I got to the end (again) and said to myself, 'Okay, have I read this novel now? Am I done with this novel?'
And I can't answer myself.
More than any oI got to the end (again) and said to myself, 'Okay, have I read this novel now? Am I done with this novel?'
And I can't answer myself.
More than any other novel (possible exceptions: the novels of Volodine and Can Xue), the reading experience I had was like being at a concert, listening to a live performance. It is a contemporary piece of classical music. I'm hearing it for the first time. Sometimes the music grips me. Sometimes I hear repeating themes that I can grab onto and derive meaning from. But there are also intervals where I'm passively listening, and a little zoned out, having my own thoughts that may or may not be inspired by the music coming through my ears. And in the end I've had an artistic experience that swirls inside me and leaves me feeling deeply satisfied, but the experience I had may not be the experience anyone else had, and the experience was not one I could derive definitive semantic meanings from. It was not to be pinned down by words, or summarized in a synopsis, any more than music can be summarized or described as having certain definitive 'meanings.'
I enjoyed it most when I found a sweet spot where I was paying rapt attention to the words, and at the same time was allowing myself to free-associate with their meanings. I even gave myself permission to make up my own meanings, as I wished.
For instance. There is an un-openable box in this novel, and it is very small and nondescript, but, hey, what is inside? Everyone wants to know. It plagues people. They need to know but they can't figure out how to open this box. And this box seemed to fit exactly with how I was plagued to find meaning in the novel, in the words I was reading. I wanted to know exactly what these words were meant to mean. What the heck. I couldn't figure it out because the stories kept leaping and darting forth and then hiding themselves in the grass.
And then I remembered how often I personally imagine words themselves as "boxes." Words-as-boxes fascinates me. Often I find myself thinking about how each word really is just a sound or a string of scribbles, and yet we humans think of words as a kind of container (or box) for a thing we call "meaning," and how weird is that? The way we count on these word-boxes to hold a meaning inside themselves, as they pass from one human ear to the next? It's remarkable. It's not like we can open a word up and see MEANING inside there.
But was I supposed to have had this thought as I read this novel?
Who knows.
The novel travels swiftly along from one vivid scene to the next--but then upends itself, or shifts in a radical way. It was challenging and I loved it but I can't tell you what it was meant to mean. In this review I've used music as a metaphor for my reading experience, but I could just as well have said it was like abstract art. Like a Pollock painting. Beautiful, enigmatic. Whether this work is a messy accident, or completely controlled in its effect, might be a matter for debate. The point is, I never felt guided toward a certain conclusion. I was invited in, to make my own judgments. And that was a wonderful thing.
Captivating, gorgeous, gripping. Full of mystery, dread, and revelation. The old people in this novella know what's going on and sometimes the women dCaptivating, gorgeous, gripping. Full of mystery, dread, and revelation. The old people in this novella know what's going on and sometimes the women do, too. The men? They are just trying to hang on and pretend they're in charge. Each moment that passes in this eerie novella is full of happenings just this side of surreal. I love stories like this, the ones that take time to make me appreciate the utter strangeness of our world. The pigs' teeth stuck in the wych-elm in Howards End. The dead sparrow hanging from a wire in Gombrowicz's Cosmos. The fish that leaps out of its tank and pins a man to his bed in Weasels in the Attic. This is the kind of fiction that captivates me. Fiction that is unexplainably weird and yet also somehow exactly the truth. Fiction that is terrifyingly chaotic and yet at the same time comforting, and I find myself thinking, yes, that's right. That's exactly the way it is.
