My father would not be amused. In this 1933 essay that comes under the category of "aesthetics," Tanizaki advocates for dim lighting, shadows, even daMy father would not be amused. In this 1933 essay that comes under the category of "aesthetics," Tanizaki advocates for dim lighting, shadows, even darkness in the traditional Japanese home. But in our house, anytime anyone dared to dim the dining room lights in the name of "ambiance," my dad would say, "Turn up the lights, dammit. I want to SEE my food."
Of course, there's a bit more to this essay than that, but it is a kind of rah-rah for the home team (Japan) vs. the overly-lit West (Team Electricity). Tanizaki doesn't even like polished silver. Much preferable to have it gorgeously dull. And the Japanese home, so wonderfully gray with a very-necessary alcove that's totally dark, comes in for high praise.
Of course the Afterward offers the best laugh. When Tanizaki had a home built for himself, the builder proudly announced he had read "In Praise of Shadows" and would build according to the principles written therein. But no. Tanizaki said that was for literature. He'd have something a little more... light... for his OWN home. Perhaps, like Dad, he liked to see his meals? Or tea? Or saki?
Fun, quirky, off subject now and then (which I liked), but not a must-read by any means, just a gentle lark worthy of its time -- and yours....more
Having read Claire Keegan's novellas Small Things Like These and Foster, I was intrigued by this early story collection by the Irish writer. It was alHaving read Claire Keegan's novellas Small Things Like These and Foster, I was intrigued by this early story collection by the Irish writer. It was almost a clean sweep of good tales -- a rare coup for any short story writer. The only tales I was so-so on were the last two, "You Can't Be Too Careful" and "The Ginger Rogers Sermon," both 1st-person POVs where the protagonist was not terribly compelling, nor was the situation.
Before that, we have 14 straight stories, a great mix of narratives, each enjoyable in their own ways. The eeriest is the first, the eponymous "Antarctica," which has nothing to do with Antarctica and everything to do with a continent of cautionary tales.
The second story, "Men and Women," also deserves mentions. It is a precursor to "Small Things Like These" with the country setting and family drama. Children, husband and wife, small dramas that make major points about life and about the sexes.
In between this terrific start and iffy ending, the sort of stories that give variety and entertainment. Not sure how I missed this when it came out 1999. Perhaps, with Prince, I was partying like it's 1999....more
I struggled with this book, but admit a lot had to do with my own life circumstances in the time I was reading it. Meaning: It wasn't the best of timeI struggled with this book, but admit a lot had to do with my own life circumstances in the time I was reading it. Meaning: It wasn't the best of times to be embroiled in a big book.
Speaking of, some "big books" are deceptively small because they beguile you and you forget you're lost in a Fun House of hundreds and hundreds of pages. I think of Tolstoy, mostly. In other cases, you're aware of your surroundings, kind of like the movie theater when people coughing or talking or eating popcorn with their mouths open (!) yank you out of the "dream" the screen is trying to weave.
As for Solenoid, I'll admit to liking the first half better than the second. As it put on more pages, the "sur" became more "real" and the repetitiveness worked against it. At first, then, all these human appearances at the end of the protagonist's bed when he woke up were intriguingly creepy, especially the ones that seized him, poltergeist-like, by the ankles and tossed him against the wall (that is, if it actually happened), but he went to that well so often that it began to pale, failing to slake the reader's thirst.
In the final stretch, he even got inside the head of a mite. I admit, mighty creative, and further evidence that this writer had little use for plots or chronological narrative, but still, a MITE? Mighty, mighty taxing.
For all that, though, there were moments of great writing. Poetic writing! Hidden in a beast this size. At times the pages were a pleasure to read, as were the asides. Getting off topic is an art form. Sometimes readers are happy to join you on the road less traveled, other times they're going to say, "Where the hell are we going?"
Which means I certainly do not regret reading this book and my hat is off to its author. Immense talent and range. In true spaghetti western style, a lot of the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, but hey, I watched that movie more than once as a kid despite long sections of no one talking and everyone staring at each other with their hands over their gun holsters.
