The Left-Handed Woman

Now this one is more my speed. After the last two disasters that I had to read, Peter Handke’s The Left-Handed Woman was a much-needed reprieve. Simple, emotional, and poetic, it’s a thoughtful snapshot of life that’s doesn’t feel the need to be overly showy. I’m not sure if it’s due to the Austrian connection, or to the fact that Handke’s name is so similar to that of filmmaker Michael Haneke, but the imagery in this book reads very similarly to the cinematic style of the latter.

Being myself a woman of a certain age like Marianne, her retrospection and unease of her current circumstances feels familiar. Depression and dissatisfaction for no reason at all, a sudden yearning for change and freedom, the push and pull between catering to the needs of others and finding her own identity, and the moments of inspiration that shine in between; it’s an honest snapshot into many of the emotions I have felt recently, and I appreciate that the story ends with no solution or point to it all. It’s just a brief depiction of life in our modern world, and that’s all it needs to be.

The Piano Teacher

During my senior year of high school, when I was taking the PSATs, I remember being enchanted by an excerpt credited to The Piano Teacher. Assuming that it would be easy to find later, I didn't take note of the author's name...and boy, was that a mistake. What I remember of that excerpt was a poetic, romantic, beautiful piece of prose that felt like poetry. After googling the book title, I came across 2 books, one being Elfriede Jelinek's work, which is included in the 1001 Books to Read Before You Die list. With this kind of accolade, I assumed it was the dead ringer. I looked forward to reading this book for years, assuming that skillful writing would balance out crude topics. But lol, NOPE. It's just a work of brutal, disgusting images and emotions, through and through. 

Jelinek's characters embody the most repulsive characteristics and desires of humanity. All self-obsessed and deeply cruel, I suppose it's a study on the reality of society's baseness. 

The writing is often chaotic, jumping between actions and time with no warning or context. It adds, somewhat, to the raging mental states of the characters in these situations, but is also confusing and unpleasant to experience. Still, since I basically just wanted the thing to be over as quickly as possible the whole time, I wasn't about to complain about holes in the narrative. 

Would not read again or recommend, but glad I know now that this wasn't the book I was idolizing for so many years 😂

The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman

42 pages in and that’s it, I’m calling it. I cannot go on with Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy. I don’t care that Virginia Woolf, whom I adore, called it “the greatest of all novels”. It’s just not. It’s terrible. It’s boring, and droning, and hard to follow. I don’t care that the author uses playful devices and visual cues. An enjoyable read that does not make.

I should have taken it as a sign when I realized that my copy (Modern Library Classics 2004 edition) was misprinted in the most ridiculous of ways. Giant chunks of pages are entirely out of order, making this nonsensical work even harder to follow. Page 4 was followed by page 37, 20 by 53, and on and on. It’s like the universe was telling me to give up right from the start. And you know what? I will. Because the universe is a woman, and I believe women.

So there it is. #3 of the abandoned lot on my journey to 1001 books. I’ll never know how it ends, and I don’t care.

Them

Joyce Carol Oates’ Them brings me to 198 out of 1001 books on this list. Though an absolute brick of a book, the story reads quite easily in a very modern and accessible way—still, it’s utterly devastating in every single word that it contains. The way Oates cuts away and skips time immediately after a major event is so jarring. What an absolutely perfect choice she made there to depict the traumas of one’s life into flashback-like fragments.

There aren’t many acclaimed books that use Detroit as a backdrop (at least as far as I am aware of), so as a former Michigander, I was quite excited to pick up a novel centered around the lives of people in places that hit close to “home”. Of course, the lower-class lives of the Wendells are far from what I myself have known, but there was some kind of camaraderie in hearing the names of so many familiar streets and cities that gave me comfort.

The takeaway from this story? Life is devastating, and we are all victims of both ourselves and the environments around us. Still, you pick yourself up and keep going. Despite ourselves, love persists—whether its constant love for those that harm us, or the stubborn love for the places we come from.

Loretta is a terrible mother, and yet we feel sympathy for her. It’s absolutely heartbreaking to watch Maureen get beaten down, slowly having her bright future ripped away from her almost entirely at the fault of her mother. Jules, too, has such a kind heart and so much potential, and yet makes all the wrong choice. That’s the harsh nature of reality, though, I suppose.

Out of everything, the fact that the young Maureen envisioned the stories of romantic English novels to be more “real” than her own gritty life struck me with fascination. How much more real can you get than a life of misery? This book felt more real to me than any Austen novel ever could. But I guess anything that takes you away to another place for a while is “real”.

The Remains of the Day

I have never been a fan of Kazuo Ishiguro’s novels (just recently, I worked through The Unconsoled and had a horrible time doing so), but having finished The Remains of the Day, I can understand why this is one of his more famous—and not to mention famous—works. Simple, quiet, and emotional in his signature style, it’s a better example of what Ishiguro’s writing can accomplish, if he only stays focused and has a solid concept.

The main character, Stevens, moves through his life with a professional detachment that borders on robotic (another consistent character type of Ishiguro’s), but his reflections, embarrassments, and hints of regret are all familiarly human. 

The climax scene of the story—contained in only a few short paragraphs—of the moment when Stevens and Ms. Kenton reunite and speak of their missed opportunities and what-ifs are relatable to anyone, making it all the more heartbreaking. We can’t change the past, so we make do with what we have. But it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t dwell from time to time.

Ok, fine. I’ll say it. With this book, Ishiguro finally wrote something that I genuinely like.

Erewhon

Samuel Butler's Erewhon is the namesake of the trendy overpriced Californian grocery store known for over-the-top celebrity smoothies, playing on the fact that the Erewhonians take health so seriously that having any sort of illness is condemned as a crime. Knowing this, it's a pretty funny/extreme take on health culture, and makes me question if the creators are scamming us all 😂

Anyway, I've gotten off track. Back to the book.

It felt as if the narrative were written in three distinctive parts (though they didn't seem intended to be split that way). The first being an adventure story somewhat reminiscent of the style of Frankenstein, the second as a series of philosophic musings/essays, and the third composed of three or so very short chapters that almost felt like an epilogue. It started out so fun and exciting, but then it tapered off into all of these ideologies that were interesting enough, but not exactly *thrilling*. Then, at the end, it sort of tried to mix the two together in a half-ass way in a mad rush to get to the point which was just that...man sucks. lol. All in all, I'd say the experience felt a little disjointed and confusing...but then again...maybe that's just a reflection of how the main character felt during his journey?

Idk but here's a fun fact: the name Erewhon is derived from "nowhere" spelled backwards...with the h and w transposed. Everyone else probably noticed that besides me.

The House of the Spirits

Tragic and poetic, and mixing a bit of fantasy with the harshness of reality, Isabel Allende's The House of the Spirits challenges readers to look life's roughness in its face and cherish the romantic moments as best we can. Through the pages, one traverses generations of the Alba family's histories; hating some, loving others, and growing old with all of them.  Allende doesn't shy away from exposing the follies of her central characters, and its that fact that makes the story all that much more real. 

In the epilogue that sums up the memory of all that has passed, the reader gets a true sense of nostalgia as if they themselves lived and knew each of the characters' lives. Having recently reflected on generational histories myself with the loss of my grandmother, reading the end felt like a beautiful homage to the experience of being part of a family.

One ding I give this book? The sporadic and random shifting between narrators was a bit confusing and I didn't see much reason for it. In honesty, I only even realized what was happening there like a third of the way into the book, and then I had to Google wtf was happening. If it were up to me, I'd toss that.