I remember an author recommending Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson a few months back on NPR while I was driving home from work. Oddly, I only remembered this after picking up the book and looking at the cover as I was about to start reading it, even after personally picking it out at the used bookstore myself. Funny how my memory can change from one sensory form to another, as the physical word "oranges" made me recall what I had heard (however delayed it may have been).
I think the author who was talking about it on the radio said it changed her life. She had found it at a garage sale as a young person and was drawn to its openness about religion and sexuality through the voice of another juvenile. Unfortunately, my poor memory fails to really recollect any insightful commentary or who the speaker even was, but I can attest to the fact that she was very fond of this work, as am I. Even as (somewhat of) an adult -- but maybe moreso as one -- I appreciate the simple, uncomplicated views that children have in the face of corrupted adults. In this case, corruption comes from religion.
In regards to its subject matter, this book surely seems ahead of its time. It could have been written today with Winterson's openness about homosexuality. She tends to get a little bit too artful (and off topic at times), I think, with her metaphors and fantasies, but she is successful in her use of humor and sincerity.
I'm surprised at the number of spelling/grammatical errors in this book. I always hate when this happens, because I want to break out a red pen and play the role of editor. I don't even really understand how a published novel can get away with so many blunders. I would blame it on the fact that this book was originally published in '85 when they no doubt did not have spell check, but then there is The Memory Palace by Mira Bartok that was just published a few years ago, that has even more mistakes than this one. Shame on you, editors.
My slim volume is weathered now with crumpled pages after being shoved into my bag along my travels earlier this week (damn you Spirit Airlines, with your horribly sneaky tactics). Somehow, that feels right. Jeanette's made-up heroine Winnet was traveling with me. She was looking for a city with "only a conviction that what she wanted could exist, if she dared to find it". I am trying to dare as much as I can.
A writer's conversations & response to the 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die list.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Friday, December 7, 2012
A life completely her own
Well, the impending doom that I had forecasted in the last post came quicker than expected, placing me now at the end of my first week of unemployment. It was no surprise though, and therefore failed to jar me in any way. Coincidentally, along with my finishing up The New York Trilogy by Paul Auster, I will be spending some hours in the Big Apple working toward a new career. Hopefully good things will come from that, but as Auster describes in "The Locked Room" (the second of the three stories), "In general, lives seem to veer abruptly from one thing to another, to jostle and bump, to squirm." I'd rather less squirming and more veering, after almost three years of risen hopes and inevitable letdowns. Anyway, to get on with the book...
What a strange book, with layers that go deeper than I can explain in any fathomable way -- especially since I haven't yet been able to wrap my mind around it myself. The New York Trilogy is composed of three "installments". I went into it thinking that each would be its own short story but found that the three parts are mysteriously interwoven in very subtle ways that very effectively haunt the reader (at least, me) into discomfort.
The third part, "The Locked Room", is the climax of the unsettling feeling that builds throughout the book. It is self-conscious of itself as a whole (while the previous two parts simply reveal strange and questionable connections to each other) -- book existentialism! -- but it does this through such delicate hints that one is continuously left questioning these connections. One of the things I am talking about here of course (*spoiler*), is Auster's "retelling of anecdotes" and stories throughout the entire novel. I've never read a fictional book that does this, and I found it very interesting. To place your own original writing alongside quotations and ideas from other authors seems a little bit courageous as well as inspiring...at least to me. It gives a glimpse into the author's (or I suppose, character's) interests, and that to me further adds depth and stimulates the already numerous things going on in your head while you read this book.
The collection as a whole is a mental labyrinth. Although the characters in all three stories ultimately find freedom from their struggles and paranoia, the reader is not allowed the same privilege, but rather left to puzzle over what the connections really were, and how best to interpret them. I suppose this mental struggle is a small reflection of the billions of personal fights we must overcome these days (especially as young people)...just like Sophie; "Sophie was just twenty-six years old. She was too young to live through someone else, too intelligent not to want a life that was completely her own". Voice of a generation (lol). Overall though, I can confidently say that The New York Trilogy is a much more accomplished and powerful work than I found Moon Palace to be. We'll have to see how the rest of his books on the list compare.
What a strange book, with layers that go deeper than I can explain in any fathomable way -- especially since I haven't yet been able to wrap my mind around it myself. The New York Trilogy is composed of three "installments". I went into it thinking that each would be its own short story but found that the three parts are mysteriously interwoven in very subtle ways that very effectively haunt the reader (at least, me) into discomfort.
The third part, "The Locked Room", is the climax of the unsettling feeling that builds throughout the book. It is self-conscious of itself as a whole (while the previous two parts simply reveal strange and questionable connections to each other) -- book existentialism! -- but it does this through such delicate hints that one is continuously left questioning these connections. One of the things I am talking about here of course (*spoiler*), is Auster's "retelling of anecdotes" and stories throughout the entire novel. I've never read a fictional book that does this, and I found it very interesting. To place your own original writing alongside quotations and ideas from other authors seems a little bit courageous as well as inspiring...at least to me. It gives a glimpse into the author's (or I suppose, character's) interests, and that to me further adds depth and stimulates the already numerous things going on in your head while you read this book.
The collection as a whole is a mental labyrinth. Although the characters in all three stories ultimately find freedom from their struggles and paranoia, the reader is not allowed the same privilege, but rather left to puzzle over what the connections really were, and how best to interpret them. I suppose this mental struggle is a small reflection of the billions of personal fights we must overcome these days (especially as young people)...just like Sophie; "Sophie was just twenty-six years old. She was too young to live through someone else, too intelligent not to want a life that was completely her own". Voice of a generation (lol). Overall though, I can confidently say that The New York Trilogy is a much more accomplished and powerful work than I found Moon Palace to be. We'll have to see how the rest of his books on the list compare.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Echos of Eco
Finally, I've finished Foucault's Pendulum after having been reminded a couple of times that it's been a while since I've written anything. I'M A SLOW READER APPARENTLY, OKAY?? Just kidding. Thank you for checking up on me to make sure I'm still on task and kicking. It's appreciated.
Anyway, I have a feeling this story ended in a similar nostalgic fashion that Queen Loana did, but I may also be making that up completely since I don't really remember but rather just had this slight déja vu feeling as it was happening. The text ends in "It is so beautiful" after a bunch of melancholy closing-word type things have been said. Finality is always beautiful, isn't it...as is sadness. At least in art. Too bad it doesn't really work that way to the one experiencing it, in real life. Otherwise so much would seem beautiful and glittering to me rather than extremely mundane and useless. Although, I guess they are actually starting to glitter now with Christmas on its way.
Anywhoooo, now that I've thoroughly S.A.D'ed you out, some more thoughts, tracking backwards:
I am nosy and a snoop, and therefore savor being inside other people's minds and hearts. Eco gives me only glimpses of that, hiding between lengths of obscure ideology. For example:
"'All emanates from God, in the contraction of simsum. The problem is to bring about tikkun, the restoration of Adam Qadmon. Then we will rebuild everything in the balanced structure of the parzufim, the faces -- or, rather, forms -- that will take the place of the Sefirot..."
(seriously, what??)
vs.
"Because at the time I felt the need. I had just given up drinking. Relationship between the liver and the heart. A new love is a good reason for going back to drink. Somebody to go to a bar with. Feel good with."
Perhaps the sparseness of these moments gives it more value.
Speaking of going to bars with people, I guilted some old coworkers into spending time with me a few weeks ago. It was nice to go out, and to be social. Same with Thanksgiving, having had the opportunity to see friends that I truly value. Feelin' good with people, reminding me that they exist.
I think it's time for me to read a slim volume. Eco's brief chapters saved me any strenuous work, but I think I need something quick and (hopefully) breezy for the next book. I feel this impending doom creeping up on me but it could be exciting...I need some forced change in my life, I think. I've also had this intense pain in my lower back lately that will just not go away. I'm aging rapidly, or the whole of me is giving up, either way. Better read as many books as I can before whatever it is that I feel in my gut eats me up.
Anyway, I have a feeling this story ended in a similar nostalgic fashion that Queen Loana did, but I may also be making that up completely since I don't really remember but rather just had this slight déja vu feeling as it was happening. The text ends in "It is so beautiful" after a bunch of melancholy closing-word type things have been said. Finality is always beautiful, isn't it...as is sadness. At least in art. Too bad it doesn't really work that way to the one experiencing it, in real life. Otherwise so much would seem beautiful and glittering to me rather than extremely mundane and useless. Although, I guess they are actually starting to glitter now with Christmas on its way.
Anywhoooo, now that I've thoroughly S.A.D'ed you out, some more thoughts, tracking backwards:
I am nosy and a snoop, and therefore savor being inside other people's minds and hearts. Eco gives me only glimpses of that, hiding between lengths of obscure ideology. For example:
"'All emanates from God, in the contraction of simsum. The problem is to bring about tikkun, the restoration of Adam Qadmon. Then we will rebuild everything in the balanced structure of the parzufim, the faces -- or, rather, forms -- that will take the place of the Sefirot..."
(seriously, what??)
vs.
"Because at the time I felt the need. I had just given up drinking. Relationship between the liver and the heart. A new love is a good reason for going back to drink. Somebody to go to a bar with. Feel good with."
Perhaps the sparseness of these moments gives it more value.
Speaking of going to bars with people, I guilted some old coworkers into spending time with me a few weeks ago. It was nice to go out, and to be social. Same with Thanksgiving, having had the opportunity to see friends that I truly value. Feelin' good with people, reminding me that they exist.
I think it's time for me to read a slim volume. Eco's brief chapters saved me any strenuous work, but I think I need something quick and (hopefully) breezy for the next book. I feel this impending doom creeping up on me but it could be exciting...I need some forced change in my life, I think. I've also had this intense pain in my lower back lately that will just not go away. I'm aging rapidly, or the whole of me is giving up, either way. Better read as many books as I can before whatever it is that I feel in my gut eats me up.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Art and Theory
It's pretty windy here in the Windy City. Probably thanks to Good 'Ole Sandy but it's much more anticlimactic here in the Midwest. No end-of-the-world-esque rising tides and puddles for me, boohoo.
To fill the void that the lack of extreme weather on my mundane life imposes, I have continued reading like a diligent student...or ant...or whatever other persevering animal there is out there. Maybe the dung beetle. That seems diligent.
The point is, I'm currently reading Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum. It's a pretty large text, as I suppose most of his novels are. In high school I read The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana (I won't lie, I was attracted to the graphics because I am superficial and enjoy judging books by their cover and treats that are snuck inside). I wonder if the person who writes the synopses/book jackets for Eco's books is the same for them all...I feel like they do not accurately depict Eco's language. From these two experiences, I have to say the plot, though technically accurately described, seemed much more exciting and action-packed than in reality. I was all pumped up to read this book, imagining a cultured/intellectual version of the Da Vinci Code but it seems to have one-upped me and surpassed my level of worldly knowledge. The jacket writer is a marketing genius, I tell you.
There is a lack of fluidity in both of these books for me that I can't actually pinpoint. The language isn't inaccurate...it's just...stiff because it is so information-heavy (yes, haha, that sentence was incredibly janky, but I am not an award-winning writer so sue me). I realized it's probably the fault of translations, to which I think he really needs to get better translators, but then I found that's NOT the case, and that Eco writes in English, so now I'm just having to come to terms with the fact that I am just not educated enough. Who are his fans? Scholars? His plots are very intriguing, but it's the way that he delivers that I can't quite keep up with, without any knowledge of the referenced content. If I were willing to do additional, heavy research while I read along on this already page-heavy block of pages, perhaps I'd be able to grasp it better (but alas I am much too lazy for that).
Eco writes in English but it reads like a foreign language (and often REMAINS in untranslated foreign phrases). He's playful and smart, but hard to touch. I have felt detached in both books, but I can't quite put my finger on why. It's like sitting listening to a philosopher or scientist speak to you without their expecting any sort of response. It's more an observation than engagement.
