If faithful readers recall, I mentioned the purchase of two audio books for long car rides. One was a novel I had never read (A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens) and this one which I have read and loved. I am, as you can well imagine, an inveterate bibliophile, and I cringe at the thoughts of e-books and audio books. If you care to read my comments on Dickens, it was posted 12/26/07.
Essentially, I said it did help to pass the time, but it was not as enjoyable because of the inability to stop and savor and review especially good passages. This may be limited to a book with which I am unfamiliar.
Anna is another story entirely. The reading by Davina Porter was wonderful, although most all of the men sounded like miserly old curmudgeons. Nevertheless, we enjoyed the 38-1/2 hours (on 30 discs) it took to cover the book. The reading reminded me of passages I had underscored when I first read it.
I am not about to be in the habit of listening to audio books while driving, but I will surely try another. I also plan to go back and re-read Anna Karenina soon.
--Chiron, 6/22/08
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Mother: A Cradle to Hold Me by Maya Angelou
This slim volume of only nine poems is really for Mother’s Day, but the wonderfully simple images of Angelou are appropriate for anyone in love. It is also a wonderful reminder of the debt we owe our mothers, and not only for the gift of life.
Here is my favorite, the last:
Mother I have learned enough now
To know I have learned nearly nothing.
On this day
When mothers are being honored,
Let me thank you
That my selfishness, ignorance, and mockery
Did not bring you to
Discard me like a broken doll
Which had lost its favor.
I thank you that
You still find something in me
To cherish, to admire, and to love.
I thank you, Mother.
I love you.
--Chiron, 6/19/08
Here is my favorite, the last:
Mother I have learned enough now
To know I have learned nearly nothing.
On this day
When mothers are being honored,
Let me thank you
That my selfishness, ignorance, and mockery
Did not bring you to
Discard me like a broken doll
Which had lost its favor.
I thank you that
You still find something in me
To cherish, to admire, and to love.
I thank you, Mother.
I love you.
--Chiron, 6/19/08
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
The Tale of a Dog by Lars Gustafsson
Excellent short novel by this Swedish writer I really like. This was written during his time at the University of Texas in Austin. It purports to be the diary of a Texas Bankruptcy judge.
Tale of a Dog has an easy-going conversational tone and can easily be digested in a single sitting, or swallowed in small bites between grading sessions, as I did.
The astounding thing about this book was the number of episodes which directly recalled events in my life. The humorous anecdote of a senior judge and his near senility rings true. His view of his neighbors and his grandchildren were also spot-on.
Pervading the novel is a sense of evil, which surrounds the “diarist” in every direction, although it only minimally touches him.
Except for his six-year old grandson, no character is fully formed, especially his wife. We learn a good bit about his step-daughter, but almost nothing about anyone else. (Four stars)
--Chiron, 6/10/08
Tale of a Dog has an easy-going conversational tone and can easily be digested in a single sitting, or swallowed in small bites between grading sessions, as I did.
The astounding thing about this book was the number of episodes which directly recalled events in my life. The humorous anecdote of a senior judge and his near senility rings true. His view of his neighbors and his grandchildren were also spot-on.
Pervading the novel is a sense of evil, which surrounds the “diarist” in every direction, although it only minimally touches him.
Except for his six-year old grandson, no character is fully formed, especially his wife. We learn a good bit about his step-daughter, but almost nothing about anyone else. (Four stars)
--Chiron, 6/10/08
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
The Portrait by Iain Pears
The last week of an intense minimester course (3 credits in 10, 4-1/2 hour classes) was the wrong time to begin this book. It is much too intense, like the two of his previous works I have read – An Instance of the Fingerpost and The Dream of Scipio – even though those are both several hundred pages longer. This compact novel (211 pages) is as intense as anything I have read since.
