Wantok
An incredible adventure, the first part being startling at how wonderfully original the premise is and then, in my opinion, the second part is perhaps the greatest achievement in literature... To effectively invent the novel, and then invent meta fiction around that novel while deepening the psyches of his two main characters, Cervantes is absolutely one of the supreme geniuses in all art. The best part about this book is that Quixote and Sancho are such seemingly static yet dynamic characters, their morals and resolve so steadfast, that they truly come to feel as friends by the end of the book. I don't think I've ever experienced that with any other novel, but at the end, there really was a small feeling that a friend had died, or a relationship ended, such was my love for the Don and his squire.
At a certain point its hard to not read this book from a purely allegorical standpoint, at least I think thats what makes the first two parts of this book bearable. It felt like some interesting themes, perhaps drawing a connection between misogynist culture and how humans treat the earth. The first two parts also, to me at least, show polarizing forms of male objectification and lust, the first coldly utilitarian, the second delusional romanticism, and how in both cases they take what they want, which interestingly also seemed like it could tie back into how humans have viewed the earth.
However I suppose its the third part of the novel that awakened me from the dream, as there really is nothing that drives these points home. So then in retrospect, we have a book about a woman who at first makes a somewhat major life choice because of a dream and is brutally persecuted by all the people who claimed to love her, then as she's recovering is persecuted again, then as she's recovering is persecuted again, then recovering from that is indeed continuously persecuted again. In the end I wasn't sure what the point of all this brutalism was.
A dense, truly guard blade style work. Exceptionally unique stories and memorable moments, however this is double edged, and there is inherent exhaustion in trying to keep up with Barth's games (one of the stories, for instance, et cetera, is specifically designed to be seven paragraphs of seven different narrators speaking about seven different things that are wholly alien and nonsensical to the reader, until finding out what the structure was in the author's notes at the end of the book). So while the technical forms Barth presents are interesting, certainly unlike anything I've read before, it left me feeling empty often. I think this goes along with his inherent pessimism and criticism of narrative language as a whole which was one of his motivations for this book. Its interesting to read this while also reading Quixote, as they both are works of metafiction in their own right. However Quixote's satire is a joyful one, Funhouse's is cold and analytical. Quixote leaves me feeling inspired by the optimism literature can offer, Funhouse left me feeling inspired that the future of literary form must lie in labyrinthine spirals of syntax. Overall a lot of this book was truly over my head, much like the laughter above Ambrose's, the wordplay of which I just don't have much energy to attempt to decipher through a rereading.
Dang... O'Connor has become one of my absolute all time favorite writers... Her writing is stunning, so much anger constantly pushing against itself, her characters both extremely alienating yet hypnotizing. Absolutely unforgettable moments and images, I don't think I will ever escape Hazel's flagellant marching or Tarwater's rubble revelation.
A tormenting novel, a moral apocalypse. Simply arresting, and its hard to say why, O'Connor's hell is different from any I've seen before... Perhaps because while other hells in literature have a defined Satan there is none in Wise Blood, simply the illiterate and hateful clawing at each other. Such cruelty and evil, and yet Jesus' name is not missing from a single chapter, the destruction of morality would not be complete without the knowledge that somewhere someone is grieving it, and that shadow hangs heavy over this book.
Definitely early Nabokov! I likely went in with the wrong expectations for the book since the premise was chess, Nabokov being a great chess fan and the intricate structures of Lolita, Ada, Pale Fire etc. made me think this book would be a supremely impressive meshing of narrative imagination and the nebulous jungle of chess. It was not... You can tell Nabokov is a chess fan but I think it sort of becomes a tragic chess Rocky rather than the beautiful tapestries of his later books. A shame, even his elaborate almost superfluous prose hasn't developed yet in this book either, it's rather plain by Nabokovian standards. Some of this may be due to it being a translated work. Still one of the goats though!