Not to say I'm not enjoying it enough, because I am...but I still feel like I'm just a visitor in these conversations about Templars and Rosy Crosses. I'm currently a little over 1/3 through, so we'll see how I feel at the end.
On the other hand, a book I'm NOT feeling left behind in, is The 2-Hour Job Search: Using Technology to Get the Right Job by Steve Dalton. This, unlike Eco's, is a very straightforward book. I actually find it quite engaging, unlike most books like this. That either means I'm sinking down to self-help level, or I'm just that obsessed with job hunting. I think it's both. It's basically an addiction now. Anyway, read this, if you're interested! It's fun! And you get to pretend that you're on The Bachelor!
And to end this lengthy post...
More art! Teehee. Charcoal and acrylic, folks. I sprayed them with hairspray (ghetto) to keep the charcoal down and it basically blasted bits of charcoal dust everywhere because I am unprofessional and dumb. But, what can you do, I still like them (you can see another painting in the back though, that is not so good and in turn saddens me). I think I'll make more when I get the materials (I only have one more of those canvas panels...but maybe I will buy a bunch and draw myself a legion of dreamed up friends.
To fill the void that the lack of extreme weather on my mundane life imposes, I have continued reading like a diligent student...or ant...or whatever other persevering animal there is out there. Maybe the dung beetle. That seems diligent.
The point is, I'm currently reading Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum. It's a pretty large text, as I suppose most of his novels are. In high school I read The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana (I won't lie, I was attracted to the graphics because I am superficial and enjoy judging books by their cover and treats that are snuck inside). I wonder if the person who writes the synopses/book jackets for Eco's books is the same for them all...I feel like they do not accurately depict Eco's language. From these two experiences, I have to say the plot, though technically accurately described, seemed much more exciting and action-packed than in reality. I was all pumped up to read this book, imagining a cultured/intellectual version of the Da Vinci Code but it seems to have one-upped me and surpassed my level of worldly knowledge. The jacket writer is a marketing genius, I tell you.
There is a lack of fluidity in both of these books for me that I can't actually pinpoint. The language isn't inaccurate...it's just...stiff because it is so information-heavy (yes, haha, that sentence was incredibly janky, but I am not an award-winning writer so sue me). I realized it's probably the fault of translations, to which I think he really needs to get better translators, but then I found that's NOT the case, and that Eco writes in English, so now I'm just having to come to terms with the fact that I am just not educated enough. Who are his fans? Scholars? His plots are very intriguing, but it's the way that he delivers that I can't quite keep up with, without any knowledge of the referenced content. If I were willing to do additional, heavy research while I read along on this already page-heavy block of pages, perhaps I'd be able to grasp it better (but alas I am much too lazy for that).
Eco writes in English but it reads like a foreign language (and often REMAINS in untranslated foreign phrases). He's playful and smart, but hard to touch. I have felt detached in both books, but I can't quite put my finger on why. It's like sitting listening to a philosopher or scientist speak to you without their expecting any sort of response. It's more an observation than engagement.
Not to say I'm not enjoying it enough, because I am...but I still feel like I'm just a visitor in these conversations about Templars and Rosy Crosses. I'm currently a little over 1/3 through, so we'll see how I feel at the end.
On the other hand, a book I'm NOT feeling left behind in, is The 2-Hour Job Search: Using Technology to Get the Right Job by Steve Dalton. This, unlike Eco's, is a very straightforward book. I actually find it quite engaging, unlike most books like this. That either means I'm sinking down to self-help level, or I'm just that obsessed with job hunting. I think it's both. It's basically an addiction now. Anyway, read this, if you're interested! It's fun! And you get to pretend that you're on The Bachelor!
And to end this lengthy post...
More art! Teehee. Charcoal and acrylic, folks. I sprayed them with hairspray (ghetto) to keep the charcoal down and it basically blasted bits of charcoal dust everywhere because I am unprofessional and dumb. But, what can you do, I still like them (you can see another painting in the back though, that is not so good and in turn saddens me). I think I'll make more when I get the materials (I only have one more of those canvas panels...but maybe I will buy a bunch and draw myself a legion of dreamed up friends.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Stalk me a little
Huzzah! I have a portfolio website now! It was a pain to make because of unforeseen setbacks that could only happen to an unfortunate soul such as myself but it's up and running now so YAAAAY.
Tell your kids, tell your wife, tell anyone who's going to get me an awesome writing job: www.minamifurukawa.com
That's probably not as exciting to you as it is to me so here are some sketchbook pics to hold your interest.
Tell your kids, tell your wife, tell anyone who's going to get me an awesome writing job: www.minamifurukawa.com
That's probably not as exciting to you as it is to me so here are some sketchbook pics to hold your interest.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Confusing Classics
I finished up The Sound and the Fury last night under steady rain in Chicago. The book insisted on constantly confusing me at the start with multiple characters having been named after each other, and an unclear distinction as to which one was being mentioned at specific times because memories/occurrences blended together without note.
I needed Sparknotes to tell me that Quentin was both a dead brother and Caddy's daughter. For the first two parts, the name was referred to as both "he" and "she" to the point that I had no idea what was going on. Maybe I am too much of a simpleton for Faulkner.
The first three sections were all written in first person by different characters (it was most useful in the first part, with Benjy describing the past with his run of memories). For the fourth and final, the narration switched to third person, which I can't really figure out why. I think I would have preferred if it had kept its style but maybe there was just too much hopping around at the close between Dilsey and Jason to keep focus. I'm just glad it wasn't from the POV of Caroline, or else I would have pulled my eyeballs out with all the whining that would have ensued.
And that Jason (who is also named after his father. UGH), what a dick. What a perfectly terrible asshole son for a whiny self-entitled/pitying woman like Caroline. I'm glad they're both such miserable people.
On the other hand, I liked Dilsey, Jason Sr., and Caddy very much. They were all very kind, and grounded, and really emphasized the ugliness of Jason and Caroline.
Also, as a sidenote, I kept thinking of toilet paper every time T.P. came around.
While we're on the topic of being confused, I had started At Swim, Two Birds a while ago but I cannot bring myself to go on at this time. I seriously cannot follow what's going on at all and I am really not interested because of that. Maybe I will start again at a later date but for the time being I'm throwing in the towel of disinterest.
Two weekends ago I went to Evanston to buy me some books. I came home with an armful, after having gotten lost on my way to find the books-by-the-pound store, and stumbling into a strange place without order and old men eating pizza discussing celebrity sightings. I did finally find my destination though, and along with the two large volumes I bought at Barnes and Noble, ended the day happily, with sore wrists from carrying heavy bags.
I needed Sparknotes to tell me that Quentin was both a dead brother and Caddy's daughter. For the first two parts, the name was referred to as both "he" and "she" to the point that I had no idea what was going on. Maybe I am too much of a simpleton for Faulkner.
The first three sections were all written in first person by different characters (it was most useful in the first part, with Benjy describing the past with his run of memories). For the fourth and final, the narration switched to third person, which I can't really figure out why. I think I would have preferred if it had kept its style but maybe there was just too much hopping around at the close between Dilsey and Jason to keep focus. I'm just glad it wasn't from the POV of Caroline, or else I would have pulled my eyeballs out with all the whining that would have ensued.
And that Jason (who is also named after his father. UGH), what a dick. What a perfectly terrible asshole son for a whiny self-entitled/pitying woman like Caroline. I'm glad they're both such miserable people.
On the other hand, I liked Dilsey, Jason Sr., and Caddy very much. They were all very kind, and grounded, and really emphasized the ugliness of Jason and Caroline.
Also, as a sidenote, I kept thinking of toilet paper every time T.P. came around.
While we're on the topic of being confused, I had started At Swim, Two Birds a while ago but I cannot bring myself to go on at this time. I seriously cannot follow what's going on at all and I am really not interested because of that. Maybe I will start again at a later date but for the time being I'm throwing in the towel of disinterest.
Two weekends ago I went to Evanston to buy me some books. I came home with an armful, after having gotten lost on my way to find the books-by-the-pound store, and stumbling into a strange place without order and old men eating pizza discussing celebrity sightings. I did finally find my destination though, and along with the two large volumes I bought at Barnes and Noble, ended the day happily, with sore wrists from carrying heavy bags.
Monday, October 1, 2012
"A taste for the miniature was one aspect of an orderly spirit..."
"...Another was a passion for secrets".
^^It's as if it's speaking directly about me. But really it's talking about the heroine (do I call her that?) of Ian McEwan's Atonement.
I genuinely liked Briony at the very start of this novel. I related to her, and thought McEwan did a nice job of capturing a young girl's thoughts and actions. The first third of the novel was very picturesque - like an oil painting - immersing me in a privileged girl's life that I always wanted when I was small. But, like many reviews of the movie that was made as an adaptation of it, I felt the story, once straying from the Tallis mansion, was not very strong. It started with the Fifty Shades of Grey-ish scene in the library that seemed so out of place, and stretched through the war bits. This lack of emotional stirring on my part though, may have been on account of the fact that I wasn't very interested in Robbie and Celeste's love. Though I hated her a bit, I preferred scenes involving Briony; because I am morbid, I found the gory hospital scenes where she attended to the dying engaging, and the end to be pitch-perfect with her "voice-over" explaining her decisions in ending her novel.
*Major Spoiler*
It was an absolutely correct decision for McEwan to kill off the lovers and keep them from from each other - though, I don't especially agree that they were kept from each other as Briony describes...they were making out in front of her and all. Get a room, sappy paramours.
Anyway, the fact that they died made their two-dimensional characterization more interesting. Though Briony is the obvious "villain", she is so much more layered and complex, and therefore real. I have a feeling that the movie version obliterates all this and makes the story another stupid romance about Keira Knightly falling in love though, which I abhor.
Props to you, Mr. McEwan, for writing an unconventional book, and redeeming yourself after the "meh" I felt through Saturday.
^^It's as if it's speaking directly about me. But really it's talking about the heroine (do I call her that?) of Ian McEwan's Atonement.
I genuinely liked Briony at the very start of this novel. I related to her, and thought McEwan did a nice job of capturing a young girl's thoughts and actions. The first third of the novel was very picturesque - like an oil painting - immersing me in a privileged girl's life that I always wanted when I was small. But, like many reviews of the movie that was made as an adaptation of it, I felt the story, once straying from the Tallis mansion, was not very strong. It started with the Fifty Shades of Grey-ish scene in the library that seemed so out of place, and stretched through the war bits. This lack of emotional stirring on my part though, may have been on account of the fact that I wasn't very interested in Robbie and Celeste's love. Though I hated her a bit, I preferred scenes involving Briony; because I am morbid, I found the gory hospital scenes where she attended to the dying engaging, and the end to be pitch-perfect with her "voice-over" explaining her decisions in ending her novel.
*Major Spoiler*
It was an absolutely correct decision for McEwan to kill off the lovers and keep them from from each other - though, I don't especially agree that they were kept from each other as Briony describes...they were making out in front of her and all. Get a room, sappy paramours.
Anyway, the fact that they died made their two-dimensional characterization more interesting. Though Briony is the obvious "villain", she is so much more layered and complex, and therefore real. I have a feeling that the movie version obliterates all this and makes the story another stupid romance about Keira Knightly falling in love though, which I abhor.
Props to you, Mr. McEwan, for writing an unconventional book, and redeeming yourself after the "meh" I felt through Saturday.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
#245
White Noise by Don DeLillo.
My initial love affair for this book has waned down, as most relationships do with time. I will blame this on my lover's over-dramatic tendencies, though of its sometimes ludicrous behavior, I was quite fond. I enjoy some silliness here and there.
What I had initially found so attractive was the dialogue - which I still hold in high regard - the author shapes his characters by the things they say rather than the things they do, and I think that's really neat (Even the children are impossibly brilliant...and we all know how much I love unrealistically smart kids). DeLillo really has a talent for engaging, intelligent thoughts and conversations (unpretentiously). Some highlights from the beginning:
-"Where are you living, Murray?"