This novel is hard to classify. It is part confessional, part psycho-analysis, and part meditation on the world of art, artists, and critics. The language is lyrical and absorbing. I find myself using that description more frequently, lately; I suppose it is the influence of some writing classes I have been taking. Here is an example of a particularly lyrical/meditative/psychological passage:
"They talk, you know, the dead. Not in words, of course; I am not losing my sanity. They talk in the wind and the rain, in the way light falls onto ruined buildings and dilapidated walls. But you have to listen and want to hear what they have to say. And you do not; you are a creature of the present. The modern." (93)
William Nasmyth is an egotistical, power-drunk art critic who travels to a remote island off the coast of Brittany to sit for a portrait by a former friend and self-exiled artist, Henry MacAlpine, the narrator. Henry reviews his life, William’s life, their former relationship, and several of their acquaintances.
This novel resembles a painting. At first, we have a rough sketch of the characters and a broad outline of the plot. Around page 160, we have a pretty good picture of where the story is going, but then we start on the downhill slid of the roller coaster – I could hardly stop reading. My idea of the plot, formed early, still contained some surprises.
This novel belongs on the same shelf with Fingerpost and Dream. 5 stars
--Chiron, 6/4/08
This novel is hard to classify. It is part confessional, part psycho-analysis, and part meditation on the world of art, artists, and critics. The language is lyrical and absorbing. I find myself using that description more frequently, lately; I suppose it is the influence of some writing classes I have been taking. Here is an example of a particularly lyrical/meditative/psychological passage:
"They talk, you know, the dead. Not in words, of course; I am not losing my sanity. They talk in the wind and the rain, in the way light falls onto ruined buildings and dilapidated walls. But you have to listen and want to hear what they have to say. And you do not; you are a creature of the present. The modern." (93)
William Nasmyth is an egotistical, power-drunk art critic who travels to a remote island off the coast of Brittany to sit for a portrait by a former friend and self-exiled artist, Henry MacAlpine, the narrator. Henry reviews his life, William’s life, their former relationship, and several of their acquaintances.
This novel resembles a painting. At first, we have a rough sketch of the characters and a broad outline of the plot. Around page 160, we have a pretty good picture of where the story is going, but then we start on the downhill slid of the roller coaster – I could hardly stop reading. My idea of the plot, formed early, still contained some surprises.
This novel belongs on the same shelf with Fingerpost and Dream. 5 stars
--Chiron, 6/4/08
Monday, May 26, 2008
Iris and the Friends: A Year of Memories by John Bayley
This completes a trilogy of biographies about Iris Murdoch. The first I read back in 1999 right around the time of her death. John Bayley also wrote that one, Iris: An Elegy. The second is the outstanding Conradi biography reviewed below.
The third has some photos not in the Conradi, whose work really trails off during the last few months of her life. These “memories” by John Bayley of the last year of Murdoch’s life have the feel of a journal. Sometimes the chapters will overlap with the first 2/3s of a story ending a chapter, and the second 2/3s beginning the next. The detail is extremely frank about Iris’ last days at home with John. I almost wished I had not read this and left only with the images of Iris at the end of Conradi.
But there is still a lot of good stuff here. Only John Bayley could provide insights into his wife’s process. For example, I learned that she never used a typewriter. She conceived her books entirely in her head, and when finished, she announced it was “ready to write.” This makes the loss of her memory even more tragic, if that is possible.
One fun thing is the number of literary quotes and allusions Bayley uses. I get about half of them, but looking up the other half is a hoot. Praise Minerva for Gooogle!
The description of their house sounds frighteningly like our home. It might seem messy and ill-kept to some, but there is a pleasing, comfortable order to it all. For fans of Murdoch, 5 stars; for fans of literary biographies, 4 stars; for all others, 3 stars.
--Chiron, 5/26/08
The third has some photos not in the Conradi, whose work really trails off during the last few months of her life. These “memories” by John Bayley of the last year of Murdoch’s life have the feel of a journal. Sometimes the chapters will overlap with the first 2/3s of a story ending a chapter, and the second 2/3s beginning the next. The detail is extremely frank about Iris’ last days at home with John. I almost wished I had not read this and left only with the images of Iris at the end of Conradi.
But there is still a lot of good stuff here. Only John Bayley could provide insights into his wife’s process. For example, I learned that she never used a typewriter. She conceived her books entirely in her head, and when finished, she announced it was “ready to write.” This makes the loss of her memory even more tragic, if that is possible.