Something was in the water in 85 to generate both Blood Meridian and this novel... Both vivid depictions of the apocalypse of human morality. “Autumnal horseflies were buzzing around the cracked lampshade, describing drowsy figures of eight in its weak light, time and again colliding with the filthy porcelain, so that after each dull little thud their bodies fell back into the magnetic paths they themselves had woven, to continue this endless cycle, albeit on a tight closed circuit until the light went out...” While fiercely negative in its view of humanity, its a gripping read, the relentless narrative is masterfully executed/translated, to where the book becomes a vision beamed directly to the reader. I can't think of a more unsettling or deeply depressing chapter than “Unraveling”. It was curious to me Mrs. Halics was so obsessed with Revelation when Ecclesiastes better describes the events of the novel: “ also the heart of the sons of men is full of evil, and madness is in their heart while they live, and after that they go to the dead”
An incredible novel. I've never read something with a plot so ultimately pointless yet so engaging and gripping to read. It truly is a fascinating portrait of a person's life, and yet also, I thought anyway, a description of the idealogical and aesthetic groups that people (mostly young people) create. Mythicized individuals who are constructed as totems and in the end are painfully ordinary people, elitist creators who lash out with their own set of defined morality which becomes arbitrary and in the end was meaningless and the individuals that are swept up in their charisma and the enjoyment of connection in a group. The book as a whole described how in the end often our lives are defined by the impression we leave on people and how we're remembered, the two main protagonists of this book are never characterized through first person narration, we only learn about them through the perception and memory of others. Their absurd quest is ultimately pointless yet the book spans decades. It in a way holds a microcosm of humanity and human association, lives that come together for one cause and gradually and inevitably drift along to their final conclusion, never stopping.
I'm unsure whether or not to approach this book as a “Young Adult” novel and whether or not that should change how I view it, but as it stands, I'll be viewing this book the same way I would any other. My hope for this is that a teen or young person who's contemplating any form of self-harm picked this book up, read it, maybe got something from it, decided against self-harm, then read literally any of the many pieces of literature Haig pretentiously references in this book, realizes how much better that piece of literature was than this crap, and regains a wonderful outlook on life realizing there are so many better books to read than this.
This was so horribly written I'm really wondering if he had a page count he needed to reach or something. A 288 page book has never taken me under a week to read, and it really is because this writing is so overly simplistic, the characters so uninteresting, the narrative style so redundant that a 10 year old could read this in the same time I did. I have no idea how this book has so much acclaim, there's so much wrong with this book, and since it's been a long time since I read something I really didn't like, I'll even break it down!
This is some of the worst writing I've encountered, so many moments in this novel where it actually feels like Haig is breaking the fourth wall to tell the reader something, there is little that the characters or setting do to help the reader infer any further meaning, rather Haig simply has Nora say philosophical (a word that sounds so trite now after reading this book sadly) mumbo-jumbo to account for that he just doesn't know how to portray her grasping deeper meaning, and in turn help the reader to become Nora and share her journey. Pair that with a plot line that on the surface should be engaging, but handled by Haig becomes incredibly repetitive (Reading about Nora constantly asking people in her various lives what's happening or pretending to not be alien to the timeline was so grating that it distracts from the point he's trying to make, which he of course then compensates for by directly spoon feeding the reader what he's trying to say.) And speaking of repetitive, he seriously repeats himself so much in this book, Nora explains her cat's name/nickname multiple times, he uses the same Thoreau quote I think 3 times, and to read him continuously name drop philosophical authors over and over induces a headache in me as I think about it. There is also SO much empty space in this book lmao, like seriously he had to have had a page count he wanted to hit because I've never encountered a book that felt so lazy. There's seriously a page that's just four lines in a song he already dedicated a chapter to earlier, that I wish I didn't have to read again. All this not even to mention the ending of the book can be inferred maybe 30 pages into the novel, and makes the inane journey that proceeds even more cringingly annoying.
I would also like to say, since he references The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath at least 3 times in this book, (The Plath quote that begins the book, Nora seriously explains a major analogy from the Bell Jar that no doubt inspired this book, and later Nora just straight up has a copy of it in one of her realities.) Please if anyone reads this review please go just read that book instead of this. Haig basically wants you to do the same, he pretty much overtly tells you this in the book with how overt he is in saying he just got the idea for this book from Bell Jar. Seriously it's a much better book and is much more insightful than this drivel.
At the end of the day however, this book was refreshing because it helped me realize that the more challenging books I've been reading are very much worth it. I was also wondering if I'm struggling with perhaps reading comprehension or something since I was finding it hard to truly lock into more challenging stuff like To The Lighthouse, but no, that's simply an intricately written novel, while this is a 45 year old British guy who spends 288 pages poorly disguised as a 35 year old woman named Nora Seed just to tell you he knows the names of a lot of philosophers and you probably shouldn't kill yourself.
(Just read Miss Lonelyhearts, will pick up Day of the Locust another time)
I think I use “deranged” to describe media a lot, but this would truly have to be the most “deranged” novel I have ever read. I thought it came out in the 60s reading, was unaware it was published in 1933 until after reading it. I've never read something so viscerally negative and aggressively abrasive. There simply is no hero in this novel, Miss Lonelyhearts is a delusional, self-pitying laceration and the novel's greatly unsettling anti-hero Shrike is exhausting in his endlessly cynical world-encompassing sarcasm and wit. The reader has no room to breathe, there is tension, without tension misery, without misery apathy. The blackest of comedies.
It also seemed shocking to me less that it foretold America's future obsession with religion (which I think is in full and open decay) but rather the American citizen's need to substitute God in their lives. Lonelyhearts has a “Christ complex” in part because his job demands of him to be Christ for the grotesque lives that flood him with letters every day. Searching for meaning or value from secular human sources, the immense onus that levels on the deified and those who fervently hope for a tangible savior, seems to me something that has been more prevalent now in the internet age than was prominent in a still very church dominated 30s America.
Took me maybe 50 pages to figure out how exactly to read this but once I did it became one of the most effortlessly beautiful books I've ever read. Woolf is able to magnify the space between sentences, where every gesture, stifled look, awkward fidget is an ocean of expression. And what's left is what's never said to the ones we love most. Wonderful!
A delightful odyssey, a joy from start to finish. It's strange, it reminded me a bit of Murakami's writing style, the narrative continuously builds, almost every paragraph holds some new revelation about Milkman's universe and everyone associated with him. Different from Murakami of course is entirely believable characters everywhere, especially the females that constitute the backbone of the story and in a way Milkman himself. “What harm did I do you on my knee?” Continues to ring in my mind for some reason, thinking about the disturbing visions of both Milkman's parents. Continuously conflicting the reader with whether or not to sympathize or condemn the hateful Macon Dead, and be revolted or endeared to deranged Ruth Dead, in the end both are deeply flawed and fearful, nightmarish to read about. The same with Milkman's other two main compatriots, Hagar and Guitar, excellent characters who display nearly opposite forms of mania, Hagar's life dependent on the existence and love of one, Guitar's life dependent on vengeance and the killing of random others. Milkman himself to me became an enigma, I wasn't sure whether to pity him, cheer for him, scold him or deride him... But I saw myself in him all the same. It truly is a coming of age story, and I think the lesson finally learned in the end, spoken by the Judge Holden of the novel Pilate (who herself is, I think, the victory of Morrison's novel outside of Guitar's anti-villainism), is in her final words. Milkman finds community, the meaning of his life, when his life is already half over. Maybe I can find that a little sooner. This will be a fun reread someday.
This took me insanely long to read... Man... It's not bad, a great book really, just a demanding read every time one picks it up. It probably wasn't the right time in my life to read this I suppose, but at the same time, the final ~100 pages or so is a rousing finish. It also seems a tragedy the novel character of Svidrigailov doesn't truly make an appearance until the novel is nearly ended... Mentioned quickly at the outset but not seen until much later, he truly is a disgusting villain, and a fascinating contrast to the conflicting protagonist of Raskolnikov who is perhaps himself given too much of a pass by Dostoevsky. The best part of this novel to me, as Karamazov and The Idiot before, is the concept of the “Laceration” repeated again. This is finalized and perfected in Karamazov but here it is again present, the nature of human beings to err and to continue in their prideful course to harm others and themselves. Raskolnikov torments those who love him simply to remind himself of their love, it is shameful behavior and alienated me from him as a protagonist. At the same time, it's hard not to see that this is still common behavior today, shame and pride push people beyond all sense. It's a great book, yet again I think Karamazov is still the best synthesis of Dostoevsky's stream of consciousness prose and observations on human nature.
Stopping after 100 pages, think this will be my last Murakami. Gotta give credit to Hardboiled Wonderland and Wild Sheep Chase, but so far this is kind of a continuation of his earlier stuff blended with narrative structures found in Wonderland and mixed with the ethos of later works like Norwegian Wood. 100 pages in and I think I'm just tired of thin and utilitarian writing for female characters as has been a theme in his works as well as a tiring plot structure. Cool techniques so far here, but I'm gonna tap out.
Nobel Prize? One of the best books of the 21st century? I must be missing something. It was still enjoyable, great premise, eerie setting, often entertaining socially critiquing writing style and some great moral questions. However the writing style could also lend itself to be somewhat pedantic (one of the final exchanges, that touch on the title of the novel, while having a nice final thrust to the message of the book, I also found it feeling like fan fiction...) This made some exchanges in the book a bit laborious and kind of broke the immersion for me a bit.
However I think it's also possible that the popularity of this book has worked against it, since the main plot point isn't necessarily meant to be known before going in. The back sleeve mentions nothing about it, and it's not properly revealed until well into the novel. Unfortunately best of lists will readily say this plot point, and I think it ruins part of what Ishiguro was trying to do here. He has a nice way of controlling the provision of information, but knowing this plot point before hand meant I was waiting awhile for it to be revealed in the book. I'm not going to say what it is of course, and I hope in the unlikely scenario someone happens to read this, and they've not read any reviews or blurbs about the book outside of it, they'll simply pick it up and start with no other knowledge about it.