-"In an old rooming house. I'm totally captivated and intrigued. It's a gorgeous old crumbling house near the insane asylum. Seven or eight boarders, more or less permanent except for me. A woman who harbors a terrible secret. A man with a haunted look. A man who never comes out of his room. A woman who stands by the letter box for hours, waiting for something that never seems to arrive. A man with no past. A woman with a past. There is a smell about the place of unhappy lives in the movies that I really respond to."
(that one might just reflect my own writing style so I'm biased)
and
"I can't help being happy in a town called Blacksmith...I'm here to avoid situations. Cities are full of situations, sexually cunning people...The irony is that I love women. I fall apart at the sight of long legs, striding, briskly, as a breeze carries up from the river, on a weekday, in the play of morning light. The second irony is that it's not the bodies of women that I ultimately crave but their minds...The third and related irony is that it's the most complex and neurotic and difficult women that I am invariably drawn to. I like simple men and complicated women."
and finally,
"...Now she watched him with a tender sympathy, a reflectiveness that seemed deep and fond and generous enough to contain all the magical counterspells to his current run of woe, although I knew, of course, as I went back to my book, that it was only a passing affection, one of those kindnesses no one understands."
Love love.
Everything that I read afterwards about this book really highlighted the topics of commercialism, mass culture, and technology...and maybe that was the intent at the time...but I find those topics to be so base in comparison to the glaring topic of death and emotion. DeLillo randomly scatters these little name-brand groupings at the end of paragraphs throughout the work, and I never really understood why; it didn't seem to be adding anything to the text, and it really just kind of made me think of bullshitting (and forcefully cramming in) concept just for the sake of conceptuality into a work that is otherwise solid.
Is humanity's consciousness and fear of death not a complex enough issue without having to force some outer crap about technology ruining our lives into the mix? Unless this was the intent...to distract and to confuse...but...somehow I don't think it was. SparkNotes says:
"Throughout White Noise, Jack Gladney, the narrator, constantly connects seemingly random events, dates, and facts in an attempt to form a cohesive understanding of his world. Behind that attempt lies a deep-seated need to find meaning in a media-obsessed age driven by images, appearances, and rampant material consumption."
Who knows.
Well now that I've overloaded everyone with a mass assembly of quotations, I will leave you with just one more. Fall has officially arrived in Chicago and it is pitch black at 7:30pm.
"It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things"
My initial love affair for this book has waned down, as most relationships do with time. I will blame this on my lover's over-dramatic tendencies, though of its sometimes ludicrous behavior, I was quite fond. I enjoy some silliness here and there.
What I had initially found so attractive was the dialogue - which I still hold in high regard - the author shapes his characters by the things they say rather than the things they do, and I think that's really neat (Even the children are impossibly brilliant...and we all know how much I love unrealistically smart kids). DeLillo really has a talent for engaging, intelligent thoughts and conversations (unpretentiously). Some highlights from the beginning:
-"Where are you living, Murray?"
-"In an old rooming house. I'm totally captivated and intrigued. It's a gorgeous old crumbling house near the insane asylum. Seven or eight boarders, more or less permanent except for me. A woman who harbors a terrible secret. A man with a haunted look. A man who never comes out of his room. A woman who stands by the letter box for hours, waiting for something that never seems to arrive. A man with no past. A woman with a past. There is a smell about the place of unhappy lives in the movies that I really respond to."
(that one might just reflect my own writing style so I'm biased)
and
"I can't help being happy in a town called Blacksmith...I'm here to avoid situations. Cities are full of situations, sexually cunning people...The irony is that I love women. I fall apart at the sight of long legs, striding, briskly, as a breeze carries up from the river, on a weekday, in the play of morning light. The second irony is that it's not the bodies of women that I ultimately crave but their minds...The third and related irony is that it's the most complex and neurotic and difficult women that I am invariably drawn to. I like simple men and complicated women."
and finally,
"...Now she watched him with a tender sympathy, a reflectiveness that seemed deep and fond and generous enough to contain all the magical counterspells to his current run of woe, although I knew, of course, as I went back to my book, that it was only a passing affection, one of those kindnesses no one understands."
Love love.
Everything that I read afterwards about this book really highlighted the topics of commercialism, mass culture, and technology...and maybe that was the intent at the time...but I find those topics to be so base in comparison to the glaring topic of death and emotion. DeLillo randomly scatters these little name-brand groupings at the end of paragraphs throughout the work, and I never really understood why; it didn't seem to be adding anything to the text, and it really just kind of made me think of bullshitting (and forcefully cramming in) concept just for the sake of conceptuality into a work that is otherwise solid.
Is humanity's consciousness and fear of death not a complex enough issue without having to force some outer crap about technology ruining our lives into the mix? Unless this was the intent...to distract and to confuse...but...somehow I don't think it was. SparkNotes says:
"Throughout White Noise, Jack Gladney, the narrator, constantly connects seemingly random events, dates, and facts in an attempt to form a cohesive understanding of his world. Behind that attempt lies a deep-seated need to find meaning in a media-obsessed age driven by images, appearances, and rampant material consumption."
Who knows.
Well now that I've overloaded everyone with a mass assembly of quotations, I will leave you with just one more. Fall has officially arrived in Chicago and it is pitch black at 7:30pm.
"It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things"
Friday, September 14, 2012
Started Reading
...White Noise by DeLillo.
And I am in love.
In other news, I tried to find some short stories I had worked on in college and abandoned, but found they are missing from my computer. Hopefully they are backed up somewhere, but I managed to find excerpts that I'd saved and scrapped...and...
Hey, I wasn't half bad.
Makes me kind of sad.
And I am in love.
In other news, I tried to find some short stories I had worked on in college and abandoned, but found they are missing from my computer. Hopefully they are backed up somewhere, but I managed to find excerpts that I'd saved and scrapped...and...
Hey, I wasn't half bad.
“The case of
the chubby Ferrari”
Howard Louis
was the owner of the dandelion-colored Ferrari that inexplicably and
unmistakably was growing wider and, frankly larger, each day. The ordeal had everyone in the
neighborhood perplexed; the hot rod, which once coasted with sexy charm through
the streets of Seaport was now finding itself lodged in not-so-tight
spaces. The roar of the engine
too, having already been ferocious, was now unbearably loud leaving a deafening
ring in the ears of passerby as the vehicle clumsily trudged along in its
obesity.
Howard Louis cursed his bad luck. At dinnertime, he squinted at the
French Bordeaux served in his crystal wine glasses with spite. He regretted buying the Ferrari. He regretted having voted for the
president. He regretted meeting
and marrying her. He regretted the
friends he had had in grammar school.
He regretted not having yelled at his father before he had passed away. He
regretted the days of his youth when he had believed in God.
Makes me kind of sad.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Adventures on high seas and highways
Wooooo more progress.
So I never really got around to cracking open a paperback, but I opted to continue on with the e-book offerings I had at my disposal. Which means I just finished Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island. I guess I can see why it's popular among young readers, as it's very straightforward and exciting in a way that I can see little boys dreaming about.
It's written in the traditional adventure format - though, it could very well be one of the first in its kind so maybe it wasn't traditional then. Regardless, it's read in just a way one might tell a story around a campfire; with a solid plot, antagonist/protagonist, and well-rounded end. If only life were actually so, to have a goal so clearly defined that one hopes to attain. I'm basically just sitting stagnantly in the middle of the sea without the fear of starving - which makes me less apt to struggle for whatever I'm supposed to be struggling for. Apathetic suffering.
I have been doing a little bit of adventuring myself the past month. Nothing involving plunder and murder, but I did get to visit a friend in Madison, WI who I hold very dear to my heart. Madison is a very pleasant place, and we spent the weekend drinking like pirates (though not rum) and traveling about on bicycles.
I have also spent this last week revisiting my love for Woody Allen films. I'm convinced I'm living the life of one of his neurotic characters, in a world of second-guessing and anxiety. And I'm not saying that because I want to be a pretentious cool kid...I'd rather be a shallow obliviously happy person. To be comparable to Mr. Allen brings a little bit of sadness to my heart. Rain cloud Minami, as my coworker says. (Here, I tried to write a heart emoticon, but apparently that fucks with the html, so I will just say...*heart*)
So I never really got around to cracking open a paperback, but I opted to continue on with the e-book offerings I had at my disposal. Which means I just finished Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island. I guess I can see why it's popular among young readers, as it's very straightforward and exciting in a way that I can see little boys dreaming about.
It's written in the traditional adventure format - though, it could very well be one of the first in its kind so maybe it wasn't traditional then. Regardless, it's read in just a way one might tell a story around a campfire; with a solid plot, antagonist/protagonist, and well-rounded end. If only life were actually so, to have a goal so clearly defined that one hopes to attain. I'm basically just sitting stagnantly in the middle of the sea without the fear of starving - which makes me less apt to struggle for whatever I'm supposed to be struggling for. Apathetic suffering.
I have been doing a little bit of adventuring myself the past month. Nothing involving plunder and murder, but I did get to visit a friend in Madison, WI who I hold very dear to my heart. Madison is a very pleasant place, and we spent the weekend drinking like pirates (though not rum) and traveling about on bicycles.
I have also spent this last week revisiting my love for Woody Allen films. I'm convinced I'm living the life of one of his neurotic characters, in a world of second-guessing and anxiety. And I'm not saying that because I want to be a pretentious cool kid...I'd rather be a shallow obliviously happy person. To be comparable to Mr. Allen brings a little bit of sadness to my heart. Rain cloud Minami, as my coworker says. (Here, I tried to write a heart emoticon, but apparently that fucks with the html, so I will just say...*heart*)
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Curious Pancakes
Up to 76/1001 to date!
A coworker (or...boss, maybe? I'm not quite sure at this point) of mine gave me The Third Policeman by Flann O'Brien to read a few weeks back in E-book format. I've taken longer than appropriate to get through it, but that was owing, I think, to the fact that it was being displayed to me in digital (laptop) format on a free Kindle app. It's probably different to actually be reading off of a real Kindle as opposed to the way I was doing it, but I found myself greatly missing paper (and page numbers) and the naturalness of rolling around in bed with a book.
For the duration of the story I was feeling a bit confused and disoriented...a little like being left behind. I found this review on GoodReads among a bunch of raves and chuckled at how accurately it seemed to describe how I was feeling.
A coworker (or...boss, maybe? I'm not quite sure at this point) of mine gave me The Third Policeman by Flann O'Brien to read a few weeks back in E-book format. I've taken longer than appropriate to get through it, but that was owing, I think, to the fact that it was being displayed to me in digital (laptop) format on a free Kindle app. It's probably different to actually be reading off of a real Kindle as opposed to the way I was doing it, but I found myself greatly missing paper (and page numbers) and the naturalness of rolling around in bed with a book.
For the duration of the story I was feeling a bit confused and disoriented...a little like being left behind. I found this review on GoodReads among a bunch of raves and chuckled at how accurately it seemed to describe how I was feeling.
If you ever
want to find out what it's like being the only sober person in a room
full of professors telling each other jokes in Latin and heffing and
hawing and pulling each others' beards, here's a good place to start.
Otherwise not."
Otherwise not."
I read this review 2 chapters from the book's end. After those 2 chapters were finished, I now disagree, as the conclusion was a very satisfying and resolute one...but I still stand by the way I felt for most of the adventure.
The story is very darkly curious. The benefactor who supplied the novel to me prefaced it as something along the lines of one of the funniest books ever (I may be putting words in his mouth but I am just going to roll with it). I was questioning this the entire time, as I couldn't quite shake the uneasy feeling that I was getting from every circumstance that the protagonist encountered. It was a bit like Alice in Wonderland but with a weird old man blindly traipsing about...but at least he had the comfort of a friend in his own soul - he was a bit like Pantalaimon from His Dark Materials in the way he was so endearing. It's nice to know that even in Hell (?) your soul is there to guide you.
I was charmed by the idea of a two-dimensional house, as well as the police station within the walls of Mathers' home. Something about hiding places and curiosities of that kind appeals to me. In that way, I love the tiny door that looks into the Queen of Hearts' garden in Alice. Heck, while we're at it, the unattainable light in Mathers' window had me thinking of her Looking Glass.
