I feel a failure now that I've finished The Fifth Head of Cerberus. It is good. Very good. I see that. But I can only muster mild "like" for the thingI feel a failure now that I've finished The Fifth Head of Cerberus. It is good. Very good. I see that. But I can only muster mild "like" for the thing, and I feel as though I must have missed something along the way in my insomnia reading haze. And I can't really see myself going back to redress the situation because I just don't feel connected to Gene Wolfe's work.
A subtle, ingenious, poetic and picturesque book; the uncertaintly principle embodied in brilliant fiction...
and I think, "Yep, but meh." And then I read what China Miéville says about the book,
[[author:Gene Wolfe]'s] tragico-Catholic perspective leads to a deeply unglamorized and unsanitized awareness of social reality. This book is a very sad and extremely dense, complex meditation on colonialism, identity and oppression.
and I think, "Mmmhmm, but still..." And I enjoy the three novella = novel structure, but the manufactured obscurity makes me cold. And I appreciate the struggles of the three protagonists, but I only ever flirt with investing myself in their conflicts. And I see Wolfe playing with the themes that people venerate this work for, but I can't quite put my finger on anything that I can personally take away.
So I walk away from the book unmoved and uninspired, yet I see its quality. I really do. So please don't avoid this book because of me. I probably missed something crucial. The fault for my lack of excitement is likely my own -- or my lack of sleep's. Whichever it is, though, I will never know. Sorry, Mr. Wolfe. I'll try to do better next time I read one of your books. ...more
Like Alexander taking his sword to the Gordian Knot, Paul Auster chops away at the knotty loop he's tangled throughout Travels in the Scriptorium -- iLike Alexander taking his sword to the Gordian Knot, Paul Auster chops away at the knotty loop he's tangled throughout Travels in the Scriptorium -- inelegantly solving the very problem he created while invalidating the reader's input.
Until the ending, this was an obtuse work and brilliant for it's wide angle of perspective because the potential meanings were myriad. Mr. Blank could have been anyone. His crimes could have been anything. His victims could have been everyone or no one. This was a text begging for the reader to engage with the tale and finish it off, much as the "Final Report of Sigmund Graf" was begging Mr. Blank for completion, and my delight was in letting imagination wander about from allegorical possibility to allegorical possibility, and when Auster let this happen, Travels in the Scriptorium was marvelous.
Unfortunately, Auster couldn't walk away from the knot he'd tied and let us all face it on our own. He carried his sword, carried it as mercilessly as Alexander of Macedonia, and he hacked at the knot until it slumped into an uncoiled mess, cleaved into pieces, ensuring that the power of the knot was no more.
All the untangling I'd been doing was for naught; while i was reading, the untangling was everything. By the end, Auster left me with nothing. ...more
Embassytown is about reality. Embassytown is about how we make reality. Embassytown is about how we speak reality. Embassytown What is Embassytown about?
Embassytown is about reality. Embassytown is about how we make reality. Embassytown is about how we speak reality. Embassytown is reality. Embassytown is unreal. Embassytown is about religion. Embassytown is about the spirit. Embassytown is about being incorruptible. Embassytown is about corruption. Embassytown is corruption. Embassytown is about the opiated masses. Embassytown is about what opiates the masses. Embassytown is about any opiates for any masses. Embassytown is opiates. Embassytown is the masses. Embassytown is a mass. Embassytown is about Language. Embassytown is about language. Embassytown is Language/language. Embassytown is about simile. Embassytown is like a simile. Embassytown is metaphor. Metaphor is Embassytown. Metaphor is a lie. Metaphors lie. Embassytown is a lie. Embassytown is metaphor. Metaphor uncovers truth. Truth is a lie. Lying is truth. Embassytown is about us. We are Embassytown. We are metaphor. Metaphor. ...more
This book wasn't written for me. I am not on a search for spirituality; I am not trying to understand my spirituality; I don't even think humanity itsThis book wasn't written for me. I am not on a search for spirituality; I am not trying to understand my spirituality; I don't even think humanity itself is all that special, and I certainly don’t believe spirituality is what separates us from the beasts. So from the earliest moments of The Zahir I felt like a tourist, an unwelcome voyeur.
But then this book was written for me because, stripping away all the talk of spirituality, I am looking for complete sensuality, complete living, complete being and much of The Zahir was about accepting these possibilities in our lives. When Coelho was talking about these possibilities, I felt welcomed into the community of the book. The book felt right.
I wondered how I was supposed to care about a man of leisure and the problems only he could afford to have. I disdained his dilettantism. The constant pontification concerning love drove me insane. I shook my head at the blindness of the narrator's faith -- in damn near everything. I loathed the constant lecturing about love and personal history. I was unsatisfied with the ending.