One fun thing is the number of literary quotes and allusions Bayley uses. I get about half of them, but looking up the other half is a hoot. Praise Minerva for Gooogle!
The description of their house sounds frighteningly like our home. It might seem messy and ill-kept to some, but there is a pleasing, comfortable order to it all. For fans of Murdoch, 5 stars; for fans of literary biographies, 4 stars; for all others, 3 stars.
--Chiron, 5/26/08
Saturday, May 24, 2008
The Greatest Thing Since Sliced Bread by Don Robertson
The title of this book was intriguing, since I have frequently asked people, “What was the best thing before sliced bread?” Add to that the blurbs and an author I never heard of, and I could not resist.
Don Robertson, who died in 1999, wrote about 18 novels, including three involving the same character as this one – Morris Bird III. Even though this would be considered young adult fiction today, nothing on the book cover indicates the target age group.
The first 166 pages were typical YA fiction. I was reminded of Jean Shepherd and his radio show on WOR in New York in the 60s. Many a night I lay awake listening to him recount stories of his “Old man,” Schultz, and life in Gary, Indiana in the 40s.
Then the whole tenor of the novel changed with the explosion of the East Ohio Gas Company’s natural gas tanks. I had never heard of this disaster, and a few seconds on Google revealed how accurate the narrative was.
A couple of times I almost abandoned the book, but little teasers by Robertson about the impending disaster kept me going. Once the explosion occurred, it was like the down-hill on a roller coaster – there was no getting off then. I Googled Morris’ name but nothing but the book came up. I so wanted him to be real.
I still don’t know what was the best thing before sliced bread, but I sure am glad I read this book.
--Chiron, 5/24/08
Don Robertson, who died in 1999, wrote about 18 novels, including three involving the same character as this one – Morris Bird III. Even though this would be considered young adult fiction today, nothing on the book cover indicates the target age group.
The first 166 pages were typical YA fiction. I was reminded of Jean Shepherd and his radio show on WOR in New York in the 60s. Many a night I lay awake listening to him recount stories of his “Old man,” Schultz, and life in Gary, Indiana in the 40s.
Then the whole tenor of the novel changed with the explosion of the East Ohio Gas Company’s natural gas tanks. I had never heard of this disaster, and a few seconds on Google revealed how accurate the narrative was.
A couple of times I almost abandoned the book, but little teasers by Robertson about the impending disaster kept me going. Once the explosion occurred, it was like the down-hill on a roller coaster – there was no getting off then. I Googled Morris’ name but nothing but the book came up. I so wanted him to be real.
I still don’t know what was the best thing before sliced bread, but I sure am glad I read this book.
--Chiron, 5/24/08
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Iris: The Life of Iris Murdoch by Peter J. Conradi
Sometime in 1987, a review of Iris Murdoch’s latest novel, The Book and the Brotherhood, intrigued me. I started to read it, but could not get past the first fifty pages. This was even before the days of the “rule of 50.”
A couple of months later, I was in the hospital for a few days, and I asked my then wife to bring me a couple of books from the table alongside my easy chair. She misheard me, and brought the wrong pile. The only one I had not read was the Murdoch. I decided to give it another try. I was awake all night, finishing it about 8:00 AM the next morning. Since then, I have loved her work, and I am making my way through all of her 26 published novels (about 16 to go!), although after this biography, I see that I missed so much in what I read, I think I will start over and go through all of them in order.
Her novels are complex in characters, plots, relationships, and philosophy, but they are worth every single second I spend with her. From her novels and this biography, I have learned countless new vocabulary words, ideas, historical events, and philosophy. This incredibly detailed and documented biography of the great (-est?) 20th century British novelist does her justice – and then some. There are 60 pages of end notes, 10 pages of selected bibliography organized by chapter, Murdoch’s complete bibliography (5 pages), and an extremely detailed index that runs to 32 pages.