Not the kind of book you recommend, but I can say big book fans and lovers of Sir Real should give it a go. It will take you out of your comfort zone (a place I'm trying to go to more often) and impress you in multiple stretches....more
Another book with bookends. What goes around, comes around. Communism -- great in theory, but theories and reality make strange bedfellows. There's a Another book with bookends. What goes around, comes around. Communism -- great in theory, but theories and reality make strange bedfellows. There's a line in here I have to find. Something about revolution eating its children. Think of the French, then the Russian, then the Seven Seas.
Now back to Susan Sontag's Introduction, which should have been an afterword, given that it gives things away....more
I like to read. I read literary fiction, poetry, essays, history, philosophy, spiritual books, translations. I might have read autofiction without reaI like to read. I read literary fiction, poetry, essays, history, philosophy, spiritual books, translations. I might have read autofiction without realizing. I enjoy sentences. I am tolerant of books that break accepted rules like organizing writing with paragraphs. I just read Autoportrait, a 117-page paragraph of autofiction (I auto-guess) that simply strings together declarative sentences. The author, Edouard Levé, writes sentences that often appear to be random non sequiturs, but what is life if not random non sequiturs? I thought the book, in its way, the height of vanity. I thought of counting the number of sentences that started with "I" but am weak at math so could never keep track. I chuckled at some of Levé's frank admissions, as if nothing were sacred, right down to the parts of his body he likes and the parts of his body he dislikes. Safe to say, I will never emulate Levé on this count. At times Levé's Autoportrait is sad, too. On the one hand, he describes himself as a terrific hypochondriac. On the other, he admits to attempting suicide many times (and succeeded in 2007 at the age of 42). I find it ironic that a man who fretted about his health wanted to kill himself and ultimately did so. Ironic and very sad. I feet bad for him because I came to identify with him the more he wrote "I.., I..., I..." (in the plaintive tone of "Aye...aye...aye!"). At least I have gained from his example. I now know I can string sentences, too, and while some might tag them #whocares!, others might follow along and nod sympathetically. I like kombucha and once tried to make my own but the mother in the bottle looked like a jar from a mad scientist's lab. I prefer ginger kombucha. I like many sour tastes, including buttermilk straight up and certain crabapples that make your eyes squint. I do not like liver and onions or lobster or black licorice. I do not drink alcoholic beverages but have no problem with those who do. I'm not very good at swearing in general and have never sworn in front of my parents. I go to bed at 9 o'clock. My kids call it "Dad O'Clock." I wake up at "bird o'clock," which is to say when the first birds sing, typically between 4 and 4:30 in the morning. I much prefer the countryside to cities, but enjoyed Levé's descriptions of his travels and the cities he has visited. He was better traveled than I am, despite being much younger. Perhaps he had more time because he did not marry, though he gave the number of women he slept with, which I forget, but think to be somewhere in the 40s. He wondered if that was a lot of women or not so many women. Given the chance, I would have been frank and said, "That's a lot of women," but then again, he was French and in no way infected with the Puritanism I grew up around in New England. In any event, you might try this book so you can say, "I read outside of the box" as if we live in a box. Is a house a box? Certainly a coffin is, but we won't get much reading done once we're not thinking inside that box. I don't like to think about death. I know it's easy for humans to do, though. Dying may be hard, but being dead has proven a cinch for everyone, by my estimation. OK, I don't have 117 more pages for my autopilot pen to continue, so I'll stop here. This, then, ends my Autoreview....more
A new Irish writer for me. Took about halfway to get wheels, but characters interesting enough to hang in there through the first half.
Plot seems a sA new Irish writer for me. Took about halfway to get wheels, but characters interesting enough to hang in there through the first half.
Plot seems a stretch, but I'm no judge. I complain about coincidences and improbabilities way too much. Seems many fiction readers are more forgiving, so I'm working on getting with the program.
Without spoiling much, I'll say it's a bit of a kidnapping caper with Stockholm moving its Syndrome from Sweden to the Emerald Isle. Ah, those lads. Rough sorts with vile mouths (though not enough f-bombs for Ireland, which flat-out owns the word -- at least in past Irish novels I've read).
