) as a mirror for the one that Dick has sculpted. In this sense, the novel is a cautionary tale, not a story of "what could have been" but rather of "what might be". The novel is typically called an alternate fiction, but this oft repeated label does not preclude the book from being speculative fiction. Just as the survival of a living Jew suggests the failure of the Axis Powers in this fictional world, so does the survival of real live Nazis suggest the failure of the Allies in our own. It is our loss -- that we did not snuff out the torch of fascism -- that Dick seemingly implies is the through-a-glass-darkly evidence that the Allies did not win World War II.
This is why I posit that the ultimate power of the revelatory denouement is far deeper than a simple rug-pull interpretation allows. Dick's novel is notably multi-layered, even in the way it approaches ideas about racism, American culture, and the fascism of the heart. One of the most brilliant sections of the novel is a dinner party where Childan attempts to endear himself to a room of Japanese imperialists.
I'm not sure to what extent I buy the idea that Dick relied on the I Ching to dictate the writing of the novel. Sure, The Man in the High Castle is unconventionally -- maybe even disjointedly --structured, but that isn't a quality unique to this particular Dick work. Either way, as a bit of lore connected to High Castle it certainly doesn't detract from the effect produced. The cult of Dick seems to be invested in the writer's quirks (in particular his notorious substance usage) far beyond their relevancy to the resultant work(s). As aforementioned, I am not yet so endeared to Dick so as to be at all interested in any of that -- nor am I yet up to taking a crack at the writer's late ouevre (those books written while he supposedly believed he was an actual religious figure receiving messages from a higher power).
As it stands, as someone who just dicks around with Dick (sorry), I would consider this my second favorite Dick for now (second to A Scanner Darkly, of course)......more
When he hits, Ballard hits. He has a brilliance that's hard to deny, but I still struggled to engage with a fair share of this collection's contents. When he hits, Ballard hits. He has a brilliance that's hard to deny, but I still struggled to engage with a fair share of this collection's contents. (Some of the selections, like the title story, went right over my head.) My only prior exposure to Ballard has been Crash, so I cannot comment on his grander ouevre. Here I found that his sentences would sometimes grow unwieldy in service of very little -- neither lending themselves to stylistic flair or legibility. With only a few exceptions, the stories in this collection are written in a sort of astute, vaguely detached language. That approach lends itself to something like the wonderful comic horror of 'Billennium', an easily communicated science fiction concept executed masterfully. This isn't entirely dissimilar from how the story 'Deep End' is pulled together, but the emotional impact is of an entirely different nature. These are some of the most straight-forward science fiction stories in the collection, and they appealed to me the most. As in Crash, Ballard straddles the line between contemporary literary fiction and genre fiction in a way that forces one to contemplate why the author is drawing from one discipline rather than the other at any given time, and also to realize the inseparable linkage between good science fiction literature and the material, political, and emotional climate of the time in which it was penned. 'The Reptile Enclosure' is another strong example. Meanwhile, the lack of overt science fiction elements in stories like 'The Gioconda of the Twilight Noon' asks the reader to question the potential of whether and where such connections to the genre exist.
Another story that grabbed me was 'The Drowned Giant', the type of very simple concept for a short story that is difficult to pull off. This story felt the most in line with some of the work that was happening contemporaneously across the pond, on the crest of the other new wave. But, as seems to be the general rule of thumb, Ballard is less flamboyant than his American contemporaries. One imagines his characters as a multitude of vaguely sketched, tediously nebbish non-characters. There is little heroism, adventure, or zip-zoom-bang to these selections. His prose is almost finnicky, never florid in a purposefully experimental way. It is not the attraction, but a means to an end. ...more
This was a bit more in the realm of memoir than I was expecting. To some extent, it is torn between approaches and feels, as a result, neither quite-eThis was a bit more in the realm of memoir than I was expecting. To some extent, it is torn between approaches and feels, as a result, neither quite-enough-this nor quite-enough-that. Tolhurst is obviously the legitimate article, and he is as insightful as you would expect. If you are as enamored with the subject matter as I am, this is worth a read. But I'm not sure it will convert anyone, so to speak....more
I love the music of John Adams. He is not as accomplished a writer as he is a composer (I mean -- who is?) This book is at its best in one of two modeI love the music of John Adams. He is not as accomplished a writer as he is a composer (I mean -- who is?) This book is at its best in one of two modes: 1) Adams writing about his own music, 2) Adams writing about the music of others. Everything else really falls flat, but it's great hearing him wax poetic about the Tristan chord, or get a little mischevious talking about some of his contemporaries (I really liked his mixed thoughts on Zappa).
