Working my way through historical Europe

I must admit that after writing that last post, my appreciation for A Tale of Two Cities improved rather greatly. The novel ended on a much more personable attitude than I had perceived the rest of the book to be. It was not to the point that I should label this work to be the best of Dickens, but the climactic build was successful, and there was enough drama (and care in the reader) to cause for the typical cheers and heartbreaking for appropriate moments. How poetic for Miss. Pross to lose her hearing, and for Carton to die blissfully as the young couple whom he saved is innocent in their oblivion.
My copy of this book was afterworded by Stephen Koch. I did not much agree with his points (he stressed sexuality and rape to a point which I found annoying especially). I know that one must speak with boldness and confidence in writing such a thing, but his tone somehow seemed arrogant and absurd. Mr. Koch claims that the modern reader cannot appreciate Lucie in the way that she was intended -- I do not agree with this at all. A reader, in this day, who is literate enough to grasp the madonnas of yesteryear are educated enough, I think, to understand exactly what she is; her naivety and virtue are not borne of simplicity, but as a physical imagining of purity. Obviously. And I think that it was a strength of Dickens', with just a small glimmer, to introduce the young girl at the gallows to have just as much if not more courageous strength in purity and character/emotion than the heroine. I am, however, a big fan of the name "Lucie". How precious and cute in its spelling.

Anyway, speaking of supporting literature, I have also just finished Fyodor Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground (translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky), which was given to me from the beau as a birthday gift. This translator duo is amazing. Unlike my experience with Koch's writing, I hung on to almost every word in the foreward for Notes with a wonder similar to what I feel for the foreward in Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter. Translation is an art, as I've come to learn, and Pevear and Volokhonsky do it with finesse and respect. They explain their strenuously particular word choice in comparison to other translations, and this is a dire importance. The folks know what they're doing, and it is appreciated so that I as the reader can get the full value and meaning of the work (or as close to it as possible) without learning another language -- though I'd love to. They write beautifully themselves, aside from this as well; "In fact, we do not really see [the author], we only hear him, and not through anything so respectable as a window, but through a crack in the floorboards". Superb.

The book itself, is the isolated melancholy of a solitary man typical of Dostoevsky. His self-inflicted torture is hard to read at times, with little sympathy being afforded to the speaker. A ray of possibility of escape from this is brought with Liza (whom I cannot help but to imagine as Marion Cotillard, though I know that it's inaccurate), but she too is quickly gotten rid of, disappointingly, and the work ends somewhat abruptly...but also fitting of the hopelessness of the character. I appreciate the simplicity of this work -- the narration seems honest, and makes me wonder about Dotoevsky's own mentality, though it seems that these pessimistic tones are more reflective of the people who interested him rather than he himself. Taking Notes more as a train of thought than as a story, I enjoyed it as something between a character study and a release of thought/ideas and point of view.

Next up is another Russian novelist (also a part of the birthday gift previously mentioned): The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. My Lithuanian boyfriend seems to favor the eastern european regions.

The past few months

I regret to confess that I have been holding off on updating my progress of the List -- mostly from laziness -- for the past month and a half, with no excuses.

In fact, I finished "Never Let Me Go" quite a while ago, and very quickly, and was putting off writing about it until I had finished my current endeavor of "A Tale of Two Cities" because of the speed with which I had read through it. This obviously proved to be a mistake, as the latter has been a laborious read for me that seems never-ending.

I will have to apologize for my glossed over account of this novel, as I have most likely forgotten any slightly-profound input I could have acquired during my reading it. Anyway, I was excited to read "Never", as I am very limited in my Japanese literature (if it can be lumped there, since he is technically a British author), and have heard such great things. I will have to say though, that I was disappointed, and not too taken with Ishiguro's novel. I found it rather dull and incredibly predictable. I am not the biggest fan of romantic literature, but I had begun the work thinking that it would outdo that genre. The characters seemed too juvenile, despite the plot of their sheltered lives, and I honestly felt no deep emotion for the characters whatsoever. There were a number of scenes with potential of being powerful, I think, but Ishiguro did not build and end them in the way I would have liked, rather letting them fizzle out. For example, Tommy's drawings seemed interesting, but were handled very immaturely, as the subject was illustrated without the intricacies that the drawings were supposed to hold. Interest in the artwork, that was supposed to be beautiful, was quickly lost. The same goes for Ruth's encounter with her "possible".
The adults were the most intriguing part of the novel, and I enjoyed the memory moments that introduced them, and shed light on fragments of their tormented psyche -- perhaps Ishiguro's talents lie in writing in the adult person, and not as an adolescent's. I think that I rather liked the ending for its simplicity, but again, I really don't even remember, so that must prove how forgettable this read was for me (even despite my poor memory).

And as for "A Tale of Two Cities"; I am not at all experiencing the favor I had for Dickens' "Great Expectations" in this work. I feel like I've been reading this for so long and still I am not done. In fact, I often fall asleep to it (though I do not think it is worthy of labeling this title as a snooze-fest, it is just something that ends up happening). I admit, this novel is much more mature and sophisticated than "Great Expectations", but what I yearn for in a book is depth in personality and character development, not edge. I cannot deny the power behind Dickens' writing -- his mastery of drama is artfully elegant, and he blends historical references and feelings with narrative rather well, but it just doesn't seem enough to keep me ultimately engaged. Perhaps my opinion will change when I actually finish. Only 43 pages to go.