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
An interesting collection of off and on prose Whitman kept over the years. Episodic with a lot of variety. For instance, it starts like an autobiograpAn interesting collection of off and on prose Whitman kept over the years. Episodic with a lot of variety. For instance, it starts like an autobiography, focusing on his life as a boy growing up in New York. Memory snippets.
At its most interesting, Specimen Days chronicles what Whitman calls (and I wish we STILL called) the Secession War. Seems much more accurate than the oxymoronic Civil War. And let's call a spade a spade -- this war was all about Secession based on the practice of slavery, the legacy of which Americans have yet to overcome.
Just by being in Washington serving as a helper at the soldiers' hospitals, Whitman frequently sees Lincoln going to and fro from the White House. In fact, Lincoln comes to recognize and nod at Whitman, who says no painter ever was able to capture the true spirit of Lincoln's face.
Whitman uses the adjective "secesh" to refer to rebel soldiers, some of whom land at the hospitals, but he treats the wounded and sick men equally no matter what color their uniform. For most of us, casualties in any war are merely statistics, but Whitman brings some of them to life as he takes the time to describe what he calls some "specimen cases." Here, for instance, is the case of Thomas Haley:
"In one of the hospitals I find Thomas Haley, company M, 4th New York cavalry -- a regular Irish boy, a fine specimen of youthful physical manliness -- shot through the lungs -- inevitably dying -- came over to this country from Ireland to enlist -- has not a single friend or acquaintance here -- is sleeping soundly at the moment, (but it is the sleep of death) -- has a bullet hole straight through the lung. I saw Tom when first brought here, three days since, and didn't suppose he could live twelve hours -- (yet he looks well enough in the face to a casual observer.) He lies there with his frame exposed above the waist, all naked, for coolness, a fine built man, the tan not yet bleach'd from his cheeks and neck. It is useless to talk to him, as with his sad hurt, and the stimulants they give him, and the utter strangeness of every object, face, furniture, &c., the poor fellow, even when awake, is like some frighten'd animal. Much of the time he sleeps, or half-sleeps. (Sometimes I thought he knew more than he show'd.) I often come and sit by him in perfect silence; he will breathe for ten minutes as softly and evenly as a young babe asleep. Poor youth, so handsome, athletic, with profuse beautiful shining hair. One time as I sat looking at him while he lay asleep, he suddenly, without the least start, awaken'd, open'd his eyes, gave me a long steady look, turning his face very slightly to gaze easier -- one long, clear, silent look -- a slight sigh -- then turn'd back and went into his doze again. Little he knew, poor death-stricken boy, the heart of the stranger that hover'd near."
Try reading THAT and considering him (or the others described) as a statistic. In one swift paragraph, brought to life so you can see him die. And the descriptions, so physical, mirror Whitman's poetry, too, as you'd expect.
After the war, Specimen Days gets quite Thoreau-like, with WW describing nature early in the morning (he liked to wake before dawn) and late at night (he liked to stay awake till midnight). Excellent descriptions of nature here.
After this phase, the book moves to a bit of a travelogue as WW travels as far west as Colorado and Montana before returning east, visiting Longfellow and Emerson (just before their deaths), and complaining about his physical woes (upwards to ten years he suffered from some semi-paralysis of some sort). Despite his problems, Whitman assures us that the best medicine is avoiding doctors and getting naked with nature (don't worry -- in a secluded spot where he can bathe outdoors in a river).
Overall, one interesting melange of writing, some parts better than others, but always, like everything he wrote, all about the man in the mirror -- that me Walt Whitman called Walt Whitman, a kind-hearted solipsist if ever there was one....more
For me, the surprise "like" of the summer was Carson McCullers' The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, so safe to say that I was less surprised to enjoy this aFor me, the surprise "like" of the summer was Carson McCullers' The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, so safe to say that I was less surprised to enjoy this as much or more. At 160 thrifty pages, it hits the sweet spot that many novels miss when they lack editors willing to break the news to authors that their books are good but would be better still after a 20 - 40% weight loss.