If you liked the following books then you will probably like this novella, too: Threats by Amelia Gray. Desperate Characters by Paula Fox. Ice by Anna Kavan....more
Carlotta, formerly known as Dustin, returns home on parole after spending twenty years in a men’s prison. Her story is achingly sad but she is resilieCarlotta, formerly known as Dustin, returns home on parole after spending twenty years in a men’s prison. Her story is achingly sad but she is resilient and it’s impossible not to root for her. She’s so aware of the absurdity of the cruelties she suffers. It’s almost as if she can convince herself she’s taking pratfalls in her own weird sitcom, rather than living a life nearly bereft of hope or joy. The scenes are punctuated with a sudden, starburst humor—the kind of humor that makes you eventually want to cry, because it’s so biting, and so ruthlessly uninterested in making you see the pain less clearly. The writing is gorgeous. The voice requires concentration. I could say the story is Joycean, but only if Leopold Bloom were a Black/Colombian trans woman who is too “pee shy” to urinate in front of her parole officer and that is the least of her problems....more
Magee has pulled off something so rare in literature with this novel; the prose sings; the observations about the complexity of human relationships arMagee has pulled off something so rare in literature with this novel; the prose sings; the observations about the complexity of human relationships are revelatory; the novel manages to both be intellectually challenging, and also filled with heart; its scenes feel immediate and visceral, but somehow they are also steeped in deep historical references; that it's a tragedy that manages to also be a testament to human resilience.
Updating my review today to add my thoughts on the audiobook, which I've just finished listening to. When I read the hardcover it at times felt like a stage play to me, because of the preponderance of dialogue, mixed with interior monologue. The dialogue-heavy quality of the storytelling makes the novel a perfect fit with Stephen Hogan's incredible narration. The audio performance was a different but equally magnificent experience. Hogan gives the characters a voice that at times surprised me. I had 'heard' these people differently, when I read it silently. The differences delighted me, and his interpretations gave me another way to think about the characters. A really great performance!...more
However circumscribed this novel seems in scope (it's about a young single woman with very few prospects, and fewer friends, who finds a way to transfHowever circumscribed this novel seems in scope (it's about a young single woman with very few prospects, and fewer friends, who finds a way to transform her life in simple, yet miraculous ways), it is filled with grand themes, and says a great deal about life choices, and self-determination, and society. It's a marvel how such a small story could grapple with such big metaphysical questions. But it does. I loved it. This will be a perfect read for people who loved reading Winter in Sokcho by Elisa Shua Dusapin (tr Aneesa Higgins), Cold Enough for Snow by Jessica Au, and Brood by Jackie Polzin.
I also blurbed this book as Claire Oshetsky. So all of the me's love it....more
What an extraordinary novella, not only for the gorgeous prose on every level but also for the feeling it gave me. I felt lifted. I felt wiser. The naWhat an extraordinary novella, not only for the gorgeous prose on every level but also for the feeling it gave me. I felt lifted. I felt wiser. The narrator is intensely observant of both her environment and her inner worlds. She describes her family in ways that aren't always complementary, but are always full of love. The descriptions of mood and place are outstanding and revealing. Au perfectly channels the sensibility of a young person trying to understand the world in a deeper way.
Cold Enough for Snow reminds me of other recent favorites including Three O'Clock in the Morning by Gianrico Carofiglio and Optic Nerve by María Gainza--if you loved those, then you will love this--but it has a, well, the best word for it really is 'love'--it has a love of life and language that, for me, catapulted it beyond even these great favorites....more
I just finished reading Agatha of Little Neon and I feel, I don't know, maybe the word is: "raptured." Which is different from feeling merely "enraptuI just finished reading Agatha of Little Neon and I feel, I don't know, maybe the word is: "raptured." Which is different from feeling merely "enraptured," I don't even care what this story is about--although I loved the story--because what has left me feeling weepy and loose-jointed and maybe even a little in love with Claire Luchette is the prose. The words. The way the sentences leap and curve and sometimes stop still and hang there, suspended--until the next breath comes. The language stupefied me. I kept thinking: How can words on their own be so delightful? How can words keep silently making these lovely little starbursts come inside my mind, almost entirely independent of their meaning? How can a whole book of sentences just keep on, and keep on, each next-sentence so unexpected? So here is what I'm trying to say: If you're a prose person, then you may feel the same way. It's not elaborate prose. It's more like the most lovely handmade thing you ever came across in an antique shop, that handcrafted thing you've been looking for all your life and didn't know it. There it is in front of you. I can't be trusted about this novel any longer is what I'm trying to say. Because this novel has enchanted me.
