Antti

“Grant me, Lord, the courage and the joy / I need to scale the summit of this day”, wrote Jorge Luis Borges of Ulysses.[1] Both are needed, courage and joy, since the most challenging works of literature should be enjoyable in their difficulty. When it comes to Joyce's great work, a colossus among the colossi, it's quite impossible to write about the reading experience succinctly, to the point, and well. I'm trying, though.In the words of Jeri Johnson in her excellent Introduction to the Oxford World's Classics edition of Ulysses, “Joyce's Book has so colonized twentieth-century Anglophone culture that we can never now enter it for the first time,” [2] also that “Jennifer Levine suggests imagining that this book is called Hamlet to ‘regain a sense of it as a text brought into deliberate collision with a powerful predecessor'.” [3]Indeed, it's rather impossible to just rush into the work headlong without the foreboding sensation that one is about to embark on a journey that's difficult and full of so many intertextual riddles that there are several volumes that simply trace all the references. But this is not how I've enjoyed reading Joyce. I think the need to find out specific meanings and references will come later, but for me the best way to exprience the work has been to discard all theories, annotations and commentaries. Their turn will come later, if at all. At some points I wholly forgot the Greek Ulysses aspect of it altogether, not a bad thing at the slightest. Because, truth be told, this is a massively entertaining book. Funny and witty. Yes, at times quite challenging, but isn't all of literature? It's our investment that makes things the way they are, most of the time.So, without delving too deeply into the abyss of literary criticism, I can only say that reading Joyce without any commentary than one's own is extremely gratifying. I have the beautiful Orchises edition – it's a facsimile edition of the first edition, and it's among the most beautiful books I own. It's nice to read, and unobtrusive.Is it a difficult novel, then? I think we will all be better off when we realize that such questions, ultimately, serve no great purpose. If the answer is “yes”, does it really dilute one's yearning to read it? Does it strengthen it? And should it? If the answer is “no”, what difference does it make? For me, parts of it are more demanding than others, yet when I eventually revisit it, they might not be. “See for yourself” is my friendly advice, and, above all, decide for yourself. But if there is anything I'm more certain of saying in terms of Joyce's work, it is to echo the wonderful and oft-quoted sentiment by Jorge Luis Borges that it is “rereading, not reading” what counts. Let's forget for a moment the hype and the fixation on difficulty, and instead try to read books like they were great friends: not only worthy of attention but so close to us that they know us better than we might think.I like reading Ulysses, but equally I love listening to it. There is something about Joyce's language and his way of expressing things that lends beautifully to oral performance. His words float, soar and swerve, and I think we are incredibly lucky to have an audiobook of the work that is without equal. The version I refer to is the one released by Naxos in 2008. Narrated by Jim Norton and Marcella Riordan, it is an unabridged recording (27 hours and 21 minutes) that has not only been expertly read, it's actually recorded and mixed wonderfully, and it's amongst the best audiobooks I've ever encountered.Also, the [b:Complete Poems and Selected Letters 75493 Complete Poems and Selected Letters Hart Crane https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1309200646l/75493.SY75.jpg 24498213] of Hart Crane's complete poetry and selected letters has, in his correspondence with a friend, a fascinating contemporary perspective on the Ulysses ban in the United States, and how the book was ultimately successfully smuggled from Paris.Endnotes:[1] Jorge Luis Borges, James Joyce in In Praise of Darkness (1969), collected in The Sonnets (Penguin Books, 2010), p. 125.[2] Jeri Johnson, Introduction, in James Joyce: Ulysses (Oxford University Press, 1993), p. x.[3] ibid., xi. Johnson quotes from Levine's essay Ulysses, in Derek Attridge, ed., The Cambridge Companion to James Joyce (Cambridge University Press, 1990), pp. 131–32.23 February,2o14

Saramago has been among my favorite contemporary authors ever since I became acquainted with his works in 2000. He is a genius in carrying the narrative in unexpected directions, and the way his prose flows seems so effortless it's impossible to comprehend fully the talent involved. And then there's his ability to use the narrator's voice to inject wit and occasional wisdom into the work. In short, his works read well, they're fun and often deeply humane.

At 176 pages Cain is just too long. Saramago's narration has that usual wit (”man doesn't live by bread alone” is a brilliant moment), but most of the time he seems too witty for his own sake, and this becomes apparent as the narrative progresses and the narrative device employed wears itself out. Instead of substance what we seem to get is window-shopping: Saramago ransacks the pages of the Old Testament and points at the obvious things modern readers find laughable, and laughs. I would have yearned for something concentrated, that is, a more rooted and focused story of Cain, which, I think, is inherently tragic. By this I don't mean there couldn't have been any comedy. But now Cain reads like the done-to-death archetypically scornful atheist reading of the Old Testament, which it is, of course, but offering very little else for someone like me who has actually heard these arguments before quite a few times concerning the Old Testament or the Bible in general, be they theological or literary.