The Detroit Free Press says this is "A marvelous study of the agony of adolescence," and though the protagonist Frankie is only 12, we'll just have to assume she's an early bloomer. A lot of the book occurs in the kitchen of her house, where Frankie tolerates (and pretends to not love) conversations with the family maid, Berenice, and her little cousin John Henry. Frankie's older brother is marrying in mere days and this girl wants for all the world to go on the honeymoon with her hero and his new wife. Kids bored with their little town lives will do such truck.
There's one scene about 2/3rds in that is magical stuff. It may be all of half a dozen pages, I don't know, but all three characters, the black maid, the sad girl, and the confused little boy, accidentally talk their way into an existential corner that leads to tears. McCullers' handling of mood via description and characterization is spot on, and the unanswerable questions about life will sound familiar to any reader who has ever thought too much for his or her own good.
Life, my friends, is equal parts lovely and sad....more
Sometimes I get uppity. Sometimes I think I can pick up any classic, even an experimental classic, and fully appreciate it along with all the other GRSometimes I get uppity. Sometimes I think I can pick up any classic, even an experimental classic, and fully appreciate it along with all the other GR readers who 4- and 5-star such truck.
Not quite. Not just yet. You see, there's this persistent punk in me, one who keeps yielding his head along about p. 50 in such challenges, one who once said to his English teacher, "Why are we reading this stuff, anyway?" ("Stuff" being a euphemism for school-inappropriate words).
Sure, I can 5-star the poetic stretches that flash like sunlight off the ocean's surface in this book. But I can also 2-star it for its utter lack of reading enjoyment. What? Get my tooth drilled without Novocaine for the sake of capital-A Art? Just so I can pretend to be a (ahem) sophisticated reader?
Maybe it's the way a lot of sentences start the same, like a cerebral Dick and Jane exercise. Or maybe it's the lack of plot. Or how about the fact that this book offers wave after wave of soliloquies by three men and three women that I can't keep track of or even come close to caring about?
Nevertheless, I soldiered on. I said, "Do it for the language!" kind of like Dally once said, "Do it for Johnny, man!" (insert visual of Matt Dillon's curled lip here). And I tried to forget that, in my first try at Virginia Woolf many waves ago, I said, "Face it, she's just not your cuppa, kind of like Henry James and William Faulkner and anyone who writes romance novels."
In fact, for years I've answered Edward Albee's question "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" in one pronoun: "me."
Then I had to go and get uppity, just to prove I'm not there yet and, in fact, might never get there. Experienced a reader as I may be, I admit there remains this rebellious punk in me, one who flings some challenging books, one who shouts, "That's it! I've had it! It's over my head, and I'm just going to admit as much!"
Consider this my admission. And if you liked or loved this book, drive through Orlando on your way to a lighthouse to tell Mrs. Dalloway, why don't you?...more
Although I know I've read Treasure Island through the same pirate sea twice, I wasn't sure about the almost-as-famous Kidnapped. If I did read it onceAlthough I know I've read Treasure Island through the same pirate sea twice, I wasn't sure about the almost-as-famous Kidnapped. If I did read it once, the memory of it is gone, so let's say this was a first go-round.
My biggest observation is that is gets off to a roaring start, adventure-wise (which is what you want, nay DEMAND, of a Robert Louis Stevenson), because at first there's the mystery of young David Balfour's dead father and living uncle (his brother) and estate, and then there's the derring-do of Uncle Ebeneezer (I can't help but picture Dickens' character) hiring a captain to get the kid out of his hair via kidnapping. Young DB's destination: Carolina (where the weather may be finer, but after that, all down hill).
Anyway, once David teams up with his sidekick Alan Breck, there's lots of good adventure on the boat, but the boat gets storm-tossed and with it David and with him all the really good adventure. After that, the poor lad re-teams with Alan as they cross this part of Scotland and that as fugitives. Not a lot of action. Just a lot of grunt marching and hiding, really. Enough to toy with 3 stars, even, but for all that, I never lost interest, so I'm sticking to the high 3.5.