I'm so happy to see a rave review for Agatha of Little Neon in the Sunday NY Times Book Review section today (Sept 12 2021)~here is a link....more
Reading this novel was like being on a rollercoaster and thinking, ok, I'm on this rollercoaster, and so I know where this ride is going...only your cReading this novel was like being on a rollercoaster and thinking, ok, I'm on this rollercoaster, and so I know where this ride is going...only your car keeps leaping off the tracks and out into space before it somehow finds its course along another stretch of track, one that might just belong to a different roller coaster altogether.
I read breathlessly. The journey thrilled me. The bravery of Beth Morgan, to take this story to the places she did, reminds me of where Flannery O'Connor took Wise Blood or more recently, where Hari Kunzru took White Tears. I'm also reminded of the films of Yorgos Lanthimos, in particular The Killing of the Sacred Deer, for the way this story has an internal logic that works perfectly as art, but that falls apart if taken out of the peculiar reality in which it exists, or if forced to bend to the rules of realism, or even to the rules that most fiction is written by.
In addition to being an intense and unique reading experience, along the way the author has some remarkable things to say about faith, solipsism, parasocial relationships, and how we derive meaning (or not) from the barrage of sensory inputs that make up our daily lives.
Also, wow, the dialogue in this story is amazing, as is the way Morgan captures the tiny self-editing/self-blaming/self-conscious thoughts we all have when in conversation with our fellow human beings.
I loved this reading experience. I'm happy someone with Beth Morgan's imagination and talent lives in the world. I'm so, so happy this book got published the way it did. Yeah. Read it....more
December 2023, second read. Last time I read this novel (see review below) I was moved and amazed by it. This time I was appalled and revolted. I’m woDecember 2023, second read. Last time I read this novel (see review below) I was moved and amazed by it. This time I was appalled and revolted. I’m wondering if that means I should change my five star rating. I don’t think so. I honestly don’t know what to think about my reading life these days. Why do I read fiction? Why do I write it? How does it work? What’s its purpose? Is a book that revolts me qualitatively worse (or better) than a book that exhilarates me? Who says so? Who gets to decide? What’s going on? Why a goblin?
I am so moved by this novel. It's entirely unique and yet it flows mysteriously in the same mighty river of fiction that has sprung up in these last years, written by women from all over the world, who are suddenly writing in a fierce and visceral and entirely ruthless way about what it's like to be different.
This novel is outrageous and funny in some parts, and it's outrageous and heartbreaking in others. I never knew what to expect, but then, every time the unexpected happened on the page, I thought: "of course. I know this feeling. I've lived this feeling, even if I've never thought about it quite this way before now."
I wasn't entirely on board for Murata's previously translated novel, "Convenience Store Woman," which struck me as accomplished, but a little safe. EARTHLINGS, in contrast, is radically risky. It's likely to be one of my favorites of the year. Murata invites us readers to take a leap into the unknown with her story, only for us to discover later that we know all too well what she's writing about....more
I was exhilarated by this work. I'm not sure what it is. Is it a poem? An essay? A barbaric yawp? I moved forward through the text cautiously, not knoI was exhilarated by this work. I'm not sure what it is. Is it a poem? An essay? A barbaric yawp? I moved forward through the text cautiously, not knowing how to protect myself from my own wild thoughts bouncing off the words on the page. I pretty much loved it. I was confused by it. I was annoyingly disturbed by questions about whether the hard-breaks in the text were meant to be there or were some artifact of me reading this book in digital ARC form, and on a first-gen IPad.
The publisher's description says "the narrative, the essayistic and the magical is organically woven together into a literary text that both genre-wise and by virtue of its content refuses to be boxed in" and that sentence really sums up what I think about this novel, at this moment--because this description from the publisher is irksomely UNGRAMMATICAL (please, dear verso, its 'the narrative, the essayistic and the magical _ARE_ organically woven together) and yet, with work on my part, the publisher's description also seems to mean something exactly like this novel means.
I feel like I was in communion with the semi-raw/half-baked thinking of a very interesting human being who is Jenny Hval.
Good. Try it. I'm going to buy it in book form when it's available so I can at least be sure where the author means to make her line breaks vs. being continuously bemused about whether there is any meaning at all to them, as they appeared in the ARC....more
In May 2018 I read a "By the Book" interview in the New York Times featuring Lauren Groff. What she said in that interview changed my reading life.