Yet I was captivated by the questions the narrator asked, the way he had to know certain bits of minutia to be happy. I embraced the unconventional visions of love and fidelity. I cared what happened to Nobody and Mikhail/Oleg and Esther and Marie. I revelled in the literary references. I loved the narrative voice. I was compelled to read The Zahir at pace. And I was paradoxically satisfied with the ending.
I can't think of anyone I would recommend this book to, except maybe my friend Ruzz, but I wouldn't really tell anyone to stay away from this book either, except maybe my friend Ruzz.
I am baffled by the experience. I am curious to read more of Coelho's work. I don't know if I will.
I wonder if this reading experience will stick with me, or if all I will retain is my new found fascination with train tracks. I just don't know. Not at all.
I am an excellent reader, as I know many of my friends on goodreads are, but I don’t think there’s enough appreciation of reading as a skill in our woI am an excellent reader, as I know many of my friends on goodreads are, but I don’t think there’s enough appreciation of reading as a skill in our world. We take it for granted, those of us who are “literate,” and because it is the base of the things that we learn, we tend to ignore those who excel. Of course, many of those who read well are told they “analyze things too much” or that they “dig too deep” by those who might be solid readers, but probably don’t have serious reading chops.
I think of it this way: the critics of analysis are the Sunday co-ed softball players who enjoy the game, like to escape for a few hours of exercise and fun, and like to hit the occasional home run or catch a tricky pop fly. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But for all the thousands of recreational ball players, there are a handful of professional ball players, whose skills are ever so much better (and whose skills stretch from Single A to the Big Leagues). They are the ones who get more from a hit, or a perfectly executed throw; they’re the ones who will stretch a double into a triple; they’re the ones who will take a fastball in the back rather than bail out of the box. And as readers go, they’re the ones who make the connections, who read the patterns that most people don't. They're the ones who analyze too much.
My reading of Pattern Recognition puts me in the category of the pro ball players. I loved the book on its own merits, and I know that I was able to read the merits in a way that others won’t be able to access. Many will, of course, and they will love what they've found, but there's plenty there for those who won't. And there is certainly nothing wrong with whatever reading those recreational players come up with.
Why do I feel this way? How can I say these things? Because I didn’t just read this book, I created it as I turned every page. I was part of the process; I wasn’t just reading someone else’s finished process; I was the final important element of the patterns William Gibson was laying out for connection. The book needed me, and those like me, to be complete. Every time this book is read by a talented reader, it is being written.
So there’s no point in really talking about the book's particulars. I’m not going to summarize the plot or point out specific moments of prose brilliance. I am not going to discuss the connections in the book. I am not going to talk about how personal this was to read. Just read it yourself. Make your own connections. Become part of the process of Pattern Recognition and let yourself analyze it, let yourself dig deep. And if you can’t do those things, you should still read it because I’m guessing it’s good enough for every level of play....more
Jabber be praised! After two months, !TWO MONTHS!, my copy finally arrived today. I love what Lulu does, but it blows to buy from Lulu when you're in Jabber be praised! After two months, !TWO MONTHS!, my copy finally arrived today. I love what Lulu does, but it blows to buy from Lulu when you're in Canada.
Hector is not a novel. Nor a poem. Nor a work of entertainment. Nor even a manifesto.
It’s an act of violence. A sadistic, intentional, deliberate assault on the reader.
It is a gash torn into the fleshy, well fed belly of the leviathan that is us. A long suppurating, infected wound that stinks to the top of every peak, so that all we can smell is the gangrenous waft of its corruption, puss filled and rank. It is a gross thing meant for suffering.
It is a harpoon lancing into the hump on our backs and biting deeply and painfully. Screaming through bone, fragmenting shards as it plunges, shunting aside flesh and blubber, to catch us on the end of a rope that will lead to our disembowelment and the spilling of our ambergris to some creature better than us.
It is a the decapitation of our noble heads and the insect larvae housing themselves in the gore of our exsanguinated husks, the pulsating spew of ichor into dirt to make red mud -- ourselves as the iron source.
It is hatred, a hatred of hubris that makes us most human. It is a hatred of ourselves, a self-loathing, an admission of guilt and an accusation and an endless, spewing, projectile vomit of black tar from the core of our nastiness.
It is the screaming, iced urine from a chamber pot, light burning our eyes, fists against our skull awakening from the nightmare zombification of our mundanity. The bruising and scar tissue we see in the mirrors and cover with cosmetics or hats or sunglasses.
It is our shame. And it all comes from a place that is the reverse.
It's powerful and I love the woman who made it. Can we meet someday and scream from a cliff against the waves? The waves will beat us. There’s nothing to be done about that. But the screaming will be something. Something at least....more
Reading The Plague during the COVID pandemic was not the best decision I’ve ever made, and not for the reason I think you may be thinking. If you wereReading The Plague during the COVID pandemic was not the best decision I’ve ever made, and not for the reason I think you may be thinking. If you were thinking that the undertaking must have been massively depressing, you’re not wrong (and it definitely slowed down my progress), but the sadness The Plague conjured wasn’t the reason I wish I had read Camus’ masterpiece years ago rather than during our first plague of the 21st century.