If you're Scottish, you should definitely read this. Man, the old Scottish words are ubiquitous here, some defined by footnotes in this 1908 edition, some not. Speaking of, what a pleasure to read an old library edition still holding up thanks to the thick paper and solid binding (no glue, thank you). The many water stains and yellowing effect of time (not to mention the library smell of old paper and ink) made it worth the page-turning itself.
What confuses me is "David Balfour #1" in parentheses after the title. I guess RLS wrote sequels using this character, much the way Twain ruined Tom Sawyer by writing books like Tom Sawyer, Detective (God spare us).
In any event, I won't be going there. I know a thing or two about sequels--none of them very good things, either!...more
This one took me by surprise. Quite simply I grabbed it from the library based on positive reviews among GR friends AND the hole in my reading resume.This one took me by surprise. Quite simply I grabbed it from the library based on positive reviews among GR friends AND the hole in my reading resume. Must read a Carson McCullers book, the wind whistling through that hole said. And so I did.
From the get-go, I thought I was reading Sherwood Anderson. The voice and the diction reminded me mightily of Sherwood's Winesburg, Ohio.
But it went one better than that. The characters were mostly down-and-outers, reminding me of Anderson's "grotesques" in Winesburg. Quite simply, a "grotesque" is defined as just another person living a life of quiet desperation. No one likes that Thoreau quote better than me. It could be on many of our gravestones and work nicely.
Anyway, I was stunned that this book was written by a 23-year-old. Holy Toledo Ohio, could she write. Gifted. And what a collection she put together -- Biff "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" Brannon, the cafe owner; Jake the Radical Drunk; Copeland, the black doctor whose anger anticipates today's news (in fact, Carson McCullers herself anticipates it in general -- that's how sensitive her prose is to the oppressed black community); Mick Kelly, the teenaged girl who must've been based on CM herself; and finally the seer of them all, the deaf mute John Singer.
Singer gives heart to all of these lonely hunters, but he was an enigma to me. I could not for the life of me understand his attachment to fellow mute Spiros Antonapoulos, who isn't a very sympathetic human being. For Singer the attachment is a driving force, so much so that the reader wonders why. It's a question that never gets answered, perhaps by design.
Anyway, so-called Southern Literature generally causes me to break out in hives (see Faulkner, William), but this novel with its deep characterization, sensitive political and philosophical themes, and just-enough-plot, was an exception to the itch. As the old song goes: I did not need an ocean of Calamine lotion (thank God).
This was my first Cather. Although only 215 pp., the novel is divided into five "Books," the first being the longest and the bestREVIEW OF: My Ántonia
This was my first Cather. Although only 215 pp., the novel is divided into five "Books," the first being the longest and the best. It is called "The Shimerdas," and it is about the arrival of a Bohemian family on the Nebraska plains. The eldest daughter of this family is the eponymous Ántonia Shimerdas.
Surprisingly, the novel is told from the 1st-person POV not of Ántonia, but of her neighbor Jim Burden. Tony, as she is called, only appears in about half of the book.
The first book reads like the kind of pioneer tale you'd so enjoy as a kid. It's what I imagine (having never read them or seen any of the TV episodes) the Little House on the Prairie books would be like, with its farming and hardships and family joys and letdowns and, of course, Mother Nature. Better still, Ántonia is not idealized. She's a good kid, but she doesn't lack for flaws.
After the first book's 90 pp., the rest play a decided second fiddle. Jim moves to the "big" (for Nebraska) town of Black Hawk, where we follow the lives of a few of the other farmer girls who moved to the not-so-big city. As they were bit players in the first book, it seems a bit of a letdown reading about them. Not until the 17-page fifth book do we return in earnest to Ántonia many years later. This was an enjoyable (albeit way too short) stretch, too.
So, combining the first and last of the five sections, you get a pretty good read with an author who is especially adept at description and nature writing. Four stars for Books 1 and 5. Two stars for the middle of the sandwich.
All in all, glad to meet you, Willa Cather!...more
This Library of America edition contains four (count 'em, FOUR) Edith Wharton novels, but I only read Custom of the Country. It's been decades since IThis Library of America edition contains four (count 'em, FOUR) Edith Wharton novels, but I only read Custom of the Country. It's been decades since I read Ethan Frome, and this seemed quite different, so same author only in a Key of B Majorly Different.