GrIn May 2018 I read a "By the Book" interview in the New York Times featuring Lauren Groff. What she said in that interview changed my reading life.
Groff said:
I try to assume that when an otherwise celebrated book doesn’t connect with me, it’s because of who I am when I read it, not because of the book’s own inherent badness. If I try again later, maybe the book will resonate with a future me. This happened with Christina Stead’s “The Man Who Loved Children,” which I hated the first three times I tried to read it, then on the fourth, I discovered it to be a work of genius.
That's exactly what happened to me with Nothing to See Here. The first time I read this novel I couldn't find my way in at all. I just finished reading it for the fourth time, and now I discover that it is one of the most open-hearted, true books I've ever read. Wilson enters the hearts of his characters and gives them truthful inner lives. He gives them compassion, and he treats them with compassion too. I'm very happy I kept trying.
Thank you Kevin Wilson for writing this soulful optimistic loving book. Your children are lucky to have you for a dad. Thanks to Lauren Groff too, for so matter-of-factly acknowledging that whether a book is 'good' or 'bad' to us is mostly, maybe almost fully, a function of who we are when we read it. She has made me think of re-reading as not only necessary to my reading life, but also, a delightful journey, full of unexpected discovery....more
This novel entranced and absorbed me, and disturbed me, too. The story illustrates the corrosive effects of misogyny and poverty on the female body anThis novel entranced and absorbed me, and disturbed me, too. The story illustrates the corrosive effects of misogyny and poverty on the female body and spirit, and it's so intimately told, and so full of female happenings--the feeling of a sanitary napkin between one's legs, the feeling of dissatisfaction about one's breasts or nipples or skin or some other flaw, the surprise of menstrual blood on a day when it isn't expected--that I frequently had that lovely feeling that only great storytelling can give--that the author/narrator was presenting certain truths to me that I'd never bothered to think about, or to give words to, before reading them here on the page. One small perfect, everyday observation after another is made, setting a scene and grounding the story in a gritty, practical reality--and then the narration suddenly will soar for a paragraph or two into a profound metaphysical observation, about life, or ambition, or fate, or the ravages of poverty, or the obligations of filial love. The characters in the novel are flawed and broken, but they forgive one another. They do their best. I enjoyed the first section for the way it affected me emotionally, and I enjoyed what followed for the ideas it gave me. Wonderful....more
I adored the experience of reading this novel. It's such a deeply sensory experience to read, and such a deep dive into a first-person voice that is iI adored the experience of reading this novel. It's such a deeply sensory experience to read, and such a deep dive into a first-person voice that is incantatory and surreal, and maybe insane. For the most part I had no idea what was going on, and I didn't care.
I want other people to read this novel so I can ask them what they experienced while reading it. The back-cover copy promises "a meditation on memory and forgetting, creation, and oblivion," which sounds about right, but I'd add to that description a delicate powdering of "ecstatic revelation." It's the kind of book that compelled me to read it through in a "wow"-like stupor, and then, when I was done, I opened the pages at random to read solo sentences in isolation, because they were each so evocative and strange. It's tangentially about a big old smelly mushroom, by the way. And, it's sort of a love story. The mushroom is referred to with she/her pronouns and I hope she's okay with that. She communicates in ways more olfactory than verbal. If this were longer it might have become too challenging because there is just so much of "what is going on" I can take in my fiction but at 176 pages this was just right. I will quote a blurb from the back now, because for once the blurb is right: "A singular novel."
This is my third work of fiction published by Bellevue Literary Press and they are a new favorite. In each case the novel I read was like nothing I'd read before, and I was left grateful that Bellevue Literary Press took the leap of faith to bring these books into the world....more
Remarkably vivid and replete with sensual detail. As I read, I saw the scenes and the people to a degree that I never do. The book urged me to read itRemarkably vivid and replete with sensual detail. As I read, I saw the scenes and the people to a degree that I never do. The book urged me to read it slowly. It invited me to take in each page. It persuaded me to allow myself time to look around before I moved on.
I'm not sure what I think of this novel yet in terms of emotional resonances...what I'm feeling from it right now is a blobby wonder, and a fuzzy feeling in my fingertips. I'm noticing things around me in real space in much the way I do, for a little while, after visiting an art museum.
