The Shining

Is Kubrick just effing up books left and right or what?  Okay, I can't actually speak because I have never watched A Clockwork Orange, but as you saw from my last post, I touched on how he sort of changed the story in the face of the public for that novel as well.  I kind of feel like he doesn't read books at all but rather has a friend who read the book tell him the major points and then creates something from there.

I'd heard somewhere before that Stephen King's The Shining was different from Kubrick's film, but somehow I wasn't really expecting much of a difference.  I pretty much just expected Wendy's hair color to be the only thing that would stray from the movie, but luckily that was not even close to the reality.  I also honestly expected King's writing to be quite bad as most horror/popular fiction writing is, but I was pleasantly surprised in this arena as well.

Let's face it.  No matter how much you love the cult film, a lot of shit in the movie doesn't make any sense.  What the hell is Danny's power exactly, and what is the point of Tony besides to say "redrum" creepily for 3 seconds?  Who are the random ghosts that pretty much do nothing but stand there looking at the family from time to time?  Why is a caretaker even necessary?  I mean, I know Kubrick was being artsy and making social commentary and whatever, but it kind of just feels like a jumble of half-baked "concept" that doesn't really come together.  I'm not even trying to bash on Kubrick either, as I enjoy a lot of his films, but he really did create something completely different and lacking in comparison to the original story (but at least the opening credits scene was pretty magnificent).

The book focuses much more heavily on the characters and their back stories.  There are supernatural aspects to it, yes, but the bulk of what's haunting these characters is mental and touches on their personal guilt and paranoia.  There is a much more cohesive understanding of the characters and why they act the way they do, and it's never just a black and white situation of "hey, this guy goes crazy and just wants to kill his family".  The ghosts even have a story, and there's a fine line between hallucination and supernatural activity that convinces you enough to buy that perhaps the story is not all about a haunted hotel.  You guys, it all freakin' makes sense together, and it's better than I expected.

A Clockwork Orange

I saved this copy of A Clockwork Orange while my boyfriend cleaned out his childhood bedroom, sweeping everything clean into the trash.  It is an American reprint complete with a forward by Burgess complaining about how both previous versions of this novel (and consequently Kubrick's film as well) omitted the 21st chapter, as well as the final chapter in question.

Having read the full book with this 2-sided knowledge, it's clear that the question is not whether one version is better or worse than the other.  What it does, actually, is show you how much of a difference a single chapter can do in a to-the-point way that I have rarely experienced.  Knowing that the story could have ended with Alex being "fixed", and then going on to see his natural train of thought after the fact turns the overarching theme from one of the frights of technology and government, to something around the idea of whether a man can ever change.  It would be interesting to experience this book in all three ways (20 chapters with no knowledge of the last, 21 chapters with no knowledge of America's cutting the story short, and the way I came about it) with a clear slate, though obviously that is impossible.  I guess the only way one could do that would be to concede to technology and get a lobotomy 3 times over.  Seems fitting.

Other notes: gritty, punky, and very violent.  I usually don't like plots like this, and it honestly was rough for me to get through in the beginning, but it redeemed itself.  Also, Burgess is pretty freakin' fun and I quite enjoyed his voice in the Introductory note.  Give it a try (and don't cop out and just watch the film...though I assume it's theatrical and beautiful, being a Kubrick and all that).

147. The Secret History

Donna Tartt dedicates this book to Brett Easton Ellis.  When I opened the first few pages and saw this, I was a little bit exasperated at this fact, and indeed, she has the same tendencies for violence and tragedies that Ellis has.  They also share, I think, the same attraction to creating something beautiful (though they do it in different ways, hers more nostalgic softness while his is bold and neurotic), and unfortunately also the same shortcomings in achieving it.

There is a creepiness that runs through the way it is written, though I don't think it's due to the plot itself but more in the fact that something seems awry in the way Tartt writes.  Her writing wants so badly to be meaningful and emotional, but ultimately feels flat and feels theatrical with an adolescent quality.  For the entirety of the book, I had an unsettling feeling that I had read this book before, as everything I read had a deja vu sense to it.  Having finished it, I still have yet to solve whether I actually have somehow come in contact with this story before, or if it was just the type of story that is too overdone to the point of becoming cliche.  Perhaps this was the main cause of the haunting feeling that followed me through the majority of my read -- a  familiarity of all events, and inability to find surprise in anything.

Not the worst, but not the best either.  But hey, I guess at least her characters were likable.

149. The Discovery of Heaven

I feel sorry for myself because I can't imagine any other book on this list comparing to this one.  It's so perfect I don't even know how to describe it.  It is such a well-balanced mix of history, science, art, aw hell, everything smart, and humor that I have ever experienced that I can't believe an author pulled this off.