I was hoping for a little more on Nixon in China, which for me is THE Adams work (I'm also enormously fond of Naive and Sentimental Music (which he dedicates not a tremendous amount of words to) and Doctor Atomic (which he is more generous with)). His little 'me the composer as a prism for history' history lessons aren't that stunning. Some of the behind-the-scenes process stuff is interesting. Learning that A Flowering Tree was rushed into existence -- and lacked the long and considered research process of Adams' other operas -- does not surprise me. So many of the artistic decisions ("I settled on just three singers") feel like they were made out of something approaching desperate necessity. (While I have only heard it once, it is the one work in Adams' ouevre that I would struggle to say anything positive about.)
Worth reading for devotees, but I wouldn't recommend it to anyone else. (Speaking of not that stunning writing, how about this "review", huh?)...more
Lovecraft's famous Machen homage. Nearly as good as the reputation would suggest. Lovecraft's famous Machen homage. Nearly as good as the reputation would suggest. ...more
The sluggish, dragging stamp of progress is sometimes all that we have to feel optimistic for -- sluggish as sluggish as sluggish can be as it can be.The sluggish, dragging stamp of progress is sometimes all that we have to feel optimistic for -- sluggish as sluggish as sluggish can be as it can be. The last few paragraphs of this novel (which you have to read over and over again, I promise) are really brutally beautiful and capture perfectly the way the exhaustion of a distressed existence erodes away any ability to appreciate, admire, or even notice the beauty of the world. The server says "Sit anywhere you like." Wow what a line.
I came to this after seeing the brilliant film adaptation by RaMell Ross, which I think elevates this material into an even more ecstastic zone. That is not to say that this novel isn't accomplished in its own right. Whitehead's direct language, refusal to really delve into the internal space of the characters (there is always this painful distance, as we witness cruelties play out bluntly without any ability to alter them), and the novel's insistence on overlaying the "present" with the "past" -- these aren't overt, distracting, or flashy techniques, but they are wise, effective, well-chosen. The material is incredibly brutal. But Whitehead doesn't just construct a didactic narrative about the persistence of persecution or prejudice -- there is a legitimate probing of how the self forms in stunted and sore ways when the soul is malnourished and when the individual's relation to their society is terribly malformed. The "villains" of the book are vaguely described shadows of irrelevant, forgotten, vanished men. The underdog "heroes" have their identities stolen, confused, shattered. The vileness of our inhumanity towards our fellow man erodes the humanity of all of us. We leave behind only sickeningly misplaced bones in the ground.
Really rough, and definitely worth reading even if you've already seen the film!...more
Blish has a character produce a direct tip of the hat to Olaf Stapledon, whose earlier work detailing a "directed panspermia" set the precedent. BlishBlish has a character produce a direct tip of the hat to Olaf Stapledon, whose earlier work detailing a "directed panspermia" set the precedent. Blish's version -- 'pantropy' -- is a delightful blend of wily idealism and curious body horror.
The Seedling Stars is an interesting fix-up work. Perhaps a radical restructuring of the original novelettes may have allowed the revelations to happen in a sort of tandem. As is, each of the sections contains reiterative expository information, but this isn't overly problematic. The only story that suffers for it is 'The Thing in the Attic', a strong work with a twist ending that is obvious and telegraphed due to information already presented to the reader in the book's opening section.
My favorite of the four sections is the last, and coincidentally the shortest, 'Watershed' (fun fact: this is where Blish coined the term 'gas giant'.) This is a really brief and brilliant piece of science fiction writing. In it the author balances a rendering of apocalyptic possiblity with a challenging depiction of humanity's tenacity. In addition, it is a confident and multi-layered exploration of mankind's prejudice. The preceding three sections aren't as fantastic (nor concise) but they each have their strong points....more
The title poem is Stevens working with a huge paintbrush on a canvas of unending sky, making massive sweeping motions. Totally cosmic and all-encompasThe title poem is Stevens working with a huge paintbrush on a canvas of unending sky, making massive sweeping motions. Totally cosmic and all-encompassing. Big, wriggling leviathan poetry. Just when you think you've got it, the thing flaps and flops out of your grasp. From light into shadow and back again and back again....more
A novel of two halves. The first is rather delightful -- not at all too zany for my sometimes zaniness-adverse sensibility, and with a compelling portA novel of two halves. The first is rather delightful -- not at all too zany for my sometimes zaniness-adverse sensibility, and with a compelling portraiture of aimlessness in the face of totalitarianism. One thing that is funny is the way Dick (and most of his peers who chose to craft visions of the future in a broadly Orwellian mode) conceives of the ultimate injustice being trespasses against personal privacy, not at all forseeing the way human beings would -- in a future nearer than the one extrapolated to in this novel -- willingly document publish huge amounts of their intimate lives for global consumption. We're outraged and saddened when not enough people are watching us!