In terms of the English language translation, Margaret Jull Costa's works is very beautiful.

“Spent the fortnight gone in the music room,” writes Robert Frobisher in a letter to Rufus Sixsmith, “reworking my year's fragments into a ‘sextet for overlapping soloists': piano, clarinet, ‘cello, flute, oboe and violin, each in its own language of key, scale and colour. In the 1st set, each solo is interrupted by its successor; in the 2nd, each interruption is recontinued, in order.”

The story, structured in six parts, about how this story came to be in the first place. Caught in the middle are some very interesting characters, some more than others, and the world is governed by a definite determinist sense of cosmic fate. Each in its own language and color; all of this is expertly written, even when it's “mediocre”, as in the pulp story that is Half-Lives: The First Luisa Rey Mystery, or The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish.

“It is very rare,” writes Philip Hensher for Spectator, “to come across a novel so ruthlessly planned, and yet so unconfined by its formal decisions, so unpredictable in its direction, so convincing even at its strangest, so capable of doing anything to serve its extraordinary ends.” This is an acute observation. The way the stories grow out of and in each other, synecdochically, is masterful. This device is one of my favorites in all art, the means through which the art produced is not only justified but its creation commented on: the Cloud Atlas Sextet; Half-Lives inspires Cavendish to write his story to a screenplay that is later watched by Sonmi-451, whose narrative is later “seen” by Zachry in the orison.

It's brilliantly pieced together, where each layer contained is able to comment on the previous one – Frobisher commenting, for example, that he finds it amusing that Ewing doesn't realize he's being poisoned.

I devoured the book until the story started folding back into itself. Half-Lives and Cavendish were the parts where I saw my excitement wane. Zedelghem and Ewing's Pacific Diaries, however, offered a great sense of climax. The difficulty of writing this kind of prose is unfathomable – the ideas always tend to work as mere ideas, but when put to paper as a narrative, the likelihood of failure exponentially rises.For the most part Mitchell's creation is perfectly capable of avoiding any narrative snares. I want to read this again, and perhaps one day the individual stories from start to finish, just to see the kind of dramatic effect they carry in and of themselves.

5 October,
2014

After 20% I'm ready to move this to my DNF pile. I wholeheartedly agree with the reviewers who find the presentation of his thesis so crude that it's just a chore to read through.

If you agree, and if you have a title you know and like that would quench my thirst for Egyptian history, please let me know.

In 2019 I read a lot of books (I've never read more than 100 books per year before), but this year I'll try to slow down, consciously, and take my time with some of the bigger books I've been meaning to read for years. Firstly, I want to finally read Joseph and His Brothers, and if that goes well, I'd like to either finish The Story of the Stone or start rereading In Search of Lost Time.

I'd like to continue treading Discworld (I'm up to Hogfather right now), and maybe some Tolkien, too, but we'll see. I'll go through The Children of Hurin, Beren and Luthien and The Fall of Gondolin with a friend in a book club, so that's all set. Whether I'll get to reading The History of Middle-Earth remains to be seen.

I often have grand plans to also reread most of Pynchon's works, but as you can see, there are already quite a few ambitious titles on my list.

I will continue reading to my kids, so my list in 2020 will include quite a few of them, I'll also reread Harry Potter as I've done now on a yearly basis. Whether I'll get to rereading some Shakespeare is up for grabs. I'd say not likely.

Update 1 (July 9th): The year is already halfway done (what a thought!) and I've now read 59 books. Way more than what I originally thought, but also way different. I did start reading Joseph and His Brothers, and gave up after about 100 pages. One for the future. I haven't continued The Story of the Stone although that one I'm thinking about a lot, and I actually started rereading Proust, and finished the first two volumes quite quickly. I'm now in the middle of the third, and will return to it at some point.

I have read lots of Discworld, and it's actually quite possible I'll finish the series by year's end. Just started Night Watch today, so the end is nigh. I don't now whether I want it to end, though.

I did touch Mason & Dixon in May, reread about halfway through, and somehow lost interest. What I picked up instead were some gorgeous novels, though, including The Dragons, the Giant, The Women, Homegoing and, especially, The Underground Railroad that I hadn't read before this. The Nickel Boys I read as soon as it was published last year, and Railroad was even better. Every bit deserving its modern classic status.