Seriously.  Two bosom friends consisting of an astronomer and politician who challenge religion?  Heavenly beings that spontaneously and theatrically kill people on earth just to cover their asses when plans go awry and speak in casual conversation with one another like old pals?  Say no more.  I am in love.

This passage sums it all up rather well:

"But I want to do it precisely because it's absurd.  Since everything is ultimately absurd, the whole of life and the whole world, conversely only the absurd makes any kind of sense.  Can you understand that?  If everything's absurd, then within that absurdity only the absurd is not absurd!  True or not?  Have you ever heard of Camus?  He was the philosopher of the absurd, and he died in an absurd car accident.  For many people that was a confirmation of his thesis that everything is absurd.  Bur for the philosopher of the absurd, an absurd death is of course an extremely meaningful end!"

I promise, the rest of the book does not repeat a single word 12 times within 9 sentences.  The above is in the voice of a central character writing a long-winded letter to someone or another.  Rest assured, Harry Mulisch is an extremely gifted writer with a playfully gifted mind.

Also, there's a movie!
[edit 9/9/14]
and it is a terrible one at that.  do not waste your time unless you want to see 2.5 hours of disappointment (and not just because the angel-child looks infuriatingly like an ugly boy band member from the '90s)

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

I think I can confidently say now that Irish literature bores the life out of me.  If I wanted to read about Jesus and hellfire, I would have opened the bible.  Is this book telling us that all artists live without God?  Perhaps that is somewhat true, but that is the way I prefer it.

My life as a dabbler in art never consisted of religion.  I was surrounded by it, and was even directly exposed to it at times, but it was from the start an extremely foreign and ridiculous notion.  Why live your entire life in fear of some story that ends in punishment, simply because you wanted to experience pleasure while you're friggin' alive?  What the hell kind of spiteful creator is that?  The whole notion makes me uncomfortable and rather angry.

Even though Dedalus chose art in the end and he is basically agreeing with me, it bothers me that he was so devout to begin with.  I AM SO GLAD THIS READ IS OVER.

I guess there was never any other path for me than to be drawn to art.

The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

There are a lot of unanswered, nonsensical components to these books that I find rather confusing simply because Mr. Adams is clearly a rather clever man who does not seem likely to be careless about the details of his plots.  Why did the eagle show his wings to Gently?  How did the refrigerator god come to be?  Is it all only for a desire to have quirkiness?

As I got to the final chapters of this book, I started getting more and more fearful that I would not receive a decent ending with satisfying a-ha's and revealing wrap-ups, and I was somewhat correct in this dread.  I accepted it in the first of this series because I thought of it as a story to be continued, but the same approach was taken in Tea-Time, where the ending felt rushed and overly simple.  For all of the work put in to previous chapters to create a very successful build-up with strong characters, it's surprising to find the close in both cases to be rather puny.  It seems a bit like the characters I've come to like so much have been denied something they so very much deserve.

Nevertheless, I still like these books.  I find Adam's writing style very enjoyable (his personification of objects is delightfully adorable), and his characters to be quite genuine (as by now you obviously know).  I'd like to see more of Dirk Gently if I could.

Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency

Charmingly British...or Britishly charming...through and through.  Douglas Adams' writing, per usual, is expertly playful with lots of wit and clumsily likeable characters.  His simple writing style contrasts a somewhat intricate plotline that twists and turns to keep your mind alert.  In simple terms, this book is the Monty Python of novels, with a bit of The Third Policeman thrown in.  Ghosts!  TIme travel!  Horses!  Poets!  Recommend!

And now onward to the second part, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul.

Life: A User's Manual

Georges Perec's  Life: A User's Manual is a wonder.  His 99 chapters are brief little vignettes into the moments of various tenants' lives inside an apartment complex at 11 Rue Simon-Crubellier, written with incredibly minute care.  In the very same way, every piece of artwork in each of these scenes (every single chapter as far as I can remember contained at least one piece of art) is described, melding action and physical atmosphere into uniform thoughts in a way that I've never seen done before.  I honestly cannot describe this with success and reading what I have just written only fills me with annoyance as it is not doing what I'd like.

The main component that everything (plot, narrative, structure) in this book revolves around is the puzzle, but I am happy to say that it is not in the obvious sense of puzzle-as-mystery with the conclusion being a big reveal.  This book ends quietly but with accomplish and care, owing hours of work leading to the finish.  It is an experience, both visually and strategically.  While reading it, I often thought of it as every story that a writer would like to write, compiled into one, and because of this, it never leaves the reader bored (adventure, romance, history, emotion, it's got it all).