I don't find Dick to be a compelling prose stylist, but his ideas are sometimes stickier than those of some of his contemporaries who were ultimately more aesthetically accomplished (I'm thinking of Zelazny, and Disch too). Sure, Dick published one-hundred-thirty-five books a year, so the lack of attention-to-detail is neither shocking nor appalling. I found this novel more acceptably paced than something like the more acclaimed Ubik, to be totally honest. What Dick can be is funny -- and few science fiction writers are. All the banter with the robot character Willis is very funny. The morose rounds of 'The Game' at the head of this book are funny. The senseless and depressed cul-de-sac of the wordplay is a great stand-in for the entirety of a future that has replaced substance with empty novelty.
A novel of two halves. The latter half of this isn't really an example of Clarke's third law, but it's in that sort of ballpark, I suppose. Some may make the argument. Either way, I find it descends (it also descends literally) into that untethered loosey-goosey abstract reality-bend stuff that Dick was so fond of. I find the stuff endlessly tedious. Pseudo-philosophical pontification about alter-egos and Jungian such-and-such. The whole second half is sort of a head-scratcher. There's something to be said for the never-literally-stated impression that the protagonist becomes the healer not of a pot but of a fractured but destined-to-be-made-whole God-like alien entity. But maybe this is just me, I don't really get what pottery has to do with it. And the stinger final page, with the curt final sentence, isn't terribly cute to me. Dick's reach for cosmic scale, expanding consciousness, the melding of individuals into a transcendent gestalt -- I'll just say he falls way short of Sturgeon, in my opinion.
Even when one of Dick's novels disappoints me (which they usually do), I still don't regret having read it....more
In the first chapter Tanizaki sets up the entirety of the novel's drama in tandem with a depiction of the central couple's routine of preparing for anIn the first chapter Tanizaki sets up the entirety of the novel's drama in tandem with a depiction of the central couple's routine of preparing for an evening. They finalize their plans (wishy washy), they get dressed (important stuff). Kaname's lack of knowledge regarding Misako's clothes, which she focuses on and chooses carefully, is just one of many representations of the lack of harmony among the pair. When going out their clothes must match, to feign synchronicity, because they are living a lie. They go out to the bunraku theatre, themselves already self-puppeteered performers in a secret drama. The melodramatics romances of the theatre fill in for the lack of chemistry, the lack of passion, between Kaname and Misako. They aren't even mad at each other; they don't even dislike each other.
Kaname has something of an epiphany (related to an appreciation of traditional Osakan art) watching the puppets. Tanizaki captures the phenomenon of the "third mind" well -- conscious thoughts that are created specifically through the collaboration between the voice of the artist and the contemplation of the audience. Of course, everything in the play reminds Kaname of himself and his predicament, and so he dreads discussing the performance with his enthusiastic father-in-law, lest he have to give away the secret of his disaffected, loveless marriage.
Most of Tanizaki's novel is deceptively simple. Almost nothing happens. He crucially leaves out massive amounts of information that would otherwise have colored, complicated, or gotten in the way of our focus on what IS in the text. What does Kaname do for work? Is this even mentioned? He shares very little about the past of the characters. He casually takes on huge topics, such as the western influence in Japan, the discrepancy between urban and rural living, classic literary hallmarks like infidelity and cuckoldry and prostitution, but everything is so desensationalized.
Whether or not Kaname is in-love with either the idea or the actual human being that is O-hisa, his father-in-law's mistress, is hard to say. Perhaps he only likes the idea of not having to be worried about feeling nothing but small, petty, and insignificant feelings towards a life partner. Kaname, in so much as he is the protagonist of Tanizaki's novel, seems distressed by any and everything that could be considered significant. ...more
A soft and melancholy portrait of a would-be-colonialist who just doesn't have it in him. Warner depicts the title character's loneliness in a subtle,A soft and melancholy portrait of a would-be-colonialist who just doesn't have it in him. Warner depicts the title character's loneliness in a subtle, sometimes funny, way. At the same time there's this sublime terror of the natural world -- an earthquake, a volcano, the sea -- that is the backdrop to the bumbling human element. Fortune's love for his friend Lueli, who is maybe his only convert, is very sweet. When it comes to novels that deal with the disconnectedness the individual feels with the world around them, this is one of the gentler and less brooding. ...more
Disch makes some salient points in the first few chapters, which seem to be connected to the supposed thesis of this book. But the majority of the booDisch makes some salient points in the first few chapters, which seem to be connected to the supposed thesis of this book. But the majority of the book to follow is mostly unrelated -- isolated topics on the broader topic of science fiction.