Also, Joe's fancy of becoming a flower's scent in another life is very pleasantly beautiful in it's simply stated form.
So what happens now that Divney has now joined the wanderer? Will they just be redirected to Fox's station again, or will they, this time, be hanged? And then where from there?
My Kindle app came with Pride and Prejudice and Treasure Island already downloaded into it. Though I don't much like the digital format, I'll take what I can get - I'm a sucker for freebies. Lucky me that those two are surely on the list. Perhaps I'll read one digitally while simultaneously working on another of Colleen's books to balance my insatiable need for rolling. Lazy.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Holy Crap
...seriously. That is what American Pastoral by Philip Roth should be called. Or at least that is what it's description should read. Shit got real, real fucking fast, in a very steamroller-careening-uncontrollably-downhill sort of way.
I really was not expecting this at all, which is why I am so thrown off. The end just changed any cohesive commentary I had accumulated about this book during the rather long time I was reading it. I had traveled down paths describing the book as "all-around American", and "love letter to a daughter"...but then that eventually turned into questions like "why do men think they love their daughters more than women do?" and "Women are so typically bitchy"...which then turned into mixed feelings about the Swede, and then ultimately "!?!?!?".
Does that make Roth a genius?
Okay I've calmed a bit now and am thinking a little bit more rationally. First order of business: the name Merry is very cute. Second order of business: I think Jews are innately brilliant. Think about it; Woody Allen, Ginsberg, Philip Glass (partly), etc etc. Apparently they are also effing sexy (aka Joseph Gordon Levitt, Scarlett Johansson, and apparently Alison Brie) - maybe I should convert and I can accrue some of these hottie points by default.
But now I am getting off track.
I really appreciate this book. At times very serene and beautiful, other times neurotic, but always truthful. It seems real - like actually having a conversation with someone, where you know you're only getting one side of the story and you know it's biased, but you also understand and respect the speaker enough to relate, because they are your friend. It also gave me this very tender look into fathers and gave me the perspective of loving a daughter that you remember to be a little girl, before things became complicated and dark. Perhaps if Merry were able to read this novel, things could start to be mended for the Levovs.
I blame Dawn for moving on, but yet I also blame Seymour for clinging to the past. I think if this were a film, I would like Dawn much more - honestly, I can relate to her actions, were I in her shoes...so perhaps that is a bit of self loathing that is holding my hand and leading me toward my slight distaste for her - but Seymour's (and his perception of how Merry feels about her) perspective really throws a wrench into compassion. Thinking on it though, I can see it being very difficult to write a story involving a husband's love for his daughter and his wife in a harmonious way. Not so much Oedipal, but...simultaneously keeping distinct and yet embracing the differences between romantic and paternal love.
It was also very difficult for me to imagine Merry as fat. I'm not sure what the true deal is, but to the Swede she was a smart, innocent angel, while as time went on it seemed more and more to me that she was in actuality a disgusting brat-turned lunatic. I wonder if families somewhere feel exactly this about the people I so often see on the street. Do the homeless in fact turn away the people that love them only to beg and yell at strangers who see them for what they really are?
I think I would benefit from reading this book again sometime, with all this knowledge under my belt now. But for the time being, onward ho!
I really was not expecting this at all, which is why I am so thrown off. The end just changed any cohesive commentary I had accumulated about this book during the rather long time I was reading it. I had traveled down paths describing the book as "all-around American", and "love letter to a daughter"...but then that eventually turned into questions like "why do men think they love their daughters more than women do?" and "Women are so typically bitchy"...which then turned into mixed feelings about the Swede, and then ultimately "!?!?!?".
Does that make Roth a genius?
Okay I've calmed a bit now and am thinking a little bit more rationally. First order of business: the name Merry is very cute. Second order of business: I think Jews are innately brilliant. Think about it; Woody Allen, Ginsberg, Philip Glass (partly), etc etc. Apparently they are also effing sexy (aka Joseph Gordon Levitt, Scarlett Johansson, and apparently Alison Brie) - maybe I should convert and I can accrue some of these hottie points by default.
But now I am getting off track.
I really appreciate this book. At times very serene and beautiful, other times neurotic, but always truthful. It seems real - like actually having a conversation with someone, where you know you're only getting one side of the story and you know it's biased, but you also understand and respect the speaker enough to relate, because they are your friend. It also gave me this very tender look into fathers and gave me the perspective of loving a daughter that you remember to be a little girl, before things became complicated and dark. Perhaps if Merry were able to read this novel, things could start to be mended for the Levovs.
I blame Dawn for moving on, but yet I also blame Seymour for clinging to the past. I think if this were a film, I would like Dawn much more - honestly, I can relate to her actions, were I in her shoes...so perhaps that is a bit of self loathing that is holding my hand and leading me toward my slight distaste for her - but Seymour's (and his perception of how Merry feels about her) perspective really throws a wrench into compassion. Thinking on it though, I can see it being very difficult to write a story involving a husband's love for his daughter and his wife in a harmonious way. Not so much Oedipal, but...simultaneously keeping distinct and yet embracing the differences between romantic and paternal love.
It was also very difficult for me to imagine Merry as fat. I'm not sure what the true deal is, but to the Swede she was a smart, innocent angel, while as time went on it seemed more and more to me that she was in actuality a disgusting brat-turned lunatic. I wonder if families somewhere feel exactly this about the people I so often see on the street. Do the homeless in fact turn away the people that love them only to beg and yell at strangers who see them for what they really are?
I think I would benefit from reading this book again sometime, with all this knowledge under my belt now. But for the time being, onward ho!
Saturday, July 21, 2012
The comfort of loneliness
It's come down to a very pleasant temperature these past few days in Chicago which has provided some very lovely reading conditions. I do wish I had some kind of balcony or lounging area with lots of windows to pull in the breeze to lay around in with my books. Perfect lazing weather.
I liked The Book of Laughter and Forgetting more than I did The Unbearable Lightness of Being probably because I am so fixated on memory, which had a big part in this novel. I like this:
"We will never remember anything by sitting in one place waiting for the memories to come back to us of their own accord! Memories are scattered all over the world. We must travel if we want to find them and flush them from their hiding places!"
If ever there was a reason to travel, what a nice excuse this would be.
I'm a little undecided about Kundera's writing style and whether I like it or not. His writing is decadent. The way he layers stories and images reminds me of criticisms and feedback I received on my own writing while at school, but I often feel that he brushes against a poignant idea rather than really hitting it on the mark. I suppose it's nice to be inspired by vague ideas he presents, but it gives me a little bit of an uneasy feeling as if I'm being haunted by its ghost rather than really understanding it.
Sex is also a very prominent topic that Kundera always seems consistent in including. There is not much sanctity in fidelity...or rather...adultery is accepted and comfortably average. I'm okay with this, but it really seems to bring awareness to a lonely rift...or...perhaps more accurately, an empty space that's always blindly skirted in one's pursuit of happiness. Because of that, there's a persistent sadness that hangs over everyone in Kundera's novels. I guess that's reflective of his "pessimism".
<3:
"He thought about it for weeks afterward. How could he have said no to a girl he liked?
He was on the other side of the border from her."
My copy of this book had a short interview of Kundera by Philip Roth at the end. It also had a Dole fruit sticker stuck on the back. Anyway, in honor of that, I think my next reading project will be by Roth. Now to decide...Plot Against America, or American Pastoral?
I liked The Book of Laughter and Forgetting more than I did The Unbearable Lightness of Being probably because I am so fixated on memory, which had a big part in this novel. I like this:
"We will never remember anything by sitting in one place waiting for the memories to come back to us of their own accord! Memories are scattered all over the world. We must travel if we want to find them and flush them from their hiding places!"
If ever there was a reason to travel, what a nice excuse this would be.
I'm a little undecided about Kundera's writing style and whether I like it or not. His writing is decadent. The way he layers stories and images reminds me of criticisms and feedback I received on my own writing while at school, but I often feel that he brushes against a poignant idea rather than really hitting it on the mark. I suppose it's nice to be inspired by vague ideas he presents, but it gives me a little bit of an uneasy feeling as if I'm being haunted by its ghost rather than really understanding it.
Sex is also a very prominent topic that Kundera always seems consistent in including. There is not much sanctity in fidelity...or rather...adultery is accepted and comfortably average. I'm okay with this, but it really seems to bring awareness to a lonely rift...or...perhaps more accurately, an empty space that's always blindly skirted in one's pursuit of happiness. Because of that, there's a persistent sadness that hangs over everyone in Kundera's novels. I guess that's reflective of his "pessimism".
<3:
"He thought about it for weeks afterward. How could he have said no to a girl he liked?
He was on the other side of the border from her."
My copy of this book had a short interview of Kundera by Philip Roth at the end. It also had a Dole fruit sticker stuck on the back. Anyway, in honor of that, I think my next reading project will be by Roth. Now to decide...Plot Against America, or American Pastoral?
Thursday, July 5, 2012
I am alone, like Dr. Moreau
Sigh. Colleen and her hubby are leaving for California on Sunday, which means that yesterday - of which I spent a lovely Fourth with her - will be the last time I see her in a while. Now I am basically in this city all alone, like the Doctor. I am probably going to start fusing weird animals together now in hopes of making (literally) friends.
So from that I hope you gather that I finished reading The Island of Dr. Moreau by H.G. Wells. I was already familiar with the plot line, as I have a shadowy recollection of watching some terribly-made film version of it in some sort of middle school science class. I only vaguely remember a dark scene where (I think) Prendick was stalking around the building where the operations were taking place. I'm almost certain I as a young girl was offput by this film with its lack of cute and pretty imagery.
I'm not sure that it was meant to be, but I think it's hard to ignore an association between religion and the beast men's codes of law. From what I got, it was an affirmation of the harm that belief in religion can do...rather than man has created these boundaries and rules for himself that are hurting him more than doing good. It's strange though how fleeting of a character Moreau himself was. He barely even made an appearance so it's hard to make a judgement call on what type of man he was (which I assume the movie goes ahead and twists its own idea of this to push on the viewer).
I realized perhaps I am rather sensitive. There was really nothing very gruesome or disturbing depicted through the physical words in this novel, but I was really feeling a heavy weight of unsettling vibes when it came to the animal-people. Traditionalist, perhaps? Or just downright Conservative? Nah...I'm all for science and progress (after all, I do hope we can track down that pesky particle zipping around out there all sneaky-like). Plus I'm not even American. Figure that one out.
So from that I hope you gather that I finished reading The Island of Dr. Moreau by H.G. Wells. I was already familiar with the plot line, as I have a shadowy recollection of watching some terribly-made film version of it in some sort of middle school science class. I only vaguely remember a dark scene where (I think) Prendick was stalking around the building where the operations were taking place. I'm almost certain I as a young girl was offput by this film with its lack of cute and pretty imagery.
I'm not sure that it was meant to be, but I think it's hard to ignore an association between religion and the beast men's codes of law. From what I got, it was an affirmation of the harm that belief in religion can do...rather than man has created these boundaries and rules for himself that are hurting him more than doing good. It's strange though how fleeting of a character Moreau himself was. He barely even made an appearance so it's hard to make a judgement call on what type of man he was (which I assume the movie goes ahead and twists its own idea of this to push on the viewer).
I realized perhaps I am rather sensitive. There was really nothing very gruesome or disturbing depicted through the physical words in this novel, but I was really feeling a heavy weight of unsettling vibes when it came to the animal-people. Traditionalist, perhaps? Or just downright Conservative? Nah...I'm all for science and progress (after all, I do hope we can track down that pesky particle zipping around out there all sneaky-like). Plus I'm not even American. Figure that one out.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Crunch time
Colleen, who has lent me a small library of books to read before she leaves for San Francisco is leaving in a matter of days, so I am down on the wire trying to cram as much literature as I can. Bah!!
My latest read was One Few Over the Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey. I really enjoyed it. McMurphy embodies such a celebration of life in a way that is beyond just upbeat/carefree attributes. He (and the Chief) actually seemed real and layered in a sensitive way. It's difficult to create believable characters with this kind of purpose, I think, and Kesey did a fine job.