But wait. In the middle of action with otherwise on-point swearing, etc., we get bad lads saying these words: modicum and temerity.
Man, did those jump off of the page like a fish for a fly. Really? Clunk goes the brick. I lost sight of the characters and caught sight of the author's education slipping behind the arras without so much as an "excuse me."
But some nice turns of phrases, too, and woven together deftly enough. And slightly unpredictable before it relented and played predictable. Enjoyed, caveats notwithstanding....more
What we’ve got here is failure to communicate. – famous line from the Paul Newman movie, Cool Hand Luke (seen here as 640 pages of nonexistent communiWhat we’ve got here is failure to communicate. – famous line from the Paul Newman movie, Cool Hand Luke (seen here as 640 pages of nonexistent communication).
As a kid, I was given the job of trapping Japanese beetles with an empty jelly jar. I had to go from one of my mother’s rose bushes to another, picking them off and dropping them into the jar, which I quickly lidded. Neither their wings nor their feet did them much good in the glass. Those poor bronze bugs were trapped but good.
I thought of traps like that reading The Bee Sting, a sprawling entertainment that’s similar to that rare bird, a 3-hour movie where you’re not even aware of the theater and the popcorn-crunching, Coke-sipping yahoos sitting around you.
Yeah, traps work as good as any other metaphor. All of these characters are like Japanese beetles in a world of glass. Or, to parlay the book’s foreshadowing device, like gray squirrels — not native to Ireland (who knew?) — trapped by the ultimate Victor, the novel’s oddball survivalist who makes sure only the strong survive.
That author Paul Murray gets high smoking some quality-grade coincidence while shooting up some improbable-to-the-point-of-impossible at book's end does not sway my opinion much. Screwing up the last 20 pages after holding his own for 620 seems reasonable to me. I mean, it's an unfair judgment to fault him, especially considering readers’ penchant for Hollywood (read: treacly happy) endings. And maybe the book had no choice but to end the way it did, considering the quiet desperation (thanks again, Henry David Thoreau) each in the Barnes family must struggle with.
Not in the mood for Thoreau? How about Tolstoy? “All happy families are alike. Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Boy, howdy. How miserable to be Dickie, trapped by a more-popular brother, star athlete and manchild blessed with charisma. Dickie trapped by unhappiness, by confusion over his own preferences in life, by his wife and kids. For readers, it's claustrophobic just reading about his life. Please, Lord, deliver me to the next section and another character's point of view.
Or to be Imelda, his wife, in love with the star brother and left with the lesser star. Or the daughter, strangely miserable and, like her father, not sure of what she wants in life. Or the son, sensitive and intelligent but bullied mercilessly and stalked by internet creeps.
Hoo, boy. Steer clear of the cursed Barnes clan. And yet, like the accident on the highway, we can’t avert our eyes as we slowly make our way past the carnage. Hell, the novel even has a Cassandra character named Rose. Rose Red Tea Leaves, thank you. How'd you like to look down in your Tetley and see the line “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation” staring up at you? Rhetorical, meet question.
The opening sections focusing on the kids Cass and PJ were great stuff. The parents? Less so, but still, impossible to abandon once the narrative was up and running. You could see it coming (though not the overly-orchestrated ending) -- doom, I mean -- but you still wanted to see it play out. For some reason I still don’t get, Paul Murray abandoned periods whenever writing an Imelda section. Ummm, OK. I won’t ask why. I’ll just mention it, then say I stopped noticing it, showing how quickly a reader can be trained to liberate himself from certain punctuation.
And did Murray really choose to name two characters Dickie and Willie with a straight (sorry) face? He did. Because he can. Because he’s that good. Because readers not only forgive but cheer and read on.
No, not a great Irish novel that will worry James Joyce’s Ulysses from its top pedestal, but a great contemporary novel treating on contemporary concerns, many of them old-as-the-Bible human in nature, many of them old-as-Apple-and-Microsoft-and-the-invention-of-cellphones-and-the-internet in nature (technology is a gray-squirrel trap, too, you see, so be careful out there, will you?).