An example of the detail: at one point, Conradi mentions that when World War II broke out, Iris and some friends were evacuated from Oxford, and “Iris was painting a lot; many of her paintings of the time had ladders in them. One survives: a copy of Joyce’s Ulysses – the first UK edition came out in 1936 – lying by a blue pottery jar of coltsfoot” (112). He then endnotes this detail by quoting three letters Iris wrote mentioning the “coltsfoot” growing around the area. I can only presume this is some sort of plant – pity that wasn’t explained in a note! So, to my dictionary, which explained coltsfoot as, “Tussilara farfara, a plant with yellow, daisy-like flowers considered a weed, but used as a cough remedy. Named for the shape of its leaves.” Now, I can truly see that painting.
On another occasion, the author mentions a professor Iris admired, and then he describes photos, hanging in this professor’s office, of his mentors, their names, dates, what and where they taught (118). This was truly a labor of the utmost affection and respect. Conradi was a close friend of Iris and her husband John Bayley.
Much like Murdoch’s novels, there is a lot to absorb here. I have learned so much about her personal life, I know I will have a better understanding of her novels. As I read (or re-read) each novel, I think I will copy the notes from the biography and keep them nearby.
Keep Latin, German, and French dictionaries handy, because not all phrases are translated. Some are explained, some evident from the context with even a smattering of these languages, but I had to puzzle out a least a third of these quotes (usually) from her letters and journals.
This might seem boring and dry, but it is anything but! Iris was a vivacious, funny, brilliant, clever, and popular woman at Oxford in the late 30s, during the war working for the British Treasury Department, at St. Anne’s College in the 50s, and later the Royal College of Art. All this detail comes out in Conradi’s delightful prose. Maybe more that a reader could ever imagine about the life of Murdoch, but if you love her novels as much as I do, it is decidedly NOT too much.
I knew how it would end, since I read John Bayley’s Iris: an Elegy, but I could not help the emotional effect of her loss as I closed the book today. Five stars
--Chiron, 5/17/08
A couple of months later, I was in the hospital for a few days, and I asked my then wife to bring me a couple of books from the table alongside my easy chair. She misheard me, and brought the wrong pile. The only one I had not read was the Murdoch. I decided to give it another try. I was awake all night, finishing it about 8:00 AM the next morning. Since then, I have loved her work, and I am making my way through all of her 26 published novels (about 16 to go!), although after this biography, I see that I missed so much in what I read, I think I will start over and go through all of them in order.
Her novels are complex in characters, plots, relationships, and philosophy, but they are worth every single second I spend with her. From her novels and this biography, I have learned countless new vocabulary words, ideas, historical events, and philosophy. This incredibly detailed and documented biography of the great (-est?) 20th century British novelist does her justice – and then some. There are 60 pages of end notes, 10 pages of selected bibliography organized by chapter, Murdoch’s complete bibliography (5 pages), and an extremely detailed index that runs to 32 pages.
An example of the detail: at one point, Conradi mentions that when World War II broke out, Iris and some friends were evacuated from Oxford, and “Iris was painting a lot; many of her paintings of the time had ladders in them. One survives: a copy of Joyce’s Ulysses – the first UK edition came out in 1936 – lying by a blue pottery jar of coltsfoot” (112). He then endnotes this detail by quoting three letters Iris wrote mentioning the “coltsfoot” growing around the area. I can only presume this is some sort of plant – pity that wasn’t explained in a note! So, to my dictionary, which explained coltsfoot as, “Tussilara farfara, a plant with yellow, daisy-like flowers considered a weed, but used as a cough remedy. Named for the shape of its leaves.” Now, I can truly see that painting.
On another occasion, the author mentions a professor Iris admired, and then he describes photos, hanging in this professor’s office, of his mentors, their names, dates, what and where they taught (118). This was truly a labor of the utmost affection and respect. Conradi was a close friend of Iris and her husband John Bayley.
Much like Murdoch’s novels, there is a lot to absorb here. I have learned so much about her personal life, I know I will have a better understanding of her novels. As I read (or re-read) each novel, I think I will copy the notes from the biography and keep them nearby.
Keep Latin, German, and French dictionaries handy, because not all phrases are translated. Some are explained, some evident from the context with even a smattering of these languages, but I had to puzzle out a least a third of these quotes (usually) from her letters and journals.