Living your life the way that you want, and doing things for the sole purpose of enjoyment is a wonderful thing. Not entirely practical these days, but with the seemingly meaningless miracle of life, why shouldn't one do whatever they want? I'm not exactly one to advertise this notion...as I'm a bit uptight when it comes to priorities...but I really do appreciate the appeal of making the most of it while you're alive. It's a refreshing thought. Within reason, too, I'm all for being selfish in the pursuit of happiness. In McMurphy's case, his selfishness only led to good, and to teaching others the value of life. I've had a few people in my own life helping me realize what risks are worthwhile for the outcomes that you want, and I couldn't be more grateful to them for showing me who I really ought to (and want to) be.
The Nurse, too, I thought was well-played. She was a perfect balance of spite and business, and it came across in a very successfully accurate manner. Not entirely evil, with human weaknesses like everyone else. I was happy though, for the introduction of a pleasant "Jap" nurse. ^______^
All in all, an elegantly written book, I think. For me, the ending was peaceful and perfect and not at all macabre. It seemed very natural and "right", and I'm glad for Kesey's decision to do it so simply.
p.s.
.....I just looked up images of the book and see that Jack Nicholson played McMurphy in the movie version. .....nooooo
My latest read was One Few Over the Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey. I really enjoyed it. McMurphy embodies such a celebration of life in a way that is beyond just upbeat/carefree attributes. He (and the Chief) actually seemed real and layered in a sensitive way. It's difficult to create believable characters with this kind of purpose, I think, and Kesey did a fine job.
Living your life the way that you want, and doing things for the sole purpose of enjoyment is a wonderful thing. Not entirely practical these days, but with the seemingly meaningless miracle of life, why shouldn't one do whatever they want? I'm not exactly one to advertise this notion...as I'm a bit uptight when it comes to priorities...but I really do appreciate the appeal of making the most of it while you're alive. It's a refreshing thought. Within reason, too, I'm all for being selfish in the pursuit of happiness. In McMurphy's case, his selfishness only led to good, and to teaching others the value of life. I've had a few people in my own life helping me realize what risks are worthwhile for the outcomes that you want, and I couldn't be more grateful to them for showing me who I really ought to (and want to) be.
The Nurse, too, I thought was well-played. She was a perfect balance of spite and business, and it came across in a very successfully accurate manner. Not entirely evil, with human weaknesses like everyone else. I was happy though, for the introduction of a pleasant "Jap" nurse. ^______^
All in all, an elegantly written book, I think. For me, the ending was peaceful and perfect and not at all macabre. It seemed very natural and "right", and I'm glad for Kesey's decision to do it so simply.
p.s.
.....I just looked up images of the book and see that Jack Nicholson played McMurphy in the movie version. .....nooooo
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
#803
What an aptly titled book. It was surprising, because most other times when I have read things addressing a nobody, it didn't quite turn out to be so. But the Pooters were indeed a bunch of unremarkable folk, and it honestly did feel like I was reading some fool's diary.
I wonder if this book was considered to actually be funny to its contemporaries. I can see its playfulness, but it felt banal to me. I prefer the humor in Don Quixote to this, though they share similarities in folksiness and simple people. I was more embarrassed with the Pooters rather than sympathizing, than I was for Quixote and Sancho Panza.
I don't even really know what else to write. It definitely felt ahead of its time to be a whole volume without a plot, but it wasn't all that engaging. There does, obviously, need to be something driving the story. I suppose Lupin was supposed to be that in Diary, but he was a poor excuse for one.
And no, that is not a tub full of blood that the cover is depicting. That would have been much too exciting for this book.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Emma is no Anna
Bovary vs Karenina, that is.
I guess all that I can really say is that I am a product of the modern woman. My eyes could not hold still for a minute, for all the rolling that Emma forced on them. Her romantic fantasies were so syrupy and sugary - and if that weren't enough, she wasn't even capable of realizing that the promise of everlasting passion she was striving for wasn't even possible, or practical. I honestly believe that these mentioned problems would have been mere trifles if it were not for the uselessness of her character. So she was cultured and pretty, so what? All she ever did was hate Charles (so leave him then! She obviously wasn't afraid of scandal) while using his money and taking advantage of his weak will. Instead of dreaming all day, why not do something about it? Turning away sexual favors for money at the last minute doesn't make up any credibility the adulteress neglected to build through the entire novel. If anything, it worsens it, and I wish she had acted a whore to save her husband. Emma Bovary has no right to carrying dignity. Seriously, what a bitch.
I think a little feminist is coming out of me as I write this and I don't know how to take that. I just found this cartoon and it is pissing me off even more. What the heck are they talking about? WHAT ARE THEY GETTING? DO WOMEN THINK THEY ARE LIKE THIS? If they are, I hate all these women.
That's not to say that I didn't dislike Charles, because I did. What a weak, naive little man. It's unbelievable to create a character so lost in love - even the politest of men would have suspected the lack of Emma's devotion (I find it hard to believe that she would have even tried to hide it in the slightest).
And poor Berthe! With no real love from either of her parents, or even the maid, who looked after her. What selfish parents to neglect their daughter this way. What the heck. I am seriously getting angry just thinking of this crap parenting.
Who am I even supposed to like at all in this book? Is the point to say that all humans are awful? Sadly though, I don't even think Flaubert was making that point...he rather spent five years writing a soap opera without any real meaning. So, I CAN'T EVEN RESPECT FLAUBERT.
I guess the only person I find I can even accept or respect at all is Rodolphe. At least he was honest and self-indulgent in a normal way.
I will admit though that I felt a little bit of sympathy when she died...but I don't know for whom. Maybe it just creeped me out that she had a black tongue and black liquid was pouring out of her mouth or something. Gross. Honestly I was pretty much cheering when she finally died, but afterwards there was a little bit of soft feelings in there for a brief moment. That was replaced rather quickly however, once the story started carrying on again to Charles' grief. I suppose it's not practical to be angry at a whore wife once she's dead, even if you've uncovered her secrets, but I really just wanted him to get angry and stop being screwed over by this woman constantly (even beyond the grave). Professor Higgins of My Fair Lady would NOT have approved of this man.
Oh my god I don't even understand. I keep finding all these girly blogs that say "Madame Bovary is in my top fives <3". Seriously what? I hate you.
GAHHHHH. Ok. So no more reading about women for a while.
I guess all that I can really say is that I am a product of the modern woman. My eyes could not hold still for a minute, for all the rolling that Emma forced on them. Her romantic fantasies were so syrupy and sugary - and if that weren't enough, she wasn't even capable of realizing that the promise of everlasting passion she was striving for wasn't even possible, or practical. I honestly believe that these mentioned problems would have been mere trifles if it were not for the uselessness of her character. So she was cultured and pretty, so what? All she ever did was hate Charles (so leave him then! She obviously wasn't afraid of scandal) while using his money and taking advantage of his weak will. Instead of dreaming all day, why not do something about it? Turning away sexual favors for money at the last minute doesn't make up any credibility the adulteress neglected to build through the entire novel. If anything, it worsens it, and I wish she had acted a whore to save her husband. Emma Bovary has no right to carrying dignity. Seriously, what a bitch.
I think a little feminist is coming out of me as I write this and I don't know how to take that. I just found this cartoon and it is pissing me off even more. What the heck are they talking about? WHAT ARE THEY GETTING? DO WOMEN THINK THEY ARE LIKE THIS? If they are, I hate all these women.
That's not to say that I didn't dislike Charles, because I did. What a weak, naive little man. It's unbelievable to create a character so lost in love - even the politest of men would have suspected the lack of Emma's devotion (I find it hard to believe that she would have even tried to hide it in the slightest).
And poor Berthe! With no real love from either of her parents, or even the maid, who looked after her. What selfish parents to neglect their daughter this way. What the heck. I am seriously getting angry just thinking of this crap parenting.
Who am I even supposed to like at all in this book? Is the point to say that all humans are awful? Sadly though, I don't even think Flaubert was making that point...he rather spent five years writing a soap opera without any real meaning. So, I CAN'T EVEN RESPECT FLAUBERT.
I guess the only person I find I can even accept or respect at all is Rodolphe. At least he was honest and self-indulgent in a normal way.
I will admit though that I felt a little bit of sympathy when she died...but I don't know for whom. Maybe it just creeped me out that she had a black tongue and black liquid was pouring out of her mouth or something. Gross. Honestly I was pretty much cheering when she finally died, but afterwards there was a little bit of soft feelings in there for a brief moment. That was replaced rather quickly however, once the story started carrying on again to Charles' grief. I suppose it's not practical to be angry at a whore wife once she's dead, even if you've uncovered her secrets, but I really just wanted him to get angry and stop being screwed over by this woman constantly (even beyond the grave). Professor Higgins of My Fair Lady would NOT have approved of this man.
Oh my god I don't even understand. I keep finding all these girly blogs that say "Madame Bovary is in my top fives <3". Seriously what? I hate you.
GAHHHHH. Ok. So no more reading about women for a while.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
So it goes
Vonnegut has this sentimental, touching way of writing that always has me simultaneously missing childhood, and regretting the way I treat my parents (the sentiment of adults as children, to be simplified). It always makes me think what a nice person he must have been to have as a father. He seems very kind and sincere, and I wish that I could convey such emotions with as much eloquence as he can.
Slaughterhouse Five is brilliant in it's humanism. There were so many tender moments of human compassion within war. That they were conveyed through minimalistic sentences resulted in a profundity that I've never encountered; "The human beings also passed canteens, which guards would fill with water. When food came in, the human beings were quiet and trusting and beautiful. They shared."
and
"...He delivered himself to a barbed-wire fence which snagged him in a dozen places. Billy tried to back away from it, but the barbs wouldn't let go. So Billy did a silly little dance with the fence, taking a step this way, then that way, then returning to the beginning again.
A Russian, himself out in the night to take a leak, saw Billy dancing-from the other side of the fence. He came over to the curious scarecrow, tried to talk with it gently, asked it what country it was from. The scarecrow paid no attention, went on dancing. So the Russian undid the snags one by one, and the scarecrow danced off into the night again without a word of thanks.
The Russian waved to him, and called after him in Russian, 'Good-bye'."
Anyway, the chronology of the time traveling events is superb. Vonnegut really understood the balance of weighty events with lighthearted ones, and expertly layered themes. The Tralfamadorians' concept of life is beautifully echoed in Billy's death in the middle of the book, and the last page is resonant of the war film that he watches backwards and forwards. After reading this, I don't know why Vonnegut considered God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater to be his best work...this one is leaps and bounds above that.
I'm glad that Rosewater made an appearance in Slaughterhouse, though. Nothing makes one smile like a cameo.
Slaughterhouse Five is brilliant in it's humanism. There were so many tender moments of human compassion within war. That they were conveyed through minimalistic sentences resulted in a profundity that I've never encountered; "The human beings also passed canteens, which guards would fill with water. When food came in, the human beings were quiet and trusting and beautiful. They shared."
and
"...He delivered himself to a barbed-wire fence which snagged him in a dozen places. Billy tried to back away from it, but the barbs wouldn't let go. So Billy did a silly little dance with the fence, taking a step this way, then that way, then returning to the beginning again.
A Russian, himself out in the night to take a leak, saw Billy dancing-from the other side of the fence. He came over to the curious scarecrow, tried to talk with it gently, asked it what country it was from. The scarecrow paid no attention, went on dancing. So the Russian undid the snags one by one, and the scarecrow danced off into the night again without a word of thanks.
The Russian waved to him, and called after him in Russian, 'Good-bye'."
Anyway, the chronology of the time traveling events is superb. Vonnegut really understood the balance of weighty events with lighthearted ones, and expertly layered themes. The Tralfamadorians' concept of life is beautifully echoed in Billy's death in the middle of the book, and the last page is resonant of the war film that he watches backwards and forwards. After reading this, I don't know why Vonnegut considered God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater to be his best work...this one is leaps and bounds above that.