As a final tip of my hat, I give you the book’s title. I thought the reveal on it was given too early, as in the first 25 pages or so, but no. The BIG reveal necessary to the little reveal waited until the end, circling back, returning to the hive of revelation and the honey of a-ha moments (remember the first time you met the Queen Bee?).
I could go on. Get into the honeycomb hexacombs of this door-stopper, but why make like Paul Murray when you're less entertaining? I'll cut it short by saying this much: The book deserves its buzz....more
The good news? This is not just another anthology featuring famous poets or, God forbid, chestnuts we've roasted on open fires in the past. The maybe The good news? This is not just another anthology featuring famous poets or, God forbid, chestnuts we've roasted on open fires in the past. The maybe bad news and maybe not? The anthology is editor-centric in that it fits the editor's personal mindset and politics.
"Political poetry" is a weird term, I admit. Some see the two words and say "odd bedfellows." Other, philosophical types who are not sitting in a chair but a construct (or something), say everything is political. OK, far be it for me to call it. I get both points of view.
Ó Tuama's book is Brave New World circa 2024 and that's a good thing if you're tired of the same old, same old. About the only familiar and expected names here are those of Ada Limón, Margaret Atwood, RainerMaria Rilke, Marie Howe, Christian Wiman, Ocean Vuong, and James Wright. After that, Ó Tuama, an Irish poet himself, selects mostly marginalized, indigenous, and minority poets -- many from countries other than the USA and UK. Thus the anthology meets the challenge of its title. It is, indeed, "Poetry Unbound" -- especially from the past, and most especially still from the dead and the white and the male.
If you're allergic to political slants and want a more even distribution of topics, including the more traditional ones like nature poetry (Wright's "A Blessing" being the best example here), then you might like it less and perhaps should look elsewhere.
That aside, what I liked best was Ó Tuama's organization for the book. Each poem comes with a short (say, 1/4th of the page) intro, then the poem, and then his analysis, typically 3-4 pages. His analytical skills are solid. In the end, then, the "politics or no" views of any given reader may prove meaningless. You can learn from this book, even if you aren't wild about every selection -- a fate we should allow for in any anthology....more
I'm always game for poetry -- literature of any sort, for that matter -- from other cultures. American culture can get claustrophobic, to put it mildlI'm always game for poetry -- literature of any sort, for that matter -- from other cultures. American culture can get claustrophobic, to put it mildly. And so I was glad to read the contemporary Korean poet Ko Un, even though it's never fair to fully judge poetry that runs the gauntlet of translation because who knows whether it's a good translation or bad?
Rather, some indication below of his style. Mostly short. Mostly simple language. References to Korean history, most specifically the war that Ko Un himself has lived through. Here's a very short example of his work:
By the Window
What else could I wish for? There is a faraway place and a place close at hand.
The Road Ahead
Let's not say we've arrived. Though it's been ten thousand miles, the road to go is longer than the road I've come. Day's end was chancy, I spent the night like a sleeping beast, the road to go still lies ahead. Though loneliness has kept me company, it wasn't loneliness alone; it was the world and the road ahead. Surely it's an unknown world. The wind is rising....more
By rights a book about scientists and mathematicians should hold zero appeal for me. Or, as Bret Easton Ellis' writing talent would have it: Less ThanBy rights a book about scientists and mathematicians should hold zero appeal for me. Or, as Bret Easton Ellis' writing talent would have it: Less Than Zero.
Still, against all odds and their profit-makers, this book and my eyes ran off for the weekend. The opening salvo, titled "Prussian Blue" proves that science, like the internet, giveth and it taketh away. Only in science's case, the stakes are much larger. We read of Carl Wilhelm Scheele ("a genius unjustly forgotten"), the chemist who discovered cyanide, an efficient killer.