How so? It reminded me a bit of Henry James, a guy I swore off after choking on stuffy, drawing-room air from reading his books under duress (usually assigned in school). Wharton uses a lot of the same settings as James but makes it more interesting.
My main memory from this book will be how much I hated its protagonist, Undine Spragg. I mean *hated* as in from the get-go. I think Daryl Hall and John Oates wrote that song "Man-Eater" about her, but really it's not so much men as their money Undine's (sounds like "undies") after. She's (more than) enough to give femmes fatale a bad name.
So despite the good plotting and great characterization, there was my impatience for justice which, I fear, was not anywhere NEAR satisfied at the end. A little, but Undine deserves more than a little when it comes to sipping from the grail of comeuppance....more
As I said in an update, reading this reminded me of good old Gogol in that the main character was a loner, a social outcast, a wanderer who observed hAs I said in an update, reading this reminded me of good old Gogol in that the main character was a loner, a social outcast, a wanderer who observed his fellow man with a jaundiced-isn't-the-word-for-it eye.
The only difference? The narrator in Nausea wasn't as funny as Gogol's characters could be. Then again, it might be tough to be funny when living an EXISTENTIAL life. (And is it only me who feels that politicians cheapen the word when they use it as a $10 synonym for "existing"?)
Not so much a plot as a state of mind. The guy is perhaps TOO sane. That is, he thinks too much, which should be listed as a psychiatric disorder.
Although it wasn't as enjoyable as his short story "The Wall," Sartre's novel was shorter than I expected and had its moments. It's just that the moments in between overwhelmed said moments....more
I wish I could recall other Hardy novels I've read by way of comparison, but I read them so long ago.
On the plus side, there was just enough soap in tI wish I could recall other Hardy novels I've read by way of comparison, but I read them so long ago.
On the plus side, there was just enough soap in this opera and pot in this boiler to keep me turning the pages. I was genuinely interested in where our man Jude might wind up. That and how he'd deal with the two strong women in his life: Arabella and Sue.
On the negative side, entirely too much talking, often in situations where people might not even talk. Some unrealistic scenes, especially toward the end. And frustrating characters, who seem less real as people than as devices to comment on Victorian society and the Church, two clear Hardy targets.
Overall, good to reintroduce myself to Hardy. This will not be remembered as fondly as the early ones, though. Especially that Eustacia Vye Holden told me about.......more
A new translation of The Art of War is no reason to run out and buy it for a reread, unless, of course, you love the book or are a Sinophile. Me, I'd A new translation of The Art of War is no reason to run out and buy it for a reread, unless, of course, you love the book or are a Sinophile. Me, I'd never read it, so why not start with a translation that's getting great reviews for its concise, aphoristic style? I like concise, after all, and I never say no to aphorisms, either (which may explain why I'm early to bed and early to rise).
If you do give this a go, I strongly suggest sandwiching your reading of the text by reading Michael Nylan's introduction both before and after. Some introductions are dispensable (like us, after 50 years on any given job), but others, not so much.
In this one, Nylan helps readers to read the probably mythical "Sun-Tzu" (who is riding shotgun in some car in western China with the equally mythical "Lao-Tzu") both literally and figuratively.
Yes, it is, on surface level, advice on how to fight and win battles on Mars' playground (wherever that may be). Yes, it's often required reading at military academy. Yes, Donald Trump, who came nowhere near any military academies, quoted it in a tweet a few years before being elected by the Electoral College (while, the translator fears, almost assuredly not reading the entire text, though it be all of 94 pp).
And yes, Gen. James Mattis is a big fan who learned lessons from Sun-Tzu, but almost assuredly forgot to apply them while serving in the previously-mentioned (He Who Must Not Be Named, but I fear I already did's) administration. (Sun-Tzu would be beyond disappointed, in his probably-mythical way.)
But, where was I before I started name dropping? Oh, yeah. Sun-Tzu through a glass figuratively. This book is also about leading people. And about getting the better of people (should you have any reason). And about using human psychology against that most animal of species in the animal kingdom, humans.
All there. Only keeping your eye open for it by reading the intro first helps. And seeing what you possibly missed by rereading the intro afterwards helps even more. At least for those slow-of-study types like me.
Finally, you'll be happy to hear that Sun-Tzu (or whomever) devotes a lot of real estate to NOT waging war and AVOIDING war entirely because, damn it, war is expensive as hell and, damn it even more, people get KILLED and empires get LOST. Pacifists, in other words, need not cover the cover with a grocery bag book cover.
In summary, if you're like me and late to the party (meaning: haven't read it), this prettily-clad translation of The Art of War just might be the ticket....more
Oh, I've read lots of Chekhov in my day but usually a story here or there as opposed to coast-to-coast in a collection like this. Pevear and VolokhonsOh, I've read lots of Chekhov in my day but usually a story here or there as opposed to coast-to-coast in a collection like this. Pevear and Volokhonsky arrange these chronologically and choose their faves, omitting the long "novella-like" stories.
Hey, Mikey. I liked it! The only story I did not much enjoy was "The Ravine," third from last. The trouble with a collection of stories, then, is that you often look back over the titles and flat-out forget what they were about (unless you were taking notes). If you DO remember, that has to be good. So let's look at titles that still have a hold on me:
"Gusev," which is about Russian soldiers a long way from home on a ship in the hot Pacific Ocean climes, each dying one by one. One man insists he will live to see Russia again. The other keeps fantasizing about snow, leading us to a wonderful snow sleigh scene where the sleigh topples and the villagers shout and laugh as our poor protagonist, in his day dream, lifts himself from the snow among barking dogs. It also includes a spookily wonderful finish about a dead body being sewn up and dropped into the deep sea. You, gentle reader, go down with the body.
"A Boring Story" is anything but. It's longish, but reminiscent of Tolstoy's "Death of Ivan Ilych" as the dying protagonist dies a thousand deaths by just thinking about it. On and on. Excruciatingly. It's called philosophy, friends, and it's no coincidence that this man is a professor. I was all in.
"Ward No 6," where the crazies go, defines that thin line between captors and captured. The good doctor is bored silly by his inmate slash patients, but then one of the patients, a man with a keen eye and a good education, so intrigues the good doctor that he purposely visits said patient for regular talks. Guess who the rest of the staff begins to wonder about? Slippery, meet slope. That's what happens when crazy people make more sense than the powers-that-be.
'The Student," ridiculously short, but supposedly Chekhov's personal favorite, spins around a retelling of the Biblical story of Peter, who three times denies Christ before the cock crows. The student connects Biblical times to the present and is left with wonder.
"The Darling" is the ultimate tale of a lady who lives vicariously only, a lady happy only with paired with people she can be happy for. How rare is that in this day and age?
"The Lady with the Little Dog" (Usually translated as "Lap Dog"). This familiar tale seemed more confidently told as the story of an affair between unhappy married man and unhappy married woman. If there is one thing Chekhov trades in, it's unhappy people.
"The Bishop." Short story writer Peter Orner considers this Chekhov's best, because it examines a man in a respected position who, like many Chekhovian heroes, wonders what life's all about and what is it for? In Chekhov's world, no one escapes, not even the good bishop who still hasn't found what he is looking for (this is pre-U2 and Bono, of course).
"The Fiancée" is straightforward. Young girl gets happily engaged. Young girl gets cold feet. Young girl backs out with the encouragement of the one black sheep in the family, which helps her to survive all the social tumult she causes. She sees the future and envisions despair. Check! -ov!
Ironically, though Chekhov seems a bummer, there's no end to sudden paragraphs depicting the beauty of nature, the beauty of a time of day, the beauty of LIFE itself. The moment. Being here and now. Who would ever trade this heaven-on-earth away for a second?
And for every dead end a desperate character reaches, there's the possibilities in new beginnings. Yes. Even if that new beginning is death.
Nice translation. Nice read. Nice return to the Russkies. And if you pan for gold in the mud, you will see that Chekhov hides a happy gift for you in most every outing. Some nuggets are larger than others, but they are there. Oh, they are there.