Most of this is pretty interesting, but the whole isn't greater than the sum of its parts. A section on feminist sf sees Disch painting himself as a reactionary. He is incredibly uncharitable towards LeGuin in particular (Delany's long and highly critical essay on The Dispossessed is more valuable), and seems to woefully misunderstands how being transgender works. It's a fun chapter (because it's catty and scandalous), but it is Disch at his least admirable. The essays on science fiction's relation to religion and right wing politics are the most vital in the book, and they are emblematic not of Disch's prescience (he is not predicting, he is describing) but rather his ability to properly assign significance. The only real throughline in the book is science fiction's eeriely repeated intersection with some of the most deceitful facets of American culture and history -- these sections are worth reading....more
Interesting, in that after the first chapter you've basically learned all there is to learn, but the existence of the rest of the text is crucial to tInteresting, in that after the first chapter you've basically learned all there is to learn, but the existence of the rest of the text is crucial to the psychological effect Dick is intending. They becomes numbing, freakish, tiresome. It is the dull monotonous omnipresence of fascism that one grows less and less able to fight as the days, as the months and years wear on. Dick writes this simple little story with simple and direct language, but her strategy of only providing the bare minimum of information to make the thing function actually makes it function much more potently. Her inclusion of brief moments that, more poetically, express the beautiful of the natural world, are wonderful. How awful that all this beauty must be wasted on those who are unable to appreciate it. Art for the artless. Pearls before swine. "I don't have to see it, Dottie. I lived it." - Pee-wee Herman...more
A barrage of stuff arranged in the least palatable structure possible. Disch makes the mundane alien, and vice versa. 334 is an ingenious approach to A barrage of stuff arranged in the least palatable structure possible. Disch makes the mundane alien, and vice versa. 334 is an ingenious approach to the genre -- far more credible an extrapolation of 'things to come' than the idealism of space theatrics or the pointed social commentary of your typical dystopia. Some people are paid to reproduce, other people are not allowed to reproduce. It's a ghoulish nightmare where people watch tv and eat and have unfulfilling sex and things just kinda suck. I think Disch sees this world as a world in decline, but he isn't too overt in his presentation. Like a lot of new wave writers, there's a degree of obfuscation -- intellectual smoke and mirrors -- that forces you to dig a bit. I probably only scratched the surface. The episodic approach keeps things fresh, but the novel lacks any sense of momentum. Feels Burroughs-esque (cut-up) in that sense. I didn't love this the way I did Camp Concentration and The Genocides....more
This is a phenomenal piece of writing -- far beyond the typical "rock memoir". Albertine is a multi-disciplinary artist. SheViv Albertine is my hero.
This is a phenomenal piece of writing -- far beyond the typical "rock memoir". Albertine is a multi-disciplinary artist. She doesn't allocate her attention to topics based on any canonical considerations of her contributions to culture. The decision to split the book into A and B sides ala a record feels like way more than a cutesy gimmick -- there's a clear and stark differentiation between the halves. You would think the latter half of this book (post Slits break-up, the "missing years" so to speak) would be less exciting to read than the "sex n drugs n rock n roll" side. Au contraire! Albertine's brutally honest depictions of the in vitro fertilization process, the asphyxiating life of domestic feminity, fighting cancer, the death of friends, and especially the uphill struggle to become an artist after years owning a silenced voice, are incredible to read. A wonderfully naturalistic version of something like a punk ethos is present throughout the whole book. Continually, Albertine must allow her life to be completely destroyed before she begin building something new. She reminds me a lot of myself, particularly in the way she discusses her personal insecurity about her musical ability, the frustration of grappling with the tools and skills (supposedly) required for self-expression. The way she talks about her relationship with Ari Up is really interesting -- albeit melancholy. The friction present between two very differently and both utterly brilliant artists is unfortunately somewhat inevitable. Albertine hearing through the grapevine that Ari once called Viv "the scariest person she'd ever known." I think the feeling was somewhat mutual, which is remarkably beautiful in my opinion.
This was my favorite little paragraph, because it is so on-point, and hits me right in the heart and the gut and says it all: "I want boys to come and see us play and think I want to be part of that. Not They're pretty or I want to fuck them but I want to be in that gang, in that band. I want boys to want to be us..."