I have been on the cusp of finishing this brick of a book for about 2 weeks now and have finally made it, with the same relief that Bartlebooth must have felt upon completion of his puzzles.  I will, no doubt, reach for another challenge immediately afterwards as he did, though with this trace of proof left behind instead of the artist's habit of erasure.

Glamorama

#87. Glamorama by Bret Easton Ellis.

What in the flying fuck?  I'm pretty sure it's safe to say that i never ever want to be left in a room alone with Bret Easton Ellis.  He is probably one of those people that gets really close while he's talking to you and as you inch away he just keeps getting closer and maybe touches you on the arm as you start to panic about how fucking creepy he is and how he just might rape you.  Also, the intensity of his loathing toward rich people is a little annoying.

The book started off painfully slowly, taking probably more than 1/3 of the whole 546 pages to pretty much just rattle off a bunch of celebrity names and designer brands.  I know I know, this is supposed to be effective satire about consumerism and money and blah blah but I'm pretty sure that could be done much quicker than Ellis felt necessary.  On top of that, the complicated "set-up" type story, nor the whole concept of real life vs. film production is never effectively explained and it just seems like a vague idea that Ellis never cared to tighten.  He was probably too busy finding more celebrity names to mention.

Ellis is as showy as Andy Warhol, without the talent.  At least the artist's aesthetic had intent and cultivated style.  Maybe then, he is more like Koons, who pretty much everyone that went to art school looks down upon.  I bet you his favorite word is juxtaposition.

I tried to get an explanation for what I obviously must have been missing, but anyone who gave this book praise didn't really have any reasoning and just said that it changed their lives...which is funny, because it just makes them sound like posers, which this book is supposed to be speaking out against.
Anyway, this review does much better than I could do, so pretty much just read this instead of getting the very little information that I can provide: http://www.nytimes.com/books/99/01/24/reviews/990124.24mendelt.html

"I can't imagine that anyone actually enjoys these torturous novels -- except, perhaps, the people whom the books clandestinely celebrate, the actor-models and model-writers and celebrity-editors and their gang. But then, Ellis has become a sort of hip brand-name label in the publishing world, and people go in for him precisely for the reasons they might go in for a $300 Helmut Lang plain cotton shirt: It's so outrageous they assume there has to be something to it. But there isn't. The emperor has no clothes, designer or otherwise."

I couldn't (obviously) have said it better myself, NYTimes.

Nights at the Circus & Fear and Trembling

I bought a handful of books on Amazon a few months back, and received a variety of products ranging from somewhat tattered used hardcovers, to good as new paperbacks.  My copy of Nights at the Circus by Angela Carter was one of the former, and reeked all over of something sugary and perfumey that made me think it sat in an old woman's house for many many years until she died and her belongings were distributed.  So there was that thought following me with every turn of the page.

Otherwise, the story itself was really very adorable and magical in a girly, pretty sort of way.  It is a fantasy story about a brutish English woman who has wings, and an American reporter who falls in love with her and follows her into the circus.  The winged Fevvers embodies strong, feminist ideals rather than seductive, traditional beauty, which is a refreshing take on a heroine with such a glamorous status.  Every scene practically shines with vivid exuberance, and there is so much life in every word that the dream-like plot becomes believable, but with more excitement than any average person could ever hope to experience.  It was a quick and easy read that remained lighthearted throughout, and I am happy that I was able to be introduced to Angela Carter by this book.  I will have to try her others as well.

I traveled to Japan at the end of December, and thought Fear and Trembling - Amelie Nothomb's account of her experience working for a corporate business in Japan - would be a fitting choice for the plane ride there.  Ms. Nothomb is apparently a French woman who was born in Japan, and as I love basically anything French and am Japanese, was originally drawn to this choice.  After reading it however, I am unsure of why this made it to the list.  The plot reminded me a bit of a book I actually love about an American in France called A Year in the Merde...however, the latter is charming due to its hilarious voice and genuine feel, neither of which Trembling was able to master.  I felt that there was too much literal symbolism through characters' names, and though I appreciate seeing how people of other cultures perceive Japanese people, too many liberties were taken to generalize and exaggerate Japanese people and customs.  The end was the only part showing humanity in a pure, successful way and I imagine Nothomb writing this book solely for those one or two lines.  Nothomb made it a point to leave out any other experiences during her year in Japan besides those hours spent in the office, and I think that was a mistake.  I did not care about a single character, nor sympathized with Nothomb's character as she struggled in the ridiculous asian workforce.  Though it was a very thin volume, it very much felt like a waste of 132 pages.