It moves on to other interesting sorts -- Alan Turing, the father of computing, who killed himself by biting into an apple injected with cyanide. Or maybe the British Secret Service killed him (you can ask James Bond). Then there's the father of gas warfare (see Ypres in the first World War), the Jewish chemist Fritz Haber. His methods of extracting nitrogen from the air led to untold horrors, yes, but also to advances in fertilizer that helped to feed the world (bringing us full circle to that giveth and taketh away stuff).
The other big section I enjoyed focused on previously unknown (to me) names like Alexander Grothendieck and Werner Heisenberg, then the name well known to me (thanks to a cat that's in a box -- there and not there, alive and dead), Erwin Schrödinger. Alas, the cat gets but a few brief words at the end of the longest section in the book, but the STORIES preceding its maybe meow, they are another thing entirely.
And that may be the secret sauce. Author Labatut brings a fiction writer's grace to the book's proceedings. The tale of Schrödinger's infatuation with a turberculosis sanatorium doctor's too young daughter is science kidnapped and held in plot's laboratory. I was, well, spellbound.
The final, very short section, "The Night Gardener," is just Labatut showing off (and I mean that in a good way), as he ties all these disparate, mad geniuses together (with Einstein as a bit character on the side) in a way that you barely expect.
All in all, fiction high on nonfiction to the point where you gladly get lost between the borders of the two....more
Odd bedfellows, I suppose, but in The Poetics of Space Gaston Bachelard marries philosophy to poetry, quoting all manner of poetic lines in support ofOdd bedfellows, I suppose, but in The Poetics of Space Gaston Bachelard marries philosophy to poetry, quoting all manner of poetic lines in support of his arguments. For the most part, the poetry he cites is not that great, but in his defense he could not just scan the poetry world for great lines, he had to scan it for pieces that support his philosophical feints in the following chaptered categories:
1. The House from Cellar to Garret (The Significance of the Hut) 2. House and Universe 3. Drawers, Chests, and Wardrobes 4. Shells 5. Corners 6. Miniature 7. Intimate Immensity 8. The Dialectics of Outside and Inside 9. The Phenomenology of Roundness
See what I mean? Space. Starting with the one we all go back to our daydreams -- our childhood homes. For lucky ones like me, it's a refuge of happiness, a place I go not only in DAYdreams but many nighttime ones as well. For others, who perhaps had unpleasant childhoods, the house of their dreams undergo reconstruction, post and beam, until the daydream is as they like it (or as it should have been).
Some quotes work out nicely. Rilke is often cited. Here's one I kind of liked:
"Oh night without objects. Oh window muffled on the outside, oh, doors carefully closed; customs that have come down from times long past, transmitted, verified, never entirely understood. Oh silence in the stairwell, silence in the adjoining rooms, silence up there, on the ceiling. Oh mother, oh one and only you, who faced all this silence, when I was a child."
Make your way through all the "oh's" and you see there's something to this, especially with the introduction of the mother who, only now, the speaker realizes saw the gentle childhood home in different ways.
Thoughtful, deep, slow trekking, but worthwhile. I'd stop for weird things and say, "Hmn. That's true," like when he talked about bird nests and how a tree with a nest was set apart because of it in our minds -- not just any tree, but a tree more special than all the others in our yard because it had been selected (blessed) by birds who constantly returned to it just like we return to childhood homes in our daydreams.
Reviewing an essay collection is no picnic. The best method is to make a few notes for each essay and/or to mark a few quotes to share. I was negligenReviewing an essay collection is no picnic. The best method is to make a few notes for each essay and/or to mark a few quotes to share. I was negligent on both counts, so I'm left with a few broad observations instead.
Inger Christensen, a Copenhagen native, was what they call a well-rounded writer: essayist, novelist, poet. Many essays touch on poetry, in fact. The title comes from Novalis, who wrote, "The outer world is the inner world, raised to a condition of secrecy." Novalis was a big-picture nature guy who saw humans as just another piece of the puzzle called Earth and life, etc. Christensen agrees.
In fact, if anything, her essays lean philosophical. The good news? Her philosophic thoughts are a lot easier to understand than most philosophers. I'm drawn to philosophy but every time I read a famous philosopher's work I feel like an idiot. Not here, at least.