I've read some Merwin, revisited Garden Time, of course, and raid The Rain In The Trees. Thich Nhat Hanh has received his share of love, and I'm actually reading his collection of poetry at the moment. I read The Poetry of Impermance, Mindfulness and Joy, which has done its part to reignite my joy for poetry. Encouraged by the selection of poems in that book, I've been reading A. R. Ammons and Billy Collins.

What about 2020, Part 2? I really expect to finish the Discworld. I'm already planning on rereading my favorites, since it's been about 2,5 years worth of reading lots of other books, too. I've been on the fence with Brandon Sanderson. I have the three Stormlight books, and since the fourth one is to be published this Fall, I just might commit.

Ken Follett has a prequel to The Pillars of the Earth coming up, but I still have the third book to read. Since it is a prequel, however, I don't think the third book is required reading just yet. I could just save it up for last, and feel all important and trendy by reading a freshly published book.

Update 2 (November 8th): The year is drawing to a close. Surprisingly enough, I've put Discworld on hold for the time being, after failing to get involved with The Wee Free Men and Going Postal, two of the most acclaimed Discworld novels. Maybe my Pratchett quota is full at the moment, or maybe the series is drifting away from the kind of things I like. I tried Monstrous Regiment and gave up, I even tried Thud!, skipping to the Watch series, knowing that it's my favorite cast of characters in Pratchett, and still couldn't get myself going. Well, maybe next year.

I read some Ammons and Collins, but that was enough. During the summer months I was in need of lighter fare and ended up reading some books in the Lemony Snicket series. I then tackled some Stormlight Archives fare with The Way of Kings, and loved it. I was happy to find a fast-paced, interesting fantasy series to get myself into, and what with Rhythm of War to be published in November, this would be the time get myself up to date. But guess what? Words of Radiance turned out be such a bore. Predictable. I guess it's my problem with many mainstream authors, including Stephen King: when I get acquainted with their style, which is more about tolerating it rather than enjoying it, I will grow tired of it when the story isn't capable of carrying me through the book. I abandoned Sanderson, since it's that's apparently the way he does things. And gosh, I couldn't stand the predictability with which Shallan was thrown around places.

To be honest, I was in a reading funk after this. August and much of September went by with my readings with my children, and some manga, which I chose so that I would read something, but I wasn't trying to force anything longer or complicated. Only in early October I got back into reading novels, starting with The Devotion of Suspect X, which I had started in early June but was way too tired to enjoy. This time around I devoured it, loved it, and immediately went on to read the other two Detective Galileos in translation. While not as good as the first one, they were fine, especially A Midsummer's Equation. But I have no desire to more Higashino for the time being.

Higashino was my doorway back into reading, however, and I raced through The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, which gave me that sense of thrill and wonder a good, imaginative and singular book can give. I'll definitely read more Murakami soon. I still haven't read The Hard-Boiled Wonderland at the End of the World, so that's my next stop with him.

Now I've been reading the English translations for the Legends of the Condor Heroes, now consisting of three volumes. I enjoyed A Hero Born immensely, and read through it in only a few days. Now I'm reading A Bond Undone, and I think I'll read the third volume before year's end.

As for the rest of the year, I'm giving Obama's A Promised Land a try when it's published. I'm not the biggest reader of political autobiography, so let's see how far I'll go with this one, but I have to admit that four years of Trump and Biden's win this week have whet my appetite: not only to remind me that not all presidents are as crude as sycophantic as Trump, but also that Biden will definitely take politics back into a more civil direction. Despite the conspiracy theorists. (Which reminds be that I should reread some Pynchon, whose conspiracy theories are at least fun — and they stay on the shelf!)

I also realized quite late in the game that Charlie Kaufman has published his debut novel in the spring. I really want to read Antkind (I always misspell that as Antman by the way), but I'm a bit wary that it's harder going than I'd like at the moment. Maybe I have to save it for a holiday read when I'm not so strained by work.

Well, let's see in late December what happened.

I absolutely loved Wolf Hall and Bring Up The Bodies, so my excitement for The Mirror & The Light was on par with many of yours. I ordered the 4th Estate hardback, got the Kindle edition and Audible audiobook as soon as they became available, and got going.

I'm putting this on hold for the time being. I'm almost 200 pages in, and it's been quite a slog. The first two books had such fervent momentum going on that I'm finding it quite difficult to get this one going.

I'm rereading Proust's In Search of Lost Time, and loving every page of it (halfway through the second volume after starting the first one in late February), which offers an interesting counterpoint to my experiences so far with this book. I'll return to this later, maybe in the summer.