Orange you glad...

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 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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

"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.