Anyway, it was nice spending some time with Inger. She seems like the sort you could have dinner with and come out all the richer (rich food, rich discussion). Unfortunately, the dinner date will have to wait, as Inger moved into the great mystery (she references death frequently) in 2009 at age 74....more
Have I read this book before? I feel like I've read this book before. But I have not read this book before. Instead, I've read a healthy quota of bookHave I read this book before? I feel like I've read this book before. But I have not read this book before. Instead, I've read a healthy quota of books about square peg individuals suffering in round-hole societies.
It makes sense and crosses international borders, actually. Writing is a lonely trade and it stands to reason that misanthropes, loners, sensitive types who take up pens might create sad protagonists with a hint of autobiographical bloodlines.. Kafka has them. Walser the German-Swiss. Salinger, too, thank you. And that's just to name a few.
If I'm supposed to cheer for the afflicted lead in these books, then I'm a great match because I do. That said, I also cringe at times. Shake my head. Wish there were more help for the likes of Oba Yozo who resorts to playing the clown to fit in. And then drawing cartoons. But mostly drinking.
Hate humans. Love the bottle. Yozo seems to have an ill-fated affinity for the women, too, who, not surprisingly, show more sympathy (at their own peril) to his plight and situation. Still, he's his own worst enemy, and the slow-motion train wreck narrative, while familiar, is always different from book to book and country to country. (Cue Tolstoy's opening to Anna Karenina).
Interesting. Glad I read it, though it was a major downer. No Longer Human is All Too Human, really. Loneliness and isolation haven't gone away, after all. In the age of the internet, they've gone viral, is all....more
If you are a Russophile when it comes to literature, you probably could talk at great lengths about Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Chekhov, Gogol, Pushkin, LermIf you are a Russophile when it comes to literature, you probably could talk at great lengths about Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Chekhov, Gogol, Pushkin, Lermontov, Turgenev, etc. But could you talk about Konstantin Paustovsky?
If you were me up until a few weeks ago, the answer would be no. And even if you never read him, you'd probably prejudge him as not worthy of such august (even in November) company. I'm here to say READ before you make such pronouncements. THE STORY OF A LIFE does exactly what you hope any nyrb Classics edition will do -- leads you to a real find.
This guy can write. And I mean narrative and description and characterization equally. No, it's not fiction, it's memoir, so of course the "plot" isn't going to gas-pedal-the-floor. Still, it's engaging in a big way, as young (he doesn't even reach age 30 in 800 pp!) Konstantin witnesses history in the making (unmaking, what have you).
It also has current event significance as KP grows up in Kiev, moves in Moscow, visits Odessa and Sevastopol. Plus ça change, plus ç'est la même chose. In the book itself, KP has more close calls than George Washington (whose jacket showed more than one bullet hole) as he witnesses the Russian Revolution and subsequent Civil War. No place was safe in Russia, and the atrocities put the country on the same barbaric level as the Middle Ages.
In the end, you will gain a friend (the writer) and learn a lot about history, not to mention pick up some neat trivia. For instance, Paustovsky's favorite Turgenev novel is The Torrents of Spring. He shares lots of literary opinions like that and even weighs in on his own writing as well as the art of writing, but mostly he's trying to hold his family together and keep himself alive (no small feat) as his country falls apart and tries to put itself back together again (and yes, he listens to a Lenin speech along the way, but Stalin gets no mention).
Big book, big payoff. Happy I stumbled across it. If you like the Russians, you should, too....more
Written in first-person point of marten, this strange little book out of Italy chronicles the tale of Archy the Beech Marten (as opposed to Pine MarteWritten in first-person point of marten, this strange little book out of Italy chronicles the tale of Archy the Beech Marten (as opposed to Pine Marten or Hemlock Marten, maybe). The animals talk in this book and there is nary a human in sight.
That said, some animals are more equal than others (thank you, Mr. Orwell). Archie comes under the autocratic rule of a wily old fox named (wisely enough) Solomon. The crafty old fellow (no relation to Reynard) has a temper problem. Beats the beech out of this marten more than once, but Archy, he soldiers on (else this would be a short story).