I'm glad that Rosewater made an appearance in Slaughterhouse, though. Nothing makes one smile like a cameo.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
There are two girls fighting over a guy in my courtyard right now
And as I write this, I can hear such clever lines such as "you fat fucking cunt" and "you know what's funny, he had to use Viagra with you EVERY SINGLE TIME." Ope, now they're apparently pulling each other's hair, as I can hear the moderating male telling them to let go of each other. Class act, ladies.
Anyway, in regards to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson, not my cup of ether...and truth be told, I'm not even sure what this book is about besides being hopped up on drugs. How did they make a movie out of this? There is no plot. Not to say that I have a problem with that, as I definitely have an affinity in my short story writing to create scenes without action...but there was nothing to be learned in these 204 pages.
I was constantly being built up (briefly, mind you), and then let down over and over again until I became utterly confused about what the whole point of any of this was, while also neglecting to care at all about anybody. Especially the attorney. Hate him.
The edition lent to me included illustrations by Ralph Steadman (which apparently originally appeared alongside the story in Rolling Stone's 1971 issues 95 and 96, so I assume most all copies would include them). I found them REALLY REALLY offputting. I mean, I understand why crude and psychotic drawings would be relative to a narrative like this, but in this case I didn't find it to add anything beneficial to the text at all. In fact, they kind of annoyed me to see those pictures after having made my own mental image of the scenes and then having them contrasted to dirty images of frog people.
In news regarding my reading progress, I was not aware that Colleen (the giver of books) is moving NEXT MONTH. Which means I have nine books to read in like, six weeks. Yeah right. Not happening. Which is sad, but, NOT AS SAD AS THE FACT THAT I WILL HAVE ZERO FRIENDS LEFT. Depress.
Speaking of Colleen though, I went out with her tonight to go see Moonrise Kingdom which was freaking adorable. Classy little children and precious adults. Hearts in my heart <3 <3 <3. And that house, and that beach. geeze. Jealous! Want it. I wish my life were a Wes Anderson film, like every other hipster on this planet. Who are you, Juman? I want to be you.
Anyway, in regards to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson, not my cup of ether...and truth be told, I'm not even sure what this book is about besides being hopped up on drugs. How did they make a movie out of this? There is no plot. Not to say that I have a problem with that, as I definitely have an affinity in my short story writing to create scenes without action...but there was nothing to be learned in these 204 pages.
I was constantly being built up (briefly, mind you), and then let down over and over again until I became utterly confused about what the whole point of any of this was, while also neglecting to care at all about anybody. Especially the attorney. Hate him.
The edition lent to me included illustrations by Ralph Steadman (which apparently originally appeared alongside the story in Rolling Stone's 1971 issues 95 and 96, so I assume most all copies would include them). I found them REALLY REALLY offputting. I mean, I understand why crude and psychotic drawings would be relative to a narrative like this, but in this case I didn't find it to add anything beneficial to the text at all. In fact, they kind of annoyed me to see those pictures after having made my own mental image of the scenes and then having them contrasted to dirty images of frog people.
In news regarding my reading progress, I was not aware that Colleen (the giver of books) is moving NEXT MONTH. Which means I have nine books to read in like, six weeks. Yeah right. Not happening. Which is sad, but, NOT AS SAD AS THE FACT THAT I WILL HAVE ZERO FRIENDS LEFT. Depress.
Speaking of Colleen though, I went out with her tonight to go see Moonrise Kingdom which was freaking adorable. Classy little children and precious adults. Hearts in my heart <3 <3 <3. And that house, and that beach. geeze. Jealous! Want it. I wish my life were a Wes Anderson film, like every other hipster on this planet. Who are you, Juman? I want to be you.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Lazy Sunday
I have spent the last handful of hours just lolling about on my couch after getting up from bed in a state of laziness and persistent depression. Waste of youth (Trout, I would not be asking for your last request, if it involves being a 20-something).
In that time I finished #340. Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut instead of going to the grocery store like I should be doing. Regardless of the fact that it might typecast me into the generic punk rock high schooler, I loved this book the entire way. I loved the unabashed way the narrator spoke, disregarding PC vocabulary and ideology. Even through possibly rude and insensitive topics, there was a consistent voice of love and value for every character that was somehow incredibly parental and mature. I want to characterize this book as cute, but not in the typical sense...it was more that it touched childish feelings within me as well as brought out the vulnerability in grown characters (and animals alike. I heart Sparky).
As a reunion of characters in his previous books, I have always loved the idea of this kind of thing. A picture book that I worked on with a close friend last summer even follows this strain. It's also pretty meta, in regards to the storyline which is wonderful. I'm not even sure that there was a story as much as a contemplation of humanity and history and society's patterns with no bullshit. Which is groundbreaking...or something. Innovative, no question.
And let's not forget the pictures (obviously). So fun, so carefree, so stream of thought. Love it. That this book was written in Vonnegut's later career is also captivating. The idea of an aging, experienced writer writing such a playful book is something enchanting and shows a simple literary wisdom that I wish I could have. Maybe someday.
I'm feeling very homesick for Michigan after visiting last weekend, and the intimacy that Vonnegut seems to feel for Indiana touches me a bit. I need to get out of Chicago. I have only found heartache here. Someone help me.
At least I have a good gathering of books (thank you Colleen) to keep my mind busy for a while until that day hopefully comes (sooner rather than later please).

As a reunion of characters in his previous books, I have always loved the idea of this kind of thing. A picture book that I worked on with a close friend last summer even follows this strain. It's also pretty meta, in regards to the storyline which is wonderful. I'm not even sure that there was a story as much as a contemplation of humanity and history and society's patterns with no bullshit. Which is groundbreaking...or something. Innovative, no question.
And let's not forget the pictures (obviously). So fun, so carefree, so stream of thought. Love it. That this book was written in Vonnegut's later career is also captivating. The idea of an aging, experienced writer writing such a playful book is something enchanting and shows a simple literary wisdom that I wish I could have. Maybe someday.
I'm feeling very homesick for Michigan after visiting last weekend, and the intimacy that Vonnegut seems to feel for Indiana touches me a bit. I need to get out of Chicago. I have only found heartache here. Someone help me.
At least I have a good gathering of books (thank you Colleen) to keep my mind busy for a while until that day hopefully comes (sooner rather than later please).
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Les jeunes filles
Read Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita online in a dreadfully difficult way, through a simulated book with turning pages that had no numbers. I closed my browser once and had to sit there clicking through pages until I found the page I had lost. Technology.
I had heard a lot of hype about this book...and I honestly don't think I had heard anyone talk negatively about it. Always described to me as a favorite and the object of literary obsessions by hip kids. There was a girl in one of my writing classes at SAIC who devoted her time to an art piece that transcribed the book in its entirety, through colored grids on graph paper. According to Nabokov's synesthesia. It's a pretty idea, really.
As for me, I cannot say it will be a favorite of mine, but it's obviously got its strengths. It was bold, surely. And I was very uncomfortable when Humbert described beauty in children. Hair falling upon skinned knees...that is one particularly creepy image.
That the object of desire was such an obviously distasteful little girl was pretty genius. Part of me hated her, but I suppose that's what happens when a child is raised in such conditions. As my ex-boyfriend said to me when discussing her wretchedness, "That's love though".
I was surprised at how comedic the narrative became during the last scenes of Quilty's murder. Quite a change from some of the slower, duller moments in the middle sections when Humbert was in bliss. Quilty's scene was so ridiculous that it seemed a departure from the story that led to it. I guess though, that that dark humor was there all along, such as in Humbert's fantasies about Charlotte.
Also, how the hell was he making money?? Or, how much freaking money had he in his savings??
Relatively, I see that Kubrick's Lolita is categorized as a comedy-drama. Perhaps I will have to see it.
Also as a sidenote, searching "Lolita" in google images returns a bevvy of Japanese girls in Lolita outfits. Should have known. -_______-
I had heard a lot of hype about this book...and I honestly don't think I had heard anyone talk negatively about it. Always described to me as a favorite and the object of literary obsessions by hip kids. There was a girl in one of my writing classes at SAIC who devoted her time to an art piece that transcribed the book in its entirety, through colored grids on graph paper. According to Nabokov's synesthesia. It's a pretty idea, really.
As for me, I cannot say it will be a favorite of mine, but it's obviously got its strengths. It was bold, surely. And I was very uncomfortable when Humbert described beauty in children. Hair falling upon skinned knees...that is one particularly creepy image.
That the object of desire was such an obviously distasteful little girl was pretty genius. Part of me hated her, but I suppose that's what happens when a child is raised in such conditions. As my ex-boyfriend said to me when discussing her wretchedness, "That's love though".
I was surprised at how comedic the narrative became during the last scenes of Quilty's murder. Quite a change from some of the slower, duller moments in the middle sections when Humbert was in bliss. Quilty's scene was so ridiculous that it seemed a departure from the story that led to it. I guess though, that that dark humor was there all along, such as in Humbert's fantasies about Charlotte.
Also, how the hell was he making money?? Or, how much freaking money had he in his savings??
Relatively, I see that Kubrick's Lolita is categorized as a comedy-drama. Perhaps I will have to see it.
Also as a sidenote, searching "Lolita" in google images returns a bevvy of Japanese girls in Lolita outfits. Should have known. -_______-
Sunday, May 20, 2012
The future
is upon us, I think. There are mammoth clones and commercial space flights in the works, and all.
I was just thinking the other day how less and less prudent society is becoming these days, and how sexuality is much more open now than I once knew it to be. But maybe this is more about my aging than society as a whole.
I finally read Brave New World after being culturally ignorant without having read it my whole life. And now I can understand the allusions so often pointed toward it - hurrah!
I can't say that I was all that blown away by the book, though that is fault of so many spin offs having come from Brave New World, no doubt. But all in all, clones in tubes and a life of duty are nothing new in this day.
One thing that did surprise me was the society of Savages. I was expecting before Bernard and Lenina's trip that these old-fashioned beings were going to be contemporary people rather than literal savages. I think perhaps this might have been a better twist...though I see how that wouldn't have corresponded with Huxley's use of John in the end.
There were reviews from the time of publication at the end of the edition I was reading that I agree with in regards to the lack of interest that is stirred for these two-dimensional characters. They are this way for a reason, I think, and that is important...but even in John, the escapist to this, there was little time to grow any sort of attachment for. He even grew to be kind of annoying, so emotional was he. He is indeed a son of Shakespearean literature.
I could use some futuristic temperature control right about now though...it is hot in Chicago. One of my most hated things.

I finally read Brave New World after being culturally ignorant without having read it my whole life. And now I can understand the allusions so often pointed toward it - hurrah!
I can't say that I was all that blown away by the book, though that is fault of so many spin offs having come from Brave New World, no doubt. But all in all, clones in tubes and a life of duty are nothing new in this day.
One thing that did surprise me was the society of Savages. I was expecting before Bernard and Lenina's trip that these old-fashioned beings were going to be contemporary people rather than literal savages. I think perhaps this might have been a better twist...though I see how that wouldn't have corresponded with Huxley's use of John in the end.
There were reviews from the time of publication at the end of the edition I was reading that I agree with in regards to the lack of interest that is stirred for these two-dimensional characters. They are this way for a reason, I think, and that is important...but even in John, the escapist to this, there was little time to grow any sort of attachment for. He even grew to be kind of annoying, so emotional was he. He is indeed a son of Shakespearean literature.
I could use some futuristic temperature control right about now though...it is hot in Chicago. One of my most hated things.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Morals
Aesop's Fables proved to be a tremendously easy and fast read - I was surprised to see how simple and short (most of them one pagers) the stories were, as I had never actually seen them on paper. I was familiar with many of them, being something of a know-it-all when it comes to fairy tales and children's stories. It's funny to think that I could learn about fifteen lessons in a matter of minutes.
An aspect that I really enjoyed about this collection was the simple country mood that was embodied through the scenarios. I was somewhat envious of the pretty, relaxed scenes in nature...maybe because my experience with such a lifestyle is so limited. Regardless, I liked, if only briefly, being able to glimpse that kind of life (maybe I'm channeling a little bit of Marie Antoinette, with her pink flocks).