This might seem boring and dry, but it is anything but! Iris was a vivacious, funny, brilliant, clever, and popular woman at Oxford in the late 30s, during the war working for the British Treasury Department, at St. Anne’s College in the 50s, and later the Royal College of Art. All this detail comes out in Conradi’s delightful prose. Maybe more that a reader could ever imagine about the life of Murdoch, but if you love her novels as much as I do, it is decidedly NOT too much.
I knew how it would end, since I read John Bayley’s Iris: an Elegy, but I could not help the emotional effect of her loss as I closed the book today. Five stars
--Chiron, 5/17/08
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Sailing Alone Around the Room by Billy Collins
Wallace Stevens once wrote, when discussing the subject matter of poetry, that it is not a “collection of solid, static objects extended in space” but rather the life that is lived in the scene that it composes. He continues, “so reality is not that external scene but the life that is lived in it. Reality is things as they are.” I believe Stevens has touched on an important aspect of poetry for me, and that Billy Collins exemplifies this dictum as well as any poet writing today.
We do not have to look far in Sailing Alone Around the Room, a selection of Collins’ work from several of his books, which also includes some “new poems.” My favorite Collins’ poem is a good place to start. “Shoveling Snow with the Buddha” takes the mundane chore of clearing a driveway of new fallen snow. The narrator is joined in the task by the Buddha. “…here we are working our way down the driveway / one shovelful at a time” (LL 13-14). There is nothing fancy here, no deep meaning, but the gentle language is infused with the reality of two people shoveling. The reader takes up the image and adds the cold, the strenuous nature of the task, as well as the sense of satisfaction that comes as they approach the end of the drive. Hardly anything could be more realistic. Having shoveled many sidewalks for quarters as a young boy, these lines instantly carry me back to my early years.
Another example that strikes me as particularly realistic, is “On Turning Ten,” Collins counts the years with mileposts in a child’s dreams of the future:
…I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince. (LL 12-16)
Those years easily come back to me with Collins’ lyrical and flowing style. I need only substitute other dreams -- an archaeologist, a pilot, a sailboat captain – for transportation to those innocent days.
If you are unfamiliar with Billy Collins, this volume is a great place to start. When I first bought this book, I quickly read through it, but then I started over and read them one at a time. Occasionally, I would linger on a favorite poem for a second, third, or even a fourth read before moving on. You will be as enchanted as I was, and you will go out and buy the rest of Collins’ books for full servings only hinted at in this fine collection. Five stars.
--Chiron, 5/7/08
We do not have to look far in Sailing Alone Around the Room, a selection of Collins’ work from several of his books, which also includes some “new poems.” My favorite Collins’ poem is a good place to start. “Shoveling Snow with the Buddha” takes the mundane chore of clearing a driveway of new fallen snow. The narrator is joined in the task by the Buddha. “…here we are working our way down the driveway / one shovelful at a time” (LL 13-14). There is nothing fancy here, no deep meaning, but the gentle language is infused with the reality of two people shoveling. The reader takes up the image and adds the cold, the strenuous nature of the task, as well as the sense of satisfaction that comes as they approach the end of the drive. Hardly anything could be more realistic. Having shoveled many sidewalks for quarters as a young boy, these lines instantly carry me back to my early years.
Another example that strikes me as particularly realistic, is “On Turning Ten,” Collins counts the years with mileposts in a child’s dreams of the future:
…I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince. (LL 12-16)
Those years easily come back to me with Collins’ lyrical and flowing style. I need only substitute other dreams -- an archaeologist, a pilot, a sailboat captain – for transportation to those innocent days.
If you are unfamiliar with Billy Collins, this volume is a great place to start. When I first bought this book, I quickly read through it, but then I started over and read them one at a time. Occasionally, I would linger on a favorite poem for a second, third, or even a fourth read before moving on. You will be as enchanted as I was, and you will go out and buy the rest of Collins’ books for full servings only hinted at in this fine collection. Five stars.
--Chiron, 5/7/08
Sunday, May 04, 2008
The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie
Recently I read and loved Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown. I have always been an admirer of his style, his stories, and his rationalist philosophy, so I was thrilled when I received an early reviewers copy from LibraryThing. I looked forward to reading Rushdie’s newest work, but I have to say I was perplexed – until I reached the end. Rushdie performs magic with Enchantress.