Solomon runs a business and the muscle behind it is a big black dog named Joel. Black market for food and hens and such. With interest. Solomon calls the shots over the surrounding animal kingdom and Joel enforces them. How did Solomon get so smart? Reading and writing (though no mention of 'rithmetic).
Oh, yeah. And God.
Solomon’s read up on the guy upstairs in a certain best-selling book (not Little Women) and suddenly, the book’s audacious angle comes into play. Is it cool for an innocent (ha-ha) fox, much less a stupid marten, to learn about God? More importantly, are there any hazards in shaking the Tree of Knowledge? (Spoiler: Think Isaac Newton) If Adam and Eve had it coming, poor (but very rich) Solomon does, too. Who needs foreshadowing, after all, when God enters the picture mid-novel? (Rhetorical question)
Incoming! As you probably guessed, it's Mr. Death. To his ever (but not forever) living dismay, Solomon’s now aware in advance, just like all of those out-of-sight humans, of his inevitable demise and, just like said humans, he’s scared. He doesn’t want to die. He’s terrified of it. Maybe if he prays a little? Flatters God a lot? You know, while running a vicious food enterprise that pries goods from poor animals and even dispatches a few who don't pay up in time.
Speaking of the supporting cast (read: other animals), they just don’t get it. They live, they die, they eat each other's carcasses (pass the femur) because, you know, winters are long and tough. Another day in the life, you know? But there’s a certain allure to never anticipating a distant (or possibly nearby) death, too. Ignorance of it is bliss.
Big topic for the animal kingdom? As Archy learns (and he does learn, small thanks to Solomon the Outfoxed), thinking about God is a pawful. And sometimes just plain awful. Guilt. Fear. Anger. Good. Evil. Compassion. Really, now. Isn’t this all too much for a beech-combing marten? How about for a reader's patience?
You might think so and fault Zannoni for trying too hard. Or you may give the guy credit for taking risks as a writer by doing what few writers can do well – anthropomorphism. That’s a $10 word for buying in (or not) to all those human emotions when they’re paired with cute little fuzzy weasels who bite chickens’ heads off (after saying grace).
Me? There was enough plot and curiosity (aside from the religious stuff) to carry me through. As for the major play on humans vs. animals vs. deities, THAT takes a lot of convincing, and I didn’t quite play along from Genesis all the way to Revelations.
Forgive me, Father. I was distracted by the animals. And headless chickens. And this scythe-carrying dude wearing a Dr. Doolittle T-shirt....more
According to the blurb, this 80-page idyll is often "hailed as a French Huckleberry Finn." I'm here to tell you that it's nothing close, unless puttinAccording to the blurb, this 80-page idyll is often "hailed as a French Huckleberry Finn." I'm here to tell you that it's nothing close, unless putting two boys on a river is all you need to earn Mark Twain-like comparisons.
This one's quite different in tone. Not much plot to speak of, and even though Twain warns that those seeking a plot in HF will be shot, it's safe to say that Huck Finn tells a story. If I had to pick a book this one is close to, I'd go more for Tove Jansson's The Summer Book (though the characterization in Jansson's book runs circles around characterization here).
So what's to be said for this little novella and who might like it? I'd say readers who value nostalgia and extended descriptive writing of nature: river life, woods, islands, etc. Because really, it's just about a boy named Pascalet who launches a forbidden boat on a forbidden river and meets up with another boy on the run named Gatzo.
Stars, insects, plants, birds, fish, few words between the boys because Gatzo is not a big talker. And before you know it, the piece is over. Some readers might bump into the wall at the end and say, "Is that it? Is this all there is to it?" but I would counsel prospective readers to lower expectations and relax. It's almost a nature essay, a little memoir of a week in the life of a boy (as told from old age looking back).