A complete, punch for punch magnum opus. Nabokov weaves the imaginative romantic images of Lolita into the evasive word games of Pale Fire and creates an incredible journey. His writing style always arrests me with it's effortless yet acrobatic syntax and rhythm but this reaches a new level. Truly one of the most significant works of literature in the english language, it is one of the most intimate depictions of love and inspires a realistic and revelational vision of age and time. I can't think of many other experiences that have both given me new insights into the nature of love, while at the same time making me realistically contemplate the end of my life. A book to be studied and reread for decades.
Shameful how long it's taken me to get through this, I'd hit a serious drop in reading motivation in January and February but now I'm getting back to it. Plus this book's writing style is tough to consume quickly, I imagine it like a really rich dessert. Every chapter feels like a meticulously assembled stream of consciousness that blends together to form a nightmarish odyssey in the deep south. I will definitely read this again at some point in my life, it was a really surprising book to me, I'd only heard about Faulkner and only really had the impression he's perceived as “pretentious college student” fare but had no understanding of what his writing style was like or what the story of this novel was either (I'd always thought it was a war novel from the name). It's wonderful, incredibly dark, you can feel the thick Mississippi humidity and the alienation and detachment of its inhabitants. I also never felt that the characters in the book were too “awful” to one another, as I think that's a criticism I'd seen against the book on why it's hard to read. They do treat each other poorly, but in such an unforgiving landscape it's almost assumed the people living there will mimic their surroundings, so it never felt unnecessary to me. Really it's a wonderful character study, and a novel that has no true relatable hero, Darl's chapters tend to be the most coherent and lyrical but as a character he's as off-putting as Vardaman. I think from a modern lens the certain artistic format touches Faulkner puts into his work could be seen as pretentious or superfluous (Changing fonts, big indentations for emphasis, one charming chapter from Cash's perspective that's a numerical narrative list) but really considering this was written in 1930 I'd say it's rather impressive and forward thinking. My only slight gripe would be Cash's development seems to be a slight cop out for Faulkner at the end of the novel for reasons I won't say, I guess I mean Cash seems like one person in the beginning and a different one at the end, not from a narrative standpoint but based on how the chapters are written, and it's understandable why Faulkner would do this based on the plot but still, seems to draw away from the fun. Anyhow, incredible book, apocalyptic and mesmerizing.
I only read Hedda Gabler and then The Master Builder, Hedda Gabler was the one I wanted to read. Very good, Ibsen loves unspoken contracts and assumptions. In Gabler it's done incredibly, with Hedda being maybe the most indirectly ruthless character I've encountered. In the Master Builder it sort of feels more of the same, with a lot of different strands up in the air and becomes rather taxing to take in. I'd imagine Hedda Gabler would have me glued to my seat in the theater while Master Builder would have me checking my watch and wondering how much longer this would be going on.
Absolutely incredible. A novel that I think is likely more potent now, in an age where depictions of violence are more common place than ever before, than it was when it first came out. To me that's one interesting part of reading about reactions to the book when it first came out up until the early 2000s even, the general feeling that it's too violent. If anyone has kept up with television in the past 10 years (Game of Thrones, Breaking Bad), I'd say they could handle Blood Meridian. There are still scenes in the book that will make you shudder, which I think is a bigger testament to this being written in 85 and McCarthy's foreknowledge of the continued evolution of America's obsession with brutality.
The book is of course so much more than the violence McCarthy depicts. To me it's the most brutally realistic vision of the romanticized West I've ever encountered. There are no heroes, moral codes belong to each man's interpretation of his place in the universe, it is not a land of inviting sunsets and enchanting adventure but brimstone and chaos.
And yet amid this intense realism McCarthy blends in the fantastic, the nephilim Judge Holden, pulsating depictions of the desert and seemingly surreal moments the kid experiences. Characters that feel as though they're summations of western archetypes (the protagonist as the epitome of the wanderer without a name, the expriest now ironically turned cutthroat, the crazed bandit leader), this is the balancing act McCarthy walks, he sets before us these concepts or archetypes we've become familiar with in the western canon and subverts them by making them abundantly realistic. These assumptions of character we take as larger than life are presented as no more than gravely flawed and tormented human beings.
This makes for perhaps the most engaging literary experience I've ever had, I've never felt a book so effortlessly flow off the page before yet McCarthy has a rhythm, diction, syntax and verve that makes this addictively entertaining from the first chapter to the epilogue.