The novel is divided into three parts. The first is a wonderful, lyrical story told with the voice of a story teller steeped in an oral tradition. Nothing new there for Rushdie; he tells stories with grace, poetry, and detail to transport the reader to any time and place. Part two, on the other hand was confusing. At times, I found it hard to separate the teller of the tale from the subject. Most characters had multiple names, and sometimes names were switched in mid-sentence. However, part three was like a charge of electricity which flooded my mind with understanding.
Rushdie has braided a narrative that mixes, characters – real and imaginary – with mythology and history to reveal the vast interconnectedness of culture across time and the world. Joseph Campbell, in The Hero with a Thousand Faces, compares stories that range from Ancient Mesopotamia, through Greece and Rome to Scandinavia, the Inuit peoples of the Arctic Circle, Native Americans on both New World continents, and across the Pacific to the Orient, through India, and then to Africa. Campbell draws a circle around the world and describes how all these stories indicate a close cultural connection among all humanity. Rushdie performs similar magic with Enchantress.
The Enchantress of Florence blurs the line between the teller of tales and history, between characters and their real and imagined lives, real and imagined friends, and real and imagined families. He also weaves a web connecting the Mughals of Hindustan and the Medicis of Renaissance Florence. This complicated diorama explains the confusion of part two, which is neatly resolved in part three. Enchantress will most definitely require another read.
While the story is deeply influenced by the literature and events of Renaissance Italy, the history and culture of the Mughal empire (early 16th to the 19th centuries) plays an equally important role. The idea of divine kings, then seriously questioned in Europe, was still alive in Hindustan. The renaissance idea of immortality through written stories was alive among the Mughals, but in oral tales. And there lies the convergence. Both cultures obtain the same result through different routes. Stories are the threads which tie both cultures together. The timelessness of story and myth is on every page.
Philosophy, particularly rationalism, pervades the story. Even Islam does not escape criticism. In direct opposition to the Q’uran, the emperor declares a day of nakedness for women, with the proviso that all men are to be blindfolded. The emperor has been convinced women are unhappy because they mistrust other women. By forcing them to be naked for a day, all things are revealed, and women will see they have nothing to hide, or at least nothing for other women to fear. Only one man disobeys, and, ironically, his punishment is left up to women, who pelt him with sticks and stones. This is a neat parody of the ridiculous medieval idea that women are the source of sin. The theory is that by covering women's bodies, men are protected from evil.
One glaring flaw, however, mars this other wise exquisite story. On a handful of occasions, characters would descend into a stream of obscenities worthy of a 21st century Quentin Tarantino film. I found this jarring and inconsistent with the tone of the rest of the story. Scenes of subtle and sensuous eroticism were suddenly rendered crude by the introduction of the “seven dirty words” of George Carlin fame. I abhor censorship of any kind, but I think the use of obscenities in this situation is purely gratuitous. So I take away ½ of a star from this wonderful novel.
I would not be surprised to see The Enchantress of Florence win a second Booker Prize for Salman Rushdie. It will be published June 3, 2008. 4-1/2 stars
--Chiron, 5/4/08
The novel is divided into three parts. The first is a wonderful, lyrical story told with the voice of a story teller steeped in an oral tradition. Nothing new there for Rushdie; he tells stories with grace, poetry, and detail to transport the reader to any time and place. Part two, on the other hand was confusing. At times, I found it hard to separate the teller of the tale from the subject. Most characters had multiple names, and sometimes names were switched in mid-sentence. However, part three was like a charge of electricity which flooded my mind with understanding.
Rushdie has braided a narrative that mixes, characters – real and imaginary – with mythology and history to reveal the vast interconnectedness of culture across time and the world. Joseph Campbell, in The Hero with a Thousand Faces, compares stories that range from Ancient Mesopotamia, through Greece and Rome to Scandinavia, the Inuit peoples of the Arctic Circle, Native Americans on both New World continents, and across the Pacific to the Orient, through India, and then to Africa. Campbell draws a circle around the world and describes how all these stories indicate a close cultural connection among all humanity. Rushdie performs similar magic with Enchantress.
