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.

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.

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.

Anyway, 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

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 progression 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.

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 most 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 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?

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 moved 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).