Tyll is so entertaining that I struggled at first to understand just how deep it is. I'm not sure what it says about contemporary literature, or aboutTyll is so entertaining that I struggled at first to understand just how deep it is. I'm not sure what it says about contemporary literature, or about me, that I needed to consciously banish my cynical mistrust of any book that is so delightful to read.
As I read the novel I thought of Falstaff, Shakespeare's comic-yet-deep repeating character. The character who most reminded me of Falstaff is played by a donkey, a character who appears in many scenes, sometimes for comic value and sometimes for something else entirely.
And now that I've brought it up, I realize that I could write several paragraphs just about the donkey in this novel--how funny the donkey is in a given scene, and then how horrifically the donkey's fate plays out in another scene. Sometimes this donkey has a name, and its name is Origenes. And like so much in Tyll, Kehlmann invites me to think of the donkey's name as just a name, and to read on, or alternatively, to ponder what shimmering potentials are added to my reading if I take time to realize "Origenes" is also the name of an itinerant third-century Christian ascetic whose life and fate were caught up in religious disputes not unlike those raging in this novel.
The donkey's story is threaded throughout this broken, nonlinear novel, and always brings with it some new wonder or terror or sadness or revelation, even though it's a minor character, like Falstaff. And the thing is, it's not just the donkey. Every character in the novel is a kind of itinerant bit player, and every one of them--the miller Claus, the Winter King, the expert in dragonology, the little girl named Martha, Tyll himself--has a marvelous and mysterious story to tell, when it's their time on stage. Kehlmann made them all real for me, sometimes in just a few sentences.
References to Shakespeare plays appear throughout this novel with both historical and thematic resonances. A recurring side-theme is how literature was changing in this period of history that we now call "early-modern." The play Macbeth makes its way into a scene as a way to reference James I's rise to power, and Macbeth's last soliloquy is a good description of how this novel unfurls as you read it:
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
So here we are. Apparently my second stab at coming to grips with Tyll here on Goodreads is going to consist of a little bit of Shakespeare, a little bit of donkey.
Okay. I should also add that I found a lot of Lutheran-like philosophy playing out in profound ways--over and over again the character Tyll projects a belief that suffering and uncertainty is worth enduring for the hope of living through it, and that evil is worth fighting, for the hope of the good to come. This philosophy is most starkly portrayed in the late chapter "In the Shaft."
Well, I'm just gob-smacked by this novel. Read it....more
This novel is small in scale--just four characters, on a single day--but in spite of its small scale, it's full of human experience. With just a few pThis novel is small in scale--just four characters, on a single day--but in spite of its small scale, it's full of human experience. With just a few perfectly chosen details Almada sets a scene, and reveals her characters' imperfections and humanity. I could see this place. I could see these people.
This is a very quiet book. The writing is extremely disciplined. There isn't a single unnecessary word. After having read many baggy monsters in a row recently, reading Almada's short novel felt like an encounter with a miniature perfection. I'm very happy to have read it....more
An exceptional rendering of an impoverished community in which human beings find a way to survive and to care for one another.
In the novel's first pagAn exceptional rendering of an impoverished community in which human beings find a way to survive and to care for one another.
In the novel's first pages, five-year-old Kampol is abandoned by his parents. The rest of the novel is made up of brilliant episodic gems, as Kampol survives and adapts, and as the people around him learn to care for him.
We're transported to a place where helping others means you won't have enough for yourself...and yet, people help Kampol to the best of their limited means. Their level of concern for the abandoned boy waxes and wanes as their own situations become more or less dire. Sometimes they forget all about him for a few days--these times are heartbreaking.
Pimwana does such a good job bringing to life Kampol's loneliness and near-starvation in the early days of his abandonment. It feels natural in this community, where everyone is living at the bitter edge of poverty and disaster, that characters will be both empathetic to Kampol's situation, and also a bit reluctant to get involved.
This novel floats along in a place of remarkably sweet melancholy that never falls into sentimentality. The skill with which Pimwana succeeds in telling a complex and mature story through the eyes of a child reminded me of Carson McCullers's achievement in The Member of the Wedding. ...more
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