The Enchantress of Florence blurs the line between the teller of tales and history, between characters and their real and imagined lives, real and imagined friends, and real and imagined families. He also weaves a web connecting the Mughals of Hindustan and the Medicis of Renaissance Florence. This complicated diorama explains the confusion of part two, which is neatly resolved in part three. Enchantress will most definitely require another read.
While the story is deeply influenced by the literature and events of Renaissance Italy, the history and culture of the Mughal empire (early 16th to the 19th centuries) plays an equally important role. The idea of divine kings, then seriously questioned in Europe, was still alive in Hindustan. The renaissance idea of immortality through written stories was alive among the Mughals, but in oral tales. And there lies the convergence. Both cultures obtain the same result through different routes. Stories are the threads which tie both cultures together. The timelessness of story and myth is on every page.
Philosophy, particularly rationalism, pervades the story. Even Islam does not escape criticism. In direct opposition to the Q’uran, the emperor declares a day of nakedness for women, with the proviso that all men are to be blindfolded. The emperor has been convinced women are unhappy because they mistrust other women. By forcing them to be naked for a day, all things are revealed, and women will see they have nothing to hide, or at least nothing for other women to fear. Only one man disobeys, and, ironically, his punishment is left up to women, who pelt him with sticks and stones. This is a neat parody of the ridiculous medieval idea that women are the source of sin. The theory is that by covering women's bodies, men are protected from evil.
One glaring flaw, however, mars this other wise exquisite story. On a handful of occasions, characters would descend into a stream of obscenities worthy of a 21st century Quentin Tarantino film. I found this jarring and inconsistent with the tone of the rest of the story. Scenes of subtle and sensuous eroticism were suddenly rendered crude by the introduction of the “seven dirty words” of George Carlin fame. I abhor censorship of any kind, but I think the use of obscenities in this situation is purely gratuitous. So I take away ½ of a star from this wonderful novel.
I would not be surprised to see The Enchantress of Florence win a second Booker Prize for Salman Rushdie. It will be published June 3, 2008. 4-1/2 stars
--Chiron, 5/4/08
Saturday, April 26, 2008
A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
This novel has a sad origin. Toole was a young writer, unable to place this novel for publication, so he committed suicide at 38. His mother was determined to see it published. She pestered Walker Percy to read it, and he loved it. It was through his intercession the book was published in the late 70s. Percy was not a reliable recommender to my mind.
I was working in a bookstore at the time and decided to see what all the hub-bub was about. I read the book, but, frankly, I was not impressed. It was neither funny, nor poignant, nor grave. I re-shelved it with hardly a backward glance.
Then, one of the members of our book club suggested it for a read. My first thought was, "Ugh!" but then I remembered numerous other books that improved with age, and which I actually came to admire on a second reading.
This book is not one of them. Sorry Thelma (Toole's mother), but I still do not understand all the hype. I invoked the rule of 50 on this one as I got dangerously close to my limit. "Too many books; not enough time." I am on to something better. 1 star
--Chiron, 4/26/08
I was working in a bookstore at the time and decided to see what all the hub-bub was about. I read the book, but, frankly, I was not impressed. It was neither funny, nor poignant, nor grave. I re-shelved it with hardly a backward glance.
Then, one of the members of our book club suggested it for a read. My first thought was, "Ugh!" but then I remembered numerous other books that improved with age, and which I actually came to admire on a second reading.
This book is not one of them. Sorry Thelma (Toole's mother), but I still do not understand all the hype. I invoked the rule of 50 on this one as I got dangerously close to my limit. "Too many books; not enough time." I am on to something better. 1 star
--Chiron, 4/26/08
Thursday, April 24, 2008
A Dangerous Age by Ellen Gilchrist
One word describes this novel: frenetic. The dialogue, the characters, and, I am afraid to say, the writing all flit around at something approaching the speed of light.
Ellen Gilchrist has written a number of stories and novels I have enjoyed, so I was looking forward to this new one due out in June of 2008. In addition, this one is to be published by Algonquin Press of Chapel Hill, my favorite publisher and a usually reliable source of fiction.
To begin with the dialogue is dizzying. It reminds me of one of those cell phone commercials where the family frantically try and squeeze huge chunