Such a violent and unexpected shift in my opinion of a book has never happened to me before now, and it wasn't until the last thirty pages that my opiSuch a violent and unexpected shift in my opinion of a book has never happened to me before now, and it wasn't until the last thirty pages that my opinion changed. Honestly I found both the writing and the story itself to be intensely irritating nearly all the way through, in that faux-good way of so many literary novels, right up to the skinny tail-end of the novel--when somehow all of these useless broken pieces of story that I'd plowed through (and despaired over) leapt up and created meaning and I ended up thinking: Yes. Wow. Good....more
I was moved, dazzled, continuously surprised. The story leaped around unabashedly. It's like the writing-equivalent of improvisational jazz, where theI was moved, dazzled, continuously surprised. The story leaped around unabashedly. It's like the writing-equivalent of improvisational jazz, where the base chords of the horror genre are familiar--a relentless monster, gore in just the right places, and a plucky heroine who may or may not make it--but the improvisational leaps around these base chords were magnificent and strange. Many of the happenings in this book are incoherent on a literal level. It didn't matter. I cried at the end....more
Exquisitely bland. The story kept enticing me to read on, which is a marvelous skill for any writer to have, but in the end this novel was an empty-caExquisitely bland. The story kept enticing me to read on, which is a marvelous skill for any writer to have, but in the end this novel was an empty-calorie kind of read. "All You Zombies" by Robert Heinlein did this story first, and better. ...more
The Man Who Lived Underground is the only posthumously published novel I've read that I believe is equal to, or surpasses, the novels published duringThe Man Who Lived Underground is the only posthumously published novel I've read that I believe is equal to, or surpasses, the novels published during an author's lifetime. The combination of very realistic sentence-level writing with a surreal and allegorical story makes the experience of reading this novel powerful, painful, shattering.
It's hard to come to grips with the way Wright couldn't get this novel published in his lifetime--his publisher believed that the first scene in particular, of white police officers beating a black man into confessing a crime he didn't commit, was unrealistically violent. Frankly the interrogation/torture scene in The Man Who Lived Underground wasn't nearly as disturbing to me as the scene in Native Son when Bigger suffocates a woman and stuffs her body parts in a furnace. So I'm left to grapple with the only explanation that makes sense, as to why this novel wasn't published when it was written: that any amount of violence where a white man hurts a black man was deemed by the publisher to be too much for the reading public, whereas a novel about a black man murdering a white woman seemed just fine to them. What the hell, people. This is an extremely disturbing example of the way media industries massage and assuage and censor and suppress. I'm experiencing one of those moments when an artistic work totally surpasses my ability to write about how important I believe it to be. And also, of reality slapping me across the face....more
Some books leave me speechless at the end. I mean this quite literally. I’m not making a metaphorical “there are no words” comment about the quality oSome books leave me speechless at the end. I mean this quite literally. I’m not making a metaphorical “there are no words” comment about the quality of what I have just read. I am instead trying to report a physical phenomenon, a feeling in my throat and lungs that comes only rarely, just after a last sentence is read, and a book is closed, when I’m left with a dazzling void of complicated feeling that renders me mute. After a while the words come back, and my feelings about the book begin to shape themselves into language.
So here is this novel, Oneiron*. In it seven dead women find themselves together in a placeless place, a white void with only the clothes on their backs. At some point they notice they aren’t breathing. Not long after, they realize they are dead. They share their stories. They help one another. They bear witness to the one another’s final moments.These seven women are remarkable only in the way that every human being is remarkable. The stories of their final moments before death are haphazard and sometimes violent and always meaningless. They have nothing in common, not even a common language. But even so these women make themselves into a caring community, in this strange afterlife, where nothing is ever explained, either to these seven characters, or to the reader. As in real life, the characters, and through them the reader, need to take it on faith that their experiences have purpose.
Oneiron is one of those books that stunned me into silence at the end, and when words did come back, they were from I. Corinthians:
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Oneiron is not a religious book. God has no place in the afterlife Lindstedt creates. I’m not a religious person. Yet somehow this novel embraces a life philosophy that reminded me of Paul’s teaching. The novel suggests that caring for others–even in the flawed ways these strangers reach out and care for one another after death–is the most vital motivating impulse that gives meaning to our lives.
For a novel in which everyone is dead, this is a remarkably life-affirming novel.
The second time around for me on this novel--i wanted to check in, and see how I feel about it, since I loved The Keep so much.
With this novel, thougThe second time around for me on this novel--i wanted to check in, and see how I feel about it, since I loved The Keep so much.
With this novel, though, as I read along, I kept thinking: "great writing, pointless story."
Here is when that word "pointless" comes into my head, when reading: it's when there is no discernible core of self-reflection in the novel. No thesis, you might say.
The characters here are like pinballs. Life is something that happens to them.
I don't necessarily need redemption in my novels, or active characters, but I need something. Even if "something" is just a character who becomes self-aware of her/his own helplessness to act--whether ironically or optimistically or tragically self-aware--that's enough.
As it is I didn't know why I was reading this novel....more
Two days after having read The Man Who Loved Children and I'm finally settling down. I don't think I've ever changed a 1 star review to a 5 star revieTwo days after having read The Man Who Loved Children and I'm finally settling down. I don't think I've ever changed a 1 star review to a 5 star review before, but there it is. I've moved from feeling "this is a brilliant book, but I hate it" to feeling: "I may hate this book, but it's brilliant."
This novel made me feel dreadfully insecure about my role as a parent. I've decided that is interesting and amazing rather than something to blame it for. The parents in this novel are dreadful in all the ways I dread being, I suppose.
I was so unsettled by Stead's portrayal of a father who tries to be a friend to his children but ends up doing so in all the most damaging ways, smothering them, obliterating their individuality, so that they become supports for his ego and nothing more. Sam Pollitt is a dreadful father, and yet he thrives on the attention of his children, and his children adore him, even when he is his most self-centered and cruel. Only Louisa, the eldest child, begins to see through her father. Her journey and her growing insight become the redemptive arc in this otherwise bleak story.
Henrietta Pollitt is the kind of mother who not only resents her children but also freely shares with them every resentment she feels toward them; who tells them openly how they have ruined her life; who plays with the notion of suicide in their presence; who barely acknowledges her obligations toward them. I have to confess that I am -not- one of those parents who have never wondered, however much I love my children, what it might have been like to have lived a life without them--what I might have achieved or enjoyed if I didn't have the obligation to love them and to care for them. Just having ever had that skinny daydream in my head of what my life may have been without children made me vulnerable to the horror novel that this novel is at its heart.
I applaud Stead for taking my parental insecurities to the farthest darkest place in this novel. The story is extreme, but it is accurate and educative, and true in the way only a great, classic tragedy can be.
My original 1-star review, below the line. ============================= What it does, it does extremely well.
Imagine "To Kill a Mockingbird" where every character is like Bob Ewell. "Harry Potter" where every character is like Draco Malfoy. "Picture of Dorian Grey" where every character is like Dorian Grey. That's what it felt like to read The Man Who Loved Children.
There is no doubt that this is an exquisitely written novel. Every sentence is masterful. Open any page and you'll find a sentence that amazes.
And there is also something amazing and uncanny about Christina Stead--that she could have such a pure approach, such laser-like genius of dialog and scene and setting; that she could bring to brilliant three-dimensional life these greasy, selfish, repulsive, narcissistic people.
The relentlessness of Stead's take on humanity overwhelmed me, though. If it had been a shorter book I'd probably be praising it. But eventually its meanness overcame its art for me, and my final feeling after having read the novel was one of nausea and despair....more
This is a perfect novel in the same way The Great Gatsby is a perfect novel. Not in the sense of "best" novel--but, in that it perfectly executes its This is a perfect novel in the same way The Great Gatsby is a perfect novel. Not in the sense of "best" novel--but, in that it perfectly executes its intention, its reason to exist as a novel.
Instead of a traditional protagonist-antagonist relationship there are two antagonists of equal and opposing strength at the heart of this novel. The only characteristic the two women share is the utter isolation each endures in daily life. While part of a community, they are set apart from that community, the object of speculation and hostility from others, rather than of friendship and belonging. To survive in their isolation, each of the women has developed a highly idiosyncratic way of coping with the world. The choices each makes are so mutually incomprehensible that their clash is inevitable, and when it happens, it's heartbreaking.
Of the many wonders in this novel, what shines most bright for me is what happens when the women are forced to recognize, and to adapt to, the needs and flaws of the other. It's mysterious and untidy. Wonderful....more
A jarring and personal look at the definition of "war crime" that in some ways did for Japan what Slaughterhouse-Five did for Germany. This novel, likA jarring and personal look at the definition of "war crime" that in some ways did for Japan what Slaughterhouse-Five did for Germany. This novel, like Vonnegut's, highlights the sufferings of civilians by Allied fire bombing during WWII. It was a time when the aerial bombing of civilian targets by Allies was so routine that no one questioned the morality of killing hundreds of thousands of civilians. The fire bombing campaigns leveled city after city just as thoroughly, through repetitive air raids, as a single bomb leveled Hiroshima at the close of the war.
Yoshimura creates a protagonist who executed a B-29 pilot for war crimes after his mother is incinerated by fire bombing and after whole cities are leveled; he is wanted in turn for the war crime of executing the pilot, after the war is over, when his act during the war has been labeled a capital offense.
Unlike Slaughterhouse Five, One Man's Justice is delivered in a near-documentary level of prose that feels more like witness-bearing than fiction. Partly it's the translation--so many sentences are adequate, and yet thuddingly dull, where it's easy to imagine a different word choice or sentence structure would have made for a better read. It's still a riveting look at postwar Japan, filled with details that only someone who lived through it could imagine....more
I didn't expect this novel, especially given the way it begins, to turn out to be a love story. I was surprised by it in so many ways, most of all forI didn't expect this novel, especially given the way it begins, to turn out to be a love story. I was surprised by it in so many ways, most of all for its exquisite depiction of human loneliness. Everyone is lonely in this story. Everyone tries to run away from the despair of their own lives by creating a script and playing parts they write for themselves and in which they are the hero, so that they can justify the most selfish and repulsive acts against others and to pretend for a while that they aren't lonely. Everyone, that is, except for Cheryl Glickman, who, however dysfunctional, is a self-aware human being. She is living her life. She is trying to understand her own humanity, as well as the humanity of those around her. By being true to herself, the most extraordinary love comes to her. The story is a giddy and at times nauseatuing mix of outrageous with mundane, exalted with grotesque, repulsive with tender....more
I read an interview somewhere with Haruf, where he talked about how he wrote an entire novel after Plainsong that was never published, because he realI read an interview somewhere with Haruf, where he talked about how he wrote an entire novel after Plainsong that was never published, because he realized, once it was finished, that it was a bad imitation of Cormac McCarthy, so he threw it away and started over. I love knowing that about Haruf. I love knowing how hard it was for him to write as simply as he did. He doubted his own voice. He had to yield to it, over and over again, trusting it blindly, and to keep going, without confidence in himself. That was the only way he was able to write gems like Our Souls at Night and Plainsong. I've read Our Souls at Night twice now and love it dearly but I confess I skip the chapter where a mother talks about how her daughter died, as it feels too conveniently sentimental...but I forgive Haruf all, because I feel at home with these people, I feel like I grew up with them....more
This book was great in an extremely mediocre way, by which I mean, it was masterfully told, and I felt there were a lot of wise moments in it, where IThis book was great in an extremely mediocre way, by which I mean, it was masterfully told, and I felt there were a lot of wise moments in it, where I felt closer to understanding the way the choices we make while young continue to affect us as we age--even long after we think we are mature, and that we understand everything and have outgrown the past. Fair enough.
But for me the novel doesn't take the needed extra step of saying something worth remembering any longer than a few minutes past its final pages. There is a layering of convenience in the plotting, and a level of hysteria and self-importance in the 'reveal' near the end of the book, that left me dissatisfied. Also throughout the novel there is profound a lack of kindness shown toward others, not only on the part of the protagonist toward every other character, but also on the part of the protagonist toward his younger self. A major theme of the book that our actions and especially our pettinesses can cause irrevocable harm to others. But the way this lesson is learned aggrandizes the protagonist, where he should have instead been humbled after learning more about his past mistakes and their consequences.
Another theme that misfired for me was the idea that we refine our memories of the past to support our own best idea of ourselves. I didn't buy the universality of this theme or this claim. I know so many people who work hard to improve themselves, and to actually become better, more thoughtful people, rather than just pretending to be that way. So the cynicism of this book's major premises felt more like pretend concerns, made up for the sake of a fiction, rather than allowing me insight into the world, in the ways only the best fiction can. ...more
What a beautiful book. I enjoyed being in the company of such intelligent characters. Satisfying in every way--thoughtful about cultures and the role What a beautiful book. I enjoyed being in the company of such intelligent characters. Satisfying in every way--thoughtful about cultures and the role of anthropology, richly imagined relationships, and what felt to me to be a very inspired and meaningful exploration of how dominant cultures exploit weaker ones. I am glad to have read this book....more
A story about a writer named Ruth who is obsessed with a different character in the book, a character who is IRL the creation of a writer named Ruth. A story about a writer named Ruth who is obsessed with a different character in the book, a character who is IRL the creation of a writer named Ruth. Add to it an adolescent voice in alternating chapters, frequent use of Buddhist aphorisms, tie ins with both the Tohoku tsunami and WWII, child abuse, and a crowd-pleasing pinch of magical realism and whimsy...and there you have it, a book many fellow readers love, but I'm not one of them....more
I enjoyed reading this book. Victoria Sweet is a careful thinker who has obviously worked hard in her medical career to be a moral person. Sweet examiI enjoyed reading this book. Victoria Sweet is a careful thinker who has obviously worked hard in her medical career to be a moral person. Sweet examines all presumptions about medical care without prejudice, using her experiences in a 20 year career to illustrate her evolving thought. She is no Luddite but at no point does she allow herself to blindly believe in the march of progress. A doctor who questions "progress" is already a surprise to me--for me, it's hard to think about the "history of medicine" without framing it as a triumph of science over mythology. But over and over again Sweet discovers what we have lost, as well as gained, as the practice of medicine has evolved over the centuries.
The book is weirdly non-prescriptive, and deliberately vague about time--for chapters on end I wasn't sure when it takes place, and between chapters I didn't know how much time had passed--to the point where at many times I couldn't know what decade we were talking about in a given chapter, until some marker (a mention of AIDS patients, or of Obama) gave it away. In this manner Sweet almost recreated for me, as a reader, what medical care would be like if it focused, as Sweet advocates, on giving the body time to heal itself, rather than forcing an ill patient's treatment to fit the schedule of the health care system. For a memoir the book was also refreshingly non-autobiographical. I got to know the author only through her observations of other people and events, which in an era of James Frey-like self aggrandizing confessional memoirs is remarkable all on its own.
After reading, I know Sweet feels very strongly about many issues, but I never felt preached to. I felt instead that, as I read, my mind was being continuously presented with new things to think about. Sweet threads a needle here, rather than choosing sides. A discussion of the sadness and wrongness of allowing a schizophrenic patient decline life-saving treatment is followed up immediately by a discussion about the dangers of taking an individual's right to choose medical treatment away from them. This somehow doesn't feel contradictory--it feels instead as if Sweet allows for complexity of thought, and doesn't give herself, or her readers, the right to be content with easy answers. Instead of being hammered by a particular point of view, the way a typical nonfiction book about the health care system would read, I feel expanded as a reader, and as a human being....more
I kept thinking: "this is pretty good for a 22 year old." I also kept thinking: "this book would never have been published today." I'm not asserting tI kept thinking: "this is pretty good for a 22 year old." I also kept thinking: "this book would never have been published today." I'm not asserting that as a truth about the book. I'm just saying I kept thinking it.
On almost every page I felt reminded that this novel was written by a young writer, someone who hadn't figured out quite how to pace a novel, or how to focus his themes, or how to deal with dramatic scenes without either short-changing them or turning them into bathos. World War I as narrative summary called "Interlude?" I don't care if Fitzgerald hadn't actually been to war--neither had Stephen Crane. Also the different structural choices and narrative voices from one section to the next don't feel like an author with mastery over the material, or an author making conscious choices. They feel like the author doesn't know what he is doing yet.
Almost because the book was such a startling mess to me, I loved the detail in the novel about Amory's reading habits. Throughout the book Fitzgerald assumes that a list of authors' names will telegraph to his readers Amory's current state of mind and maturity. Here is an example:
"He read enormously every night—Shaw, Chesterton, Barrie, Pinero, Yeats, Synge, Ernest Dowson, Arthur Symons, Keats, Sudermann, Robert Hugh Benson, the Savoy Operas—just a heterogeneous mixture, for he suddenly discovered that he had read nothing for years."
Of course these passing mentions of authors, some referred to just by last name because they were so well-known back then, can't have the same effect now as they did when Fitzgerald wrote the novel. Many of these authors are out of print or rarely read. But the references to books and authors in This Side of Paradise served to remind me of the mystery of literary endurance, and this became the question that preoccupied me, while reading it: Why do some books stay popular for a few months or years, and others are read for generations? This Side Of Paradise itself is now part of that mystery....more
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