It was a poor decision because I will never be able to divorce my reading of The Plague from what it says about this time ... right now ... that we are all living through. Had I read The Plague before the pandemic, I would have brushed up against its allegory of Vichy France and set it aside because I would been absolutely captivated by the beauty in the book, the hope & glory that people find in life even when hope is dashed and we are forced to face how absurd our existence is in the face of the greater universe. I was able to see and feel the sombre beauty as I read The Plague during COVID -- my brain did see all the marvellous things Camus was doing -- but I was unable to engage with them intensely, wholeheartedly, completely, to immerse myself in their life affirming brilliance, to truly feel the way Camus intended me to feel.
Instead, I was watching a replay of all the stages we’ve been going through since January 9th, 2020. The Plague is a mirror to the pandemic. The quiet resolve of some, the mad stupidity of others, the selflessness and selfishness, the uniting of a community before it tears itself apart, the role of religion, of government, of force, of personal responsibility, of charity, of internal and external pressures, of isolation and the lack thereof, of denial and acceptance and fear and relief. All of the things make up The Plague, and reading The Plague during the pandemic was exhausting rather than exalting. But I will love it forever, even though it can never be the love that it might have been. It truly is one of the greatest books ever written. ...more
I remember taking this book out of the library at my elementary school, Queensland Downs Elementary School, when I was in Mrs. Sanders' class for gradI remember taking this book out of the library at my elementary school, Queensland Downs Elementary School, when I was in Mrs. Sanders' class for grade three. We were in the library for a library period, and I asked Mrs. Dalgliesh, our groovy librarian, for a book. I can't remember if I was the one who suggested Greek Mythology or if it was she, but I do remember her aiding me at the card catalogues, then she sent me off to the shelves to track down "292 DAU [JUV]."
That little journey changed me irrevocably.
I devoured D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths in what was then record time, and within days I was debating my father on theology. I demanded to know why I couldn't worship Zeus instead of his God; I wanted to know why, if the Greek Gods came first, they had a flood, Heracles was resurrected, and Phrixus was saved from being sacrificed by his father by the presence of a golden ram, amongst other things. I wanted to know how Christianity could have such similar myths.
It was the beginning of the end of my religiosity and the penultimate blow to my catholicism. It was the end of my acquiescence to unjust authority. It was the end of acceptance without questions. It catalysed my constant search for understanding. It was the beginning of my father's disdain for me, and his fear of my mind (the latter, I've always suspected, was close to the root of much of the abuse I suffered at his hands). It was the moment of my enlightenment. And I've loved this book deeply from the second I first closed its cover until today.
I finished reading it to our twins last night. To hear them talk today, they are in love with the book themselves, though I doubt it can be felt as deeply as my love for the book. We encourage them to think for themselves, to question, to seek, to demand that authority earns respect, so their experience with the book isn't as revelatory as mine. They have parents who've been answering their questions -- about gods, life, death, where babies come from, about anything -- since they were asking questions. They haven't needed to find that power for themselves, we've pointed the way to that power from the start. Still, they love this book, and I hope they share it with their kids (if they choose to have kids) in turn.
D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths is a marvellous book full of marvellous stories, and now the Greek playwrights and poets and philosophers await. Medea first? Hmmm ... maybe The Birds? Or should it be The Iliad? I think I will let the twins decide....more
Is the Terror a mythical beast in the Arctic? The Tuunbaq? Is the Terror Her Majesty’s Ship of the same name? Is the Terror nights that never end? Is theIs the Terror a mythical beast in the Arctic? The Tuunbaq? Is the Terror Her Majesty’s Ship of the same name? Is the Terror nights that never end? Is the Terror a Ripper style murderer and his penchant for mutilation? Is the Terror knowledge? Is the Terror sodomy? Is the Terror a silent Esqimaux? Is the Terror scurvy? Is the Terror unrelenting ice floes? Is the Terror belief? Is the Terror remembrance? Is the Terror dreams? Is the Terror the past? Is the Terror cannibalism? Is the Terror doubt? Is the Terror hope? Is the Terror ignorance? Is the Terror magic? Is the Terror misunderstanding? Is the Terror fire? Is the Terror interminable cycles? Is the Terror hubris? Is the Terror hate? Is the Terror capitalism? Is the Terror “civilization”? Is the Terror humanity? Is the Terror the unknown? Is the Terror failure? Is the Terror duty? Is the Terror ego? Is the Terror alcohol? Is the Terror visions and hallucinations? Is the Terror death? Is the Terror suffering? Is the Terror starvation? Is the Terror ice? Is the Terror morality? Is the Terror shame? Is the Terror foolishness? Is the Terror delusion? Is the Terror love? Is the Terror life? Is the Terror solitude?...more
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