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.

“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.

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*)

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.

"Aug 17, 2010

Paul rated it

Shelves: novels

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."

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.

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!

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 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.

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