Note: For an extended quote from the story "The Bishop" plus some additional thoughts on how Chekhov riffs on Henry David Thoreau in a certain way, you can read more at my shiny new website.....more
yes finishing this book in bed is appropriate because well molly had the last say in bed and she didnt bother with apostrophes but she also didnt haveyes finishing this book in bed is appropriate because well molly had the last say in bed and she didnt bother with apostrophes but she also didnt have autocorrect to drive her crazy so theres that and no I won't even bother with stars because if you want to come down to enjoyment there were times when I was anything but enjoying it and just pushing on and on and on as Joyce went on and on and on showing off his encyclopedic brain which also defies stars the first chapter was simple enough thank you but after that we ran into every kind of literary technique known to man (in 1922) because if nothing else JJ is into technical merit which no judge can deny him entertainment is another thing altogether
that was a sentence and there are 8 total in mollys dream or soliloquy or ribald I am woman hear me roar speech but back to the techniques youll get questions and answers and plays and various literary techniques and streams of consciousness and streams of unconsciousness and dry arroyos where no one is conscious to know what the hells going on except for the experts who take up the last 250 pages of this book with notes and appendices and clues if youre like me youll cheat and use a guidebook like Harry Blamires new blooms day book oh thats what he meant I often said aloud to harry now I get it and thank you very much professor
rhetorical tricks galore too many to count too many to notice and enough made up words to embarrass lewis carroll even one line for example that I liked was the heaventree of stars hung with humid night blue fruit
at times like that I could stop and reread and not care there was no plot and not care I had all of western civilization coming at me and not care that Bloom and Stephen were romancing the Holy Ghost or some such thing way beyond me so I guess in the end this means I not so much read ulysses as survived it and experienced it if you got more out of it than me heres a toast in your honor and if you have no desire to bother trying Ill toast in your honor too yes...more
Sometimes old friends are worth a revisit because, well, they're all they were years ago and not much has changed. You kind of get a warm, "I rememberSometimes old friends are worth a revisit because, well, they're all they were years ago and not much has changed. You kind of get a warm, "I remember" feeling, and you know how that goes: the mind purposely screens out the bad from your past and only remembers the good. That's where the word "halcyon" comes from, I guess. The halcyon days of our youth, when we sat around reading understandable Joyce.
The book ends with a bang--namely, a long short story (thus the expression, "to make a short story long") made into a movie called "The Dead." Like many of these stories, it tries to get to an indefinable something, in this case the love of a wife for a young man who died long ago and the confusion that discovery makes for her poor husband.
Though written in the early 20th century, the stories are quite modern in their approach. For the most part, plot is shunned. We are more in the characterization vein here with snapshots of lives in Dublin, proof positive that lives like this are playing out all over the world even today--lives seemingly inconsequential to us and to the universe, but lives of great joy and anguish to the individuals who live them in the subjective, birth to death. Joyce also has a habit of just ending the story. Once you understand the character's situation, his or her life, and a key (or representative) episode in it, that's fine. Next story, please!
Does it make me any more willing to tackle Ulysses? Um... well... you see, it's like this. I'm putting that in the WIR pile. When I'm Retired. Then I can take on ALL the big, bad boys, including not-so-understandable Joyce. And Finnegans Wake? No. Never. Of that much I'm sure. Like Gertrude Stein at her worst, that stuff is just crazy. Brain-cell push-ups for the sake of brain-cell push-ups....more
If this entire manuscript were to be dumped into one of those new-fangled word cloud thingies that tells you which words come up the most, undoubtedlyIf this entire manuscript were to be dumped into one of those new-fangled word cloud thingies that tells you which words come up the most, undoubtedly "dream" would win. For Pessoa, life is a dream. Literally, that is his reality.
The cloud next to "dream," you ask? "Tedium." He uses it to define his life. A lot. Which means this is 460-plus pages of an artistic loner trying to make tedium entertaining. So, yeah. Be forewarned. At times I was 3-starring this, especially toward the end, because it got to be a drag reading about all this "life is a dream" and "tedium again" and "death is better than life, only then I wouldn't be able to bemoan life, which is my bread and butter" stuff.