I read Steegmuller's transltion. I dipped into an earlier translation (I won't mention which) for a bit, out of curiosity, and Steegmuller's was the cI read Steegmuller's transltion. I dipped into an earlier translation (I won't mention which) for a bit, out of curiosity, and Steegmuller's was the clear superior.
Very admirable is the way that Flaubert will occasionally dip into the headspace of whatever character he is focusing on. The way he tells this straight linear story, but will shift his attention from one character to another -- he does it very smoothly. You almost don't notice it, perhaps in part because Flaubert is admanant to not self-insert himself. This is, of course, very common in contemporary prose, but was maybe less so common among Flaubert's contemporaries.
So many heartaching, miserable little episodes that paint cruel little pictures of bitter lives of desperate, suffocating people. Really striking is Charles Bovary's ignoble goal of curing the stable boy's clubfoot, a mission undertaken as a chance at personal glory -- as well as an attempt to win back the favor of a wife suffering from acute ennui. It is an awful affair all around.
Emma herself is of course a sort of female Quixote. The only adventures that her literary diet have outlined for her though are affairs of a stifled heart. Casting herself as an object without agency, to escape her life as an object without agency, she is a person made hollow and useless by her social circumstance. The first part of Flaubert's novel, which culminates in the revelation that Emma is pregnant, could stand alone as one of the finest novellas ever written. Flaubert writes with great detail, specificity -- it a meticulous, linear approach. It serves to make the closing trap, the sense of inescapability, incredibly real. ...more
Not a long novel, but a dense novel. And a novel that is funny by many meanings of the word. Not a novel that is uproarious and full of dazzling proseNot a long novel, but a dense novel. And a novel that is funny by many meanings of the word. Not a novel that is uproarious and full of dazzling prose like Reed's earlier Yellow Back Radio Broke-Down, but a funny and well-written novel nonetheless.
Now is the time to read this, by the way. It is set roughly a half-century earlier than when it was written, which was roughly a half-century ago. So some of the final thoughts of Mumbo Jumbo, where Reed refers to history as a pendulum, seem really apt. The current climate is definitely wholly near-infinitely relatable to much of what is depicted in these pages. So you won't get much better a summation of 100 years of America under 220 pages anywhere else.
Reed is ambitious here. He opens the novel like a motion picture, with a crackling first scene, and a title card and credits roll. He pulls this off so effortlessly, you're infinitely hooked. And then he creates this swirling collage, cut-up like Burroughs in bits and mixing times, places, tones, and styles. Pseudo-epistolary chunks, scraps of poetry, authorial asides, non-fiction sections with formal citations. The bulk of the action depicted takes place in 1920s Harlem -- executed with a delectable fusion of pre-Code gangster flick and raucous screwball comedy. And then (did I mention Reed is ambitious?) a later passage of the novel is a retrospective history of humanity that takes us from Osiris and Set all the way to where we started. I couldn't help thinking about the way Reed approaches the pair of feisty fraternal deities compared to Joyce's take in the Wake. Ancient Egypt mythology and burial rites were one of the first things that I ever became fascinated by in my life -- when I was six years old I was assigned the letter 'S' for a class show-and-tell and I made a 'Sarcophagus' out of a shoebox (complete with a mummy inside) and gave my first-of-many performances to deaf ears.
Reed's version of the Moses story is great. You're reading it and for just the briefest of moment you think "Hey, wait, this isn't what really happened", but then you laugh to yourself, "Oh, well, the version I know isn't what really happened either, of course." But of course all of Reed's novel is an alternate history. Look at his usage of Sufi Abdul Hamid, a historical figure that I had to do a bit of reading into to know what Reed was getting at. Hilariously, the actual death of the actual Hamid is way weirder and more intersting that the film noir style end that Reed conjures up.
There's a lot of core truth hidden inside the zaniness. Ideally, one realizes that Reed's juggling of history and fiction is a meaningful tool. All throughout, both in retellings of reality and in flights of fancy, the central ideas are resonant and easily applicable to an undeniable reality. Moral and intellectual discussions about art and culture can easily be used to suppress said art and culture. Those in power would rather retain control over a population downtrodden and depressed than lose control over a population that is creative and prosperous. The desire to be respected and taken seriously by oppressors -- those who should themselves not be respected or taken seriously -- is a fool's errand. Straight-forward and easily digestible literature rarely rattles the mind. Reed is, in the best way, far from straight-forward. Much here to masticate. Tough and savory....more
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