glabnob

I burned through this in a day. Truly spectacular work. Gay, sci-fi, enemies-to-lovers, with such beautiful correspondence on loneliness and longing, and just enough spy novel cheekiness to keep things light, especially in the early portions. The difficulty of leaving what you know, what has made you, directed you, and protected you, leaving for that which you truly love is impossible to anticipate before you do it. I think it’s wonderfully easy, however, to feel the development of a connection which would warrant that leap over the course of their relationship of writing, dancing into danger with the echoes of each other, impressions and memories they must create outside of direct experience. In absence of their bodies they are still, to each other, ever present, and such is love.

Most of these are good, though I particularly enjoyed Inventory and The Resident. The SVU one was an interesting format/concept but it was a bit of a drag for me and I rushed through a decent bit of it. I don’t know that I would recommend this one that broadly, but certainly to the right folks.

A plodding read; I moved quite slowly through this one, at times because it required it of me, and at times just because I required a bit of a break from it. It’s easy to say that I enjoyed this book and then harder to explain to someone why it took me so long to finish it and why I probably couldn’t recommend it widely. Lispector uses her unconventional prose to circle and eventually touch upon so many experiences which come to us so naturally without the language to convey them neatly. Knowing this, she unmakes and recreates language in a way that allows us to recapture those, but this way is anything but neat. Similarly, we follow the tumultuous process of a man unmaking himself to others, then unmaking himself to himself, then reversing this process as he rebuilds a self for him and then painfully rebuilds it again to be consumable by others, one at a time, to understood coarsely, then more honestly and finely, then finally to become trapped in this experience of being understood and to prioritize it over being honest, losing himself then into the performance of a self rather than the experience of oneself. The way that Lispector writes out the direct experience of contact with the world, with our sense of self, and with other people is unmatched in my opinion. We are always hearing new examples of how someone expresses an idea, but reading hers feels at times like discovering entirely new ways to understand these experiences.

Our dear herman draws us along his own meandering path through New York as he shares his reading of the past, his work in the present, and his vision of the future, sparing no detail he deems worthwhile and including nothing else, writing to us (or, in his eye, no one) of finding and knowing another through their work, through attempting to experience life as they did, all as he instead shields himself from others, writing of connection and of the universal as he continues to remove himself from the world, and writing of direct understanding, describing his palace that would push all those many readers out into the world, away from mere information now permanently locked away, forcing them now to apprehend the world exactly as it is: in chaos, unordered, always leaving one without someone else to fetch that which we need from its depths, where we must now ourselves dive, risking failure, obscurity, and madness to find a life’s work we feel requires our hand upon the tools