Yes, nothing more. Just a nice, gentle mood piece. Reread Twain's warning at the beginning of Huck Finn and then, if you like this sort of writing, jump in for a lazy little float down the river. But if you demand a more traditional narrative with plot arcs, strong characterization, endless action and on-and-on dialogue, save yourself the trouble....more
Reads like a 19th century piece. Lush prose to match the author's preoccupation with nature, weather, and omnipresent rain on this remote island in thReads like a 19th century piece. Lush prose to match the author's preoccupation with nature, weather, and omnipresent rain on this remote island in the middle of the Rhone. Young man must pass a test, as regards survival "alone" on this island, and not everyone has his best interests at heart.
At times gorgeous and engaging, at times ponderous and repetitive, but at least the two are mixed evenly. A far cry from the shorter, more straightforward narrative of The Child and the River. A near cry, though, with that book's preoccupation with rivers. Clearly Bosco was a river guy....more
From a perch of forty year's distance, Annie Ernaux chronicles the time when she was a 23-year-old student who went through the hell that is an illegaFrom a perch of forty year's distance, Annie Ernaux chronicles the time when she was a 23-year-old student who went through the hell that is an illegal abortion. It doesn't matter if you are pro-life or pro-choice (both so nice sounding, aren't they?), as a reader you will read this one-sitting, 95-pager, and say, "That was hell."
New to me, Ernaux is one of those straight shooters. Simple writing style. Free flowing. Nice use of white space as most of the book consists of one and two-paragraph bullets. If you have any writing aspirations, she's the type of author that inspires by dint of the fact that it looks easy. Of course, in writing, looks are deceiving.
Also of interest is Ernaux's use of images. You won't forget the hairbrush in the room where the abortion is performed. I also did not know that, in Catholic France of the 60s, abortion was illegal. Then again, beyond DeGaulle who had this thing for Jackie Kennedy, there's not much I DO know about France in the 60s.
In the final analysis, getting pregnant and feeling lonely due to a (now) disinterested man and ambivalent friends is a worthy topic, no matter how ordinary your language....more
Finally, completed the "sept" of the "septology" or, to be more accurate, the "trip" of the "triptych." For reasons Canadian-forest-fire-hazy, I thinkFinally, completed the "sept" of the "septology" or, to be more accurate, the "trip" of the "triptych." For reasons Canadian-forest-fire-hazy, I think I liked this best of the three. It's not that the books are inconsistently written or the story line is any better, it's more me getting used to thee, Jon Fosse, and your crazy in the head narration.
Asle, I mean. or the other Asle, possibly. I'm sure all the dopplegänger stuff is beyond me, but I got used to the slides from present to past, to the record number of "and's" and, God help us, to the repetition.
You always knew when you were approaching the finish line of a section because Asle went all Latin on you. He even left me a few Meister Eckhart recommendations, only I forgot to write the book titles down. Probably, though, a German mystic and philosopher is way beyond me. Still, most of Asle's Catholic belief seems rooted in the good Meister.
In the final pages, what I was waiting for and got. All hell breaking loose mentally. Stream of consciousness turning to white-water consciousness and, ultimately, like a bolt out of the blue, it was over.
Billed as a novella, but it really doesn't read like one. That fictional element appears now and then and features "the grandson of Prince Genji" who Billed as a novella, but it really doesn't read like one. That fictional element appears now and then and features "the grandson of Prince Genji" who apparently takes the train to travel time. He's in search of a book about secret gardens, last seen at the monastery on a mountain in (near?) Kyoto.
The trouble for grandson is nobody's home. This monastery is abandoned, which gives author Krasznahorkai time to describe the monastery in minute detail. Every inch of it. Then to launch into its history and what went into building it. And talk a little bit about the builders and the abbott and all the people who are, at this point, so many ghosts.
It is this aspect of the short book that reigns supreme, making it read chiefly like a nonfiction book found among Dewey's Decimals. A book that shows off all the research K. put into this beautiful building, and man, did he do his homework!
If you are into Japanese culture, monasteries, and Buddhism, the factual aspects of the book will surely appeal. I was looking for a little more excitement from the Grandson of Prince Genji thread, but apparently I was looking for the wrong thing.
P.S. As for the long title, these are landscape features one looks for when deciding to build a Buddhist temple....more
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