My favorite, being a lover of cute girly things, was "Venus and the Cat" in which a cat falls in love with a young man and asks Venus to turn her into a beautiful damsel. Precious.
I took most of these stories at face value for their age and main point lying in their lesson teaching, but I can't help but to question a few. For example, "The Mouse and the Frog":
"It was an evil day for the mouse when he made the acquaintance of a frog on the eve of a journey into the country. Protesting his great affection, the frog persuaded the mouse to allow him to go along. But we shall never know what possessed the mouse when he let the frog tie one of his own forefeet to one of the frog's hindfeet, for surely it made traveling most uncomfortable indeed".
...what? And let me tell you, (spoiler alert), that this only ends in the two drowning in a river and getting eaten, leading to the moral "he who compasses the destruction of his neighbor often is caught in his own snare". Is this really the best thing he could come up with? To have two animals tie their limbs together? Seriously, that doesn't even make sense. I'm thinking he was stretching it a bit, here. Let me suggest my own lesson to you, Aesop; quit while you're ahead (though perhaps the fault is not your own, but rather the publisher's for including it).
An aspect that I really enjoyed about this collection was the simple country mood that was embodied through the scenarios. I was somewhat envious of the pretty, relaxed scenes in nature...maybe because my experience with such a lifestyle is so limited. Regardless, I liked, if only briefly, being able to glimpse that kind of life (maybe I'm channeling a little bit of Marie Antoinette, with her pink flocks).
My favorite, being a lover of cute girly things, was "Venus and the Cat" in which a cat falls in love with a young man and asks Venus to turn her into a beautiful damsel. Precious.
I took most of these stories at face value for their age and main point lying in their lesson teaching, but I can't help but to question a few. For example, "The Mouse and the Frog":
"It was an evil day for the mouse when he made the acquaintance of a frog on the eve of a journey into the country. Protesting his great affection, the frog persuaded the mouse to allow him to go along. But we shall never know what possessed the mouse when he let the frog tie one of his own forefeet to one of the frog's hindfeet, for surely it made traveling most uncomfortable indeed".
...what? And let me tell you, (spoiler alert), that this only ends in the two drowning in a river and getting eaten, leading to the moral "he who compasses the destruction of his neighbor often is caught in his own snare". Is this really the best thing he could come up with? To have two animals tie their limbs together? Seriously, that doesn't even make sense. I'm thinking he was stretching it a bit, here. Let me suggest my own lesson to you, Aesop; quit while you're ahead (though perhaps the fault is not your own, but rather the publisher's for including it).
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Wealth in kindness
Two books to post about tonight: #417. God Bless
You, Mr. Rosewater – Kurt Vonnegut, and #143. The Virgin Suicides – Jeffrey Eugenides.
First off, Rosewater. I read in a few places that Vonnegut rated this book highly among his work, and even the back cover of the copy I read claims it to be "Vonnegut's funniest satire". I guess perhaps he thought this because it was a bit politically based...or maybe because he was sort of making social commentary? Either way, I'm not sure I appreciated the book as much as its author did.
The style reminded me a lot of Catch-22, in the sense that it kept schizophrenically changing subjects and viewpoints, often approaching queer thoughts and situations that I felt like I wasn't keeping up with.
I have been watching the t.v. show Parks and Recreation lately though, and I kept being reminded of Bobby Newport in Eliot. I liked him (as much as I could like a character in a book I wasn't very engaged in) for his sincerity and innocence.
I guess looking back now, it seems like Mushari and Fred's role seemed a weakly employed tactic to get the end result of Eliot to give away all his money. They seemed to get tossed away at the end, just as throughout the entire plot, Mushari's whereabouts only popped up whenever Vonnegut seemed to remember that he had neglected him a bit too long. Obviously that probably wasn't his intent, but I felt it was poorly executed.
I read The Virgin Suicides online, as I did the other previous melancholy feminine favorites. It makes the idea of suicide rather pretty and like a fairy tale. There was a misty, still, airiness that was captured through the narrator's experiences - it was a perfect choice to tell the story from an observer's point of view. Distance is what captured the mystery that was so vital in describing the girls, and watching the girls through windows and dreams was the reason for my continued interest and hunger (just as the boys') for more contact.
I look at my claw foot tub with its long, draped linen curtains and imagine what a scenic suicide I would conduct there, like Cecilia. Not in the emo, self deprecating way, but in an artfully serene, natural way.
The question I cannot overcome though, is how the Lisbon parents could ever have continued living the way they did after Cecilia. Would parents not want to rid the house of such negative vibes, if only for their daughters? Why lock them up, and force imprisonment on them in a decaying environment? Mr. Lisbon, I could accept. But his wife was outlandishly out-of-control, and her uptight precautions were the saddest part, resulting in the demise of the family.
Perhaps I will watch the movie. Kirsten Dunst seems an appropriate Lux.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
This shit is creepy,
but brilliant.
I powered through
Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves (#67), partly because I was engrossed in it, and partly because it kept scaring me into wanting to finish it faster. It's funny, that only happened in the end though, because at first I was ambling through it rather slowly, only allowing myself to read it a chapter at a time, during daylight.
The book was strenuous. So much work moving between two narratives, and reading notes, etc etc. It's wonderful though, the effort you have to put into it. It's very rare to see a book that so artfully and successfully reflects ("Echoes" <3) the themes that it relates. The same too, for how it referenced itself in impossible ways (what was the House of Leaves that was in Navidson's possession when he was freezing in the abyss? - it couldn't possibly have been Zampano's edition...). But that's the art of it I guess.
I read a review on Amazon for this book by someone saying that after they had finished reading, they realized that the book is more of a love story than a horror genre. The "end" was very pretty, and I agree with this idea, and am glad for it. Throughout the entire book, Danielewski's strengths in balancing thrill with comic relief and pleasantly soft imagery were a welcome aspect that kept a perfect mixture of safety and edge for the reader. A quote from the novel most accurately describes itself: "...it was full of unheimliche vorklänger [ghostly anticipation]".
One complaint, is that though necessary, I found myself more than once annoyed with Johnny's interruptions. I was far more interested in Navidson's story...but that is more than likely my preference in style. The appendixes at the end also, seemed unnecessary. I thought it would have been much better of an effect had they been weaved into the story rather than tacked onto the end, or had been omitted altogether. I liked the ring of the last few words of the Navidson story, and would have preferred them to had been allowed to ring on their own, hanging in the air of a finished book.

The book was strenuous. So much work moving between two narratives, and reading notes, etc etc. It's wonderful though, the effort you have to put into it. It's very rare to see a book that so artfully and successfully reflects ("Echoes" <3) the themes that it relates. The same too, for how it referenced itself in impossible ways (what was the House of Leaves that was in Navidson's possession when he was freezing in the abyss? - it couldn't possibly have been Zampano's edition...). But that's the art of it I guess.
I read a review on Amazon for this book by someone saying that after they had finished reading, they realized that the book is more of a love story than a horror genre. The "end" was very pretty, and I agree with this idea, and am glad for it. Throughout the entire book, Danielewski's strengths in balancing thrill with comic relief and pleasantly soft imagery were a welcome aspect that kept a perfect mixture of safety and edge for the reader. A quote from the novel most accurately describes itself: "...it was full of unheimliche vorklänger [ghostly anticipation]".
One complaint, is that though necessary, I found myself more than once annoyed with Johnny's interruptions. I was far more interested in Navidson's story...but that is more than likely my preference in style. The appendixes at the end also, seemed unnecessary. I thought it would have been much better of an effect had they been weaved into the story rather than tacked onto the end, or had been omitted altogether. I liked the ring of the last few words of the Navidson story, and would have preferred them to had been allowed to ring on their own, hanging in the air of a finished book.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Another lady's company to pass the time
It's dreary weather today, with grey skies and mist. I woke up today hoping this lasts through the weekend, but the report doesn't seem to support those wishes. Boo.
Holly Golightly is ultimately the same person as Nathanael West's Faye from Day of the Locust, and Fitzgerald's Daisy - though maybe, at the end, there is a little more depth peeking through in comparison. Self indulgent, unbothered, with an "I-can't-be-bothered-with-such-trivial-matters" air that masks the fact that they are rather dense.
The dense part aside, I'd known nothing of this story before I read it except for the fact that Audrey Hepburn starred in it in the movie. It's so difficult for me to picture Ms. Hepburn as such a bold, wandering figure without innocence. I find it ill-fitting, really.
I did enjoy that she had been speech-trained by being taught French before English. The quirky way in which she spoke was appropriate in that aristocratic manner she held herself in, but it was charmingly cute (maybe I'm biased, because I'm in love with French though). The cat, too, as her weakness, was another attribute that warmed my heart to her. The absurdity of picturing that cat in a laced frame though (and calling it fitting), seems funny to me, as he always seemed a gruff (in a good way!) animal. He reminds me of a specific cat I've known.
I guess I enjoyed the end, but I didn't really get much from this story. Nothing extraordinary, but not bad, either.
p.s. Discovered another book I've already read on the list (what is wrong with me that I can't find them earlier?) - Kerouac's On the Road
Anywa
y, I spent the last few hours reading Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's. I preferred In Cold Blood, mainly because I think it was better written, but also because I really dislike reading men's portrayals of their ideals. Self involved, beautiful women are not charming and irresistible to me (Z. Deschanel, for example), I prefer beautiful women with warm hearts, who are unafraid to make fools of themselves (without thinking so hotly of themselves, as the aforementioned does).

Holly Golightly is ultimately the same person as Nathanael West's Faye from Day of the Locust, and Fitzgerald's Daisy - though maybe, at the end, there is a little more depth peeking through in comparison. Self indulgent, unbothered, with an "I-can't-be-bothered-with-such-trivial-matters" air that masks the fact that they are rather dense.
The dense part aside, I'd known nothing of this story before I read it except for the fact that Audrey Hepburn starred in it in the movie. It's so difficult for me to picture Ms. Hepburn as such a bold, wandering figure without innocence. I find it ill-fitting, really.
I did enjoy that she had been speech-trained by being taught French before English. The quirky way in which she spoke was appropriate in that aristocratic manner she held herself in, but it was charmingly cute (maybe I'm biased, because I'm in love with French though). The cat, too, as her weakness, was another attribute that warmed my heart to her. The absurdity of picturing that cat in a laced frame though (and calling it fitting), seems funny to me, as he always seemed a gruff (in a good way!) animal. He reminds me of a specific cat I've known.
I guess I enjoyed the end, but I didn't really get much from this story. Nothing extraordinary, but not bad, either.
p.s. Discovered another book I've already read on the list (what is wrong with me that I can't find them earlier?) - Kerouac's On the Road
Thursday, April 19, 2012
All I can think of is Sylvia with her short blonde hair in her white dress
I'm currently working my way through #67. House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski, but it is more of a cautious tiptoeing that is happening, as I tend to freak myself out easily about reading it, and therefore can only take about one or two chapters at a time before it either gets too dark out to bear reading it, or need a mental break. It is a very exhausting book to read, but I am enjoying it nonetheless, and it is playing with my head in just the psychological way that I am attracted to.
But we'll follow up with that when the time comes.
Because my progressio
n with House is so slow, I decided to simultaneously start a smaller book to keep the ball rolling. With that I came upon #433. The Bell Jar, which I found online. I'd been familiar with this book as one that was always on the bookstores' bookshelves as popular reads for young women, which is really one of the reasons why I was always so adverse to liking (or even trying) it.
I'm familiar with Plath through her poetry. I knew she had a very strong, feminine voice that I didn't mind (I'm not very keen on feminist propaganda, but I liked her sing-songy voice and mix of young but heavy-handed imagery...except for some of her daddy attachments - despite the fact that I know she lost her father at a young age), and The Bell Jar was in the same way. Robert Taubman's review describing the novel as "the first feminine novel in a Salinger mood" is right. There is that exact youthful something- what's the word...not naivety, but something like that mixed with rebellion. Stubbornness? Over-emphasized self-awareness? - that Salinger has, but Plath's use of it is so much more fluid and unfocused on a specific topic. I guess what I mean is, more true-to-life in the stream of conscious way that one thing just leads to another and we all just float along.