Still, this is a great psychological study, to my mind. If Karl Ove Knausgaard is raking bucks these days with his navel-gazing books (the My Struggle series), then it could be argued that Pessoa was ahead of his time. It's navel-gazing par excellence.
Only there is a distinct difference. Knausgaard is social. His are people books. Pessoa is anti-social. Thus his books are populated with himself.
I admit, parts of his persona appealed to mine. Some of his thoughts sounded like me in my bleaker moments. And, through it all, you can see the poor guy's love of life. Only he loved being alone, living alone, not traveling, not desiring or needing. Classic homebody. And student of mankind, who is remarkably good, considering how little he interacts.
Maybe this of all books is the toughest to reread among EH's work. Take away the drama of "what happens," and you must subsist on other things. For meMaybe this of all books is the toughest to reread among EH's work. Take away the drama of "what happens," and you must subsist on other things. For me, it was "the Sea" that wins over "the Man." That is, I enjoyed the early-to-mid descriptions of the ocean and the distant landscape and the fish and the birds. The first-person monologues, man vs. fish? Not as much. Still, an achievement for the old man (author) in the twilight of his career....more
Wasn't sure whether to shelve this as "classics newly read" or "classics read anew." I could swear I read this during my "Hamsun phase," brought on byWasn't sure whether to shelve this as "classics newly read" or "classics read anew." I could swear I read this during my "Hamsun phase," brought on by the high praise of the Lost Generation writers (circa 1920s). In any event, if I did read this in my own "circa 20s" (gee, was I once 20-something?), I've since forgotten every and thing. It doesn't transcend Pan: From Lieutenant Thomas Glahn's Papers, but it certainly transcends most books. One hundred and ninety-five years later, it has staying power.
This is a simple story set to the Greek chorus of soap opera. A kind of Good Earth of Norway, it's about one simple bull of a man, Isak, carving a life out of the earth in the boondocks of Norge. Plain -- OK, ugly -- he needs him a woman. Along comes just that, one Inger, a young but hardworking girl plagued by a harelip. A marriage made in plain heaven. And it works because these two do -- and hard. Slowly, from nothing, Isak and Inger build their humble farm into a large and prosperous working farm, the envy of many visitors from lower parts.
All manner of drama develops, most of which would violate the Geneva Conventions on Spoilers if I told you. Additional characters come along too, to spice up the rural broth. A family takes shape under the two I's. Mysterious neighbors appear, too, some with good intentions and others... with their own intentions. A bit of a saga, it is, though not generational, really, as it takes Isak and Inger from young adulthood/marriage to their twilight years and leaves them there.
Still, if the farming life -- even in theory (the favorite of would-be "gentleman farmers") -- is your piece of pie, you'll enjoy this meal of good, simple folk speaking their good, simple way. Somewhere Rousseau is cheering. And certainly Tolstoy, a fan of the clever and hardworking peasant in his day. If you're tired of novels set in cities, suburbs, or modern times in general, this is what the doctor ordered. Sturdy stock. Basic but hale. The chicken soup of literature. And if you haven't read Hamsun yet, what are you waiting for? Start with a shorter one. I recommend Pan. Peter be damned......more
Is this YA? Children's literature? God only knows. If it can be seen one way by children and another by adults, it's... God only knows.
So let's dispeIs this YA? Children's literature? God only knows. If it can be seen one way by children and another by adults, it's... God only knows.
So let's dispense with labels, boxes, and kindling why don't we. I read this book's 160 pages in no-time (myspeak for "two days"). It was simplistically compelling. Or compellingly simple. Wood. Boy. Dummy. No, make that puppet. One who out-lazies Tom Sawyer, even. The rural Italian word for him, then, is "scamp." Or "rascal," if you will.
The best part about reading Pinocchio for the first time is unlearning Disney. Not that I can recall watching the Disney movie. I cannot recall watching many Disney movies at all. But I surely HAVE seen clips from it. As clips, Disney fare is unavoidable.