Esther's situations and state of mind move so rigidly and boldly, it's surprising to think back on. Her posh and rewarded life in the beginning is so dramatically different from the other two "habitats" she lives in, that it's jarring to think that all of this is happening in the same story, to the same girl. I don't exactly think that Esther the character changes much from the beginning to end. Perhaps it's more that she becomes less cautious as time goes on, and lets the blankness replace her youthful curiosity. Curiosity does still remain until the end, but less so than before (as her interests become fewer, or maybe more honed in on, as time goes on).
I feel like I don't even know what I'm saying right now.
I guess I appreciate this narrative less as a story about Esther, than as Plath talking about her own mental goings-on. I'm more interested in what was happening inside Plath's head than I am of what will happen to Esther after her interview, and as I read I imagine her writing this - as I have written stories based on my own self - than anything else. I guess I saw a part of me in Plath (not Esther, though she is a reflection of her, but Plath as she wrote this) as a writer, which to me was a little bit disconcerting as I know that many girls must feel a connection to this story, based on its popularity. Maybe I'm more of a generic American female reader than I'd like to admit.
In the meantime, back to reading the novel I keep terrifying myself over.
But we'll follow up with that when the time comes.
Because my progressio

I'm familiar with Plath through her poetry. I knew she had a very strong, feminine voice that I didn't mind (I'm not very keen on feminist propaganda, but I liked her sing-songy voice and mix of young but heavy-handed imagery...except for some of her daddy attachments - despite the fact that I know she lost her father at a young age), and The Bell Jar was in the same way. Robert Taubman's review describing the novel as "the first feminine novel in a Salinger mood" is right. There is that exact youthful something- what's the word...not naivety, but something like that mixed with rebellion. Stubbornness? Over-emphasized self-awareness? - that Salinger has, but Plath's use of it is so much more fluid and unfocused on a specific topic. I guess what I mean is, more true-to-life in the stream of conscious way that one thing just leads to another and we all just float along.
Esther's situations and state of mind move so rigidly and boldly, it's surprising to think back on. Her posh and rewarded life in the beginning is so dramatically different from the other two "habitats" she lives in, that it's jarring to think that all of this is happening in the same story, to the same girl. I don't exactly think that Esther the character changes much from the beginning to end. Perhaps it's more that she becomes less cautious as time goes on, and lets the blankness replace her youthful curiosity. Curiosity does still remain until the end, but less so than before (as her interests become fewer, or maybe more honed in on, as time goes on).
I feel like I don't even know what I'm saying right now.
I guess I appreciate this narrative less as a story about Esther, than as Plath talking about her own mental goings-on. I'm more interested in what was happening inside Plath's head than I am of what will happen to Esther after her interview, and as I read I imagine her writing this - as I have written stories based on my own self - than anything else. I guess I saw a part of me in Plath (not Esther, though she is a reflection of her, but Plath as she wrote this) as a writer, which to me was a little bit disconcerting as I know that many girls must feel a connection to this story, based on its popularity. Maybe I'm more of a generic American female reader than I'd like to admit.
In the meantime, back to reading the novel I keep terrifying myself over.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
A gift
My dear friend Colleen was kind enough to offer to lend me her collection of books that are on the list. To my surprise, she brought over a file box half full of books and told me that she had been working on a birthday present for me, which was to be the box filled with books that I had yet to read. She's moving to California with her husband in August, so I had asked her last week if I could make the most of the time she has left here by borrowing as many books as I could before she left. Half of the box she brought over are to be returned to her, but she's supplied me with a decent sized stack of lengthy books for me to work on after I get through her's. I'm so very humbled and thankful.
I decided it would be mos
t economical to try to read her books first, and work on the lightest reads so that I could get through as many as I can before Colleen leaves. I've just finished Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, a book that I had heard mentioned a lot, but never knew much about. I think I had mostly heard about it in some way attached to adolescent boys, and therefore thought it was some sort of juvenile book (I had also not really expected it to be a novel) for middle school children. I was pleasantly surprised, though, to find that it was versatile to be both that, as well as an entertaining little "trip" for adults, too. It was refreshing to read something so breezy and casual after my stint of morose genre. Hitchhiker's was funny and whimsical (can I call sci-fi whimsical?), and I was reminded of my fondness for the humor that British writers are so skilled at writing - sarcastic, absurd, and still intelligent? I can't really describe it, but I guess it's something of a trademark of theirs that everyone is familiar with so I don't really need to try to.
There was a weird dis-attachment to the characters for me. I liked them all enough, but I don't think I really cared deeply for any one. I think I started to, with Ford and Arthur, but reflecting on it when I started to see that happening, I realized that I didn't, really. I was growing quite fond of Slartibartfast probably most, but he was sent away quickly after serving his role, which was unfortunate. I wish his characters weren't so mostly humanoid, though I guess I can't really blame a human writer of having a hard time coming up with fantastical aliens. I quite liked the idea of a hyper-intelligent being taking on the form of the color blue (or however it was that they were described).
Adams' flitting from one idea to the next (though these ideas were very fluidly tied together) played down any seriousness, which worked as a consistent whole...after so many near-death escapes, it was becoming obvious that the crew would never be killed, but it was just as probable that Adams would, in one sentence, kill them all off and end the book. That, I think, is an interesting idea in itself, whether or not it was intentional. Such abrupt writing never allowed for any attachment, but rather forced the reader to accept everything as fact to be considered for a brief moment (maybe that's what works so well for younger readers). This continued for the entirety of the book. But maybe that's the point, relative to this Universe.
Not sure which book I'll open next (so many options!), but probably something a little darker, to get some sort of pattern going. Until next time.
I decided it would be mos

There was a weird dis-attachment to the characters for me. I liked them all enough, but I don't think I really cared deeply for any one. I think I started to, with Ford and Arthur, but reflecting on it when I started to see that happening, I realized that I didn't, really. I was growing quite fond of Slartibartfast probably most, but he was sent away quickly after serving his role, which was unfortunate. I wish his characters weren't so mostly humanoid, though I guess I can't really blame a human writer of having a hard time coming up with fantastical aliens. I quite liked the idea of a hyper-intelligent being taking on the form of the color blue (or however it was that they were described).
Adams' flitting from one idea to the next (though these ideas were very fluidly tied together) played down any seriousness, which worked as a consistent whole...after so many near-death escapes, it was becoming obvious that the crew would never be killed, but it was just as probable that Adams would, in one sentence, kill them all off and end the book. That, I think, is an interesting idea in itself, whether or not it was intentional. Such abrupt writing never allowed for any attachment, but rather forced the reader to accept everything as fact to be considered for a brief moment (maybe that's what works so well for younger readers). This continued for the entirety of the book. But maybe that's the point, relative to this Universe.
Not sure which book I'll open next (so many options!), but probably something a little darker, to get some sort of pattern going. Until next time.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
I finished these long ago and now cannot recall what I had to say

#641. Miss Lonelyhearts by Nathanael West came in a compilation with his The Day of the Locust. I was preferring the latter when I started for its artist protagonist, but now after finishing both, I'm not so sure.
West undoubtedly has an attraction to disaster. Both of his stories were written in that dirty tone that just makes one sad by association, which I find a little difficult to maneuver (I am a lover of beauty, to be sure).
One thing I did like very much was any time Miss Lonelyhearts was brought up, then immediately referred to as a "he". It was a something comical and cute thing to do amidst such an adult backdrop.
The ending, too, I think was quite the embodiment of ...is it modernism? something like existentialism? Either way, I think the copy I have kept referring him to Kafka, which is extremely fitting. Abrupt compared to the lag I felt when reading the distasteful plot line - like putting off the flame from a candle - it was accurate and precise which was surprising in association with the story preceding it.
My initial liking for Locust, I think, came from the fact that the protagonist was an artist. That did not hold up for the remainder of the short story after a few chapters though, as he was, once again (as apparently West prefers), a (though less than others) degenerate sad sack, if you will. Were all people in the 30s-40s all so down like that? I mean, I know the Depression is to be considered and all, but these are problems outside of wealth. It's hard for me to sympathize with the kinds of characters as West's when I'm in a situation trying as hard as I can to change my unhappiness (not that I couldn't be doing more, obviously. But compared to my moderate attempts, these characters are just repulsive).
The book has a very nice cover image though, wouldn't you say?
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Of yearnings and other things
Ugh, half my post was just deleted so it is with half a heart that I try to reconstruct this post.
The spring weather is forcing me into a lighter mood, but I don't think I'm quite ready due to the current events in my emotional life. Conflict out of nothing, really. I also hate how many people are now on the streets, as I prefer solitude, but that's also me being a grouch. I need a freakin' vacation.
In any case, all of my friends have imminent plans of leaving the city and I will have no one to share any lightness with in a matter of months, so I suppose I should use it while it has company. I am, as well, currently getting some freelance jobs for a magazine which I am happy to lose myself in briefly, so we must focus on the little things.
The House in Paris m
oved by quickly. My copy depicted Matisse's Piano Lesson on the cover, which I found to be an unexpectedly natural fit for the context of this book. I often found myself staring at its strangeness. Whoever chose this to represent the novel has a talent I cannot name...or else, maybe they came upon it by accident. I appreciate it, anyway.
So...reflections on this story...
I mostly came away with the idea of children acting selfishly as mature, small adults, compared to adults acting selfishly as children. Kate as a child both in her immature actions, as well as in the context of her bound as the daughter of her parents, compared to the hardened, adult-like mannerisms of Henrietta and Leo.There was a nice balance between Henrietta and Leopold, but Leopold annoyed me, and I dislike him in the way that I dislike snotty spoiled little children. Kate was much more complex. It is impressive, what Bowen did, now thinking in hindsight. She molds your perception of each character through other people's perception of them, vs their own. I loved Kate for her sincere, youthful complex in the "past" section when the story was told in her point of view, but when she was removed from direct situations as in the "present" sections, she was understood as a wretched person (though others still loved her). The difference is also apparent in Ray, as he seemed distasteful through Karen's descriptions of him in the "past", while when he is actually presented in the last section, he is charming and deserving of respect.
How realistic, to show the differences between one's character from the inside vs. out. I am sure that there are some outside of my head who find me lacking in character or morality (though I am not completely blind to it myself).
The spring weather is forcing me into a lighter mood, but I don't think I'm quite ready due to the current events in my emotional life. Conflict out of nothing, really. I also hate how many people are now on the streets, as I prefer solitude, but that's also me being a grouch. I need a freakin' vacation.
In any case, all of my friends have imminent plans of leaving the city and I will have no one to share any lightness with in a matter of months, so I suppose I should use it while it has company. I am, as well, currently getting some freelance jobs for a magazine which I am happy to lose myself in briefly, so we must focus on the little things.
The House in Paris m

So...reflections on this story...
I mostly came away with the idea of children acting selfishly as mature, small adults, compared to adults acting selfishly as children. Kate as a child both in her immature actions, as well as in the context of her bound as the daughter of her parents, compared to the hardened, adult-like mannerisms of Henrietta and Leo.There was a nice balance between Henrietta and Leopold, but Leopold annoyed me, and I dislike him in the way that I dislike snotty spoiled little children. Kate was much more complex. It is impressive, what Bowen did, now thinking in hindsight. She molds your perception of each character through other people's perception of them, vs their own. I loved Kate for her sincere, youthful complex in the "past" section when the story was told in her point of view, but when she was removed from direct situations as in the "present" sections, she was understood as a wretched person (though others still loved her). The difference is also apparent in Ray, as he seemed distasteful through Karen's descriptions of him in the "past", while when he is actually presented in the last section, he is charming and deserving of respect.
How realistic, to show the differences between one's character from the inside vs. out. I am sure that there are some outside of my head who find me lacking in character or morality (though I am not completely blind to it myself).
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