Imagine my delight, then, when the cricket appears early in this book without the name of "Jiminy." Imagine my further delight, then, when said talking cricket (called, ingeniously enough, "Talking Cricket") chastises young (unseasoned?) Pinocchio only to have the upstart puppet nail him on the wall with a mallet.
Crunch.
And the cricket's last words are "cree-cree-cree" before it unpeals from the wall and dies.
Fear not, however. Most every critter that dies in this book is born again. The Buddhists would be proud. As they would about Pinocchio's samsara-like travails, wherein he constantly tries and fails to be good, tries and fails to be obedient, tries and fails to be industrious and loyal and kind. Puppets will be puppets, after all.
Another enjoyable aspect to this wonderfully-art-worked text from nyrb is its sly, tongue-in-wooden cheek moments. When the rogue boys are attacking Pinocchio with their hated schoolbooks, one of them hurls a text written by some Collodi fellow. (Wink.) Collodi (pen name) even takes a shot at a group that gets away with murder in this country but is more distrusted in others (and certainly in the past): doctors.
"[The doctor] felt Pinocchio's pulse, then he felt his nose, then he felt his little toe, and when he had finished feeling all these things very carefully, he solemnly pronounced these words: 'It is my opinion that the puppet is quite dead. But if by some strange chance he is not dead, then that would be a sure sign that he is still alive.'"
Doctors. They're never wrong. Said doctor (a crow, in Collodi's tale) follows up with even better:
"'When a dead person cries, it's a sign that he's on the mend.'" As they say in hockey: "Sco-o-o-o-ore!!!"
OK, so a fun and easy read. One that sets the record straight -- the book has succeeded all these years because of its violence and dark undertones. And it's talking animals. And its admirable little scamp of a rogue chunk of wood. If he barks up another tree and turns all treacly-good at the end, oh well. The same happened to Tolstoy, and no one held it against him any.......more
Have I read this book before? I thought I had, but maybe not, as nothing -- but nothing -- was recognizable until I got to the penultimate line, whichHave I read this book before? I thought I had, but maybe not, as nothing -- but nothing -- was recognizable until I got to the penultimate line, which contains that lovely "smithy of the soul" turn. ("Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.")
There's a lot of adolescent restlessness here. And a lot of Roman. With no small portion of Catholic. Ireland to boot. Being Irish myself and brought up Catholic myself, it was easy to identify, though Stephen Dedalus is a bit more into the forge of his own soul than I was. Whores at age 16? This boy is in the advanced school -- mind boggling especially when you look at pictures of Joyce (on whom Dedalus is based). He looks like the last kid chosen for teams in gym. Little. Skinny. Unhealthy. Black socks and stained T-shirt. Crooked glasses.
Some of this was skimmably familiar. The rants against the Church, for instance. Been there, torched that (amen). I did enjoy some of the philosophical discussions Dedalus has with friends and, on one occasion, a Jesuit (uncapitalized here). But overall, not terribly relevant to me. More relevant was the book itself. And circumstances.
Why, just last night I watched a tape of the Joe Biden-Stephen Colbert interview from The Tonight Show. The bit about Irish mothers they shared. The beleaguered Irish mom. Rose Kennedy, anyone? Their silent perseverance. Their love of the brood. Their quiet words of wisdom. And here, Stephen showing little ability to love his own. OK. Little ability to love anyone. At all. Period.
The copy I read is an old Viking Compass Book printed in '64. It has my mother's name in it. Like my father, she never went to college, but (also like my father) decided to take classes at the local community college when we (her sons) were young. Irish Lit, I see. The cover shows pen marks in the letters of James Joyces' name, turning yellow font to blue. Probably during a boring lecture on the merits of contents. And notes inside with her wonderful, Catholic-schooled penmanship. Such, such were the days. For handwriting. I often paid more heed to these than to Joyce, but they seemed to be echoes of the lecturing prof's pontifications. Ah, well.
So back to its place on the shelf it goes. James Joyce's book. Mom's book. Now my book never to be read again. I consign it, then, to the smithy of its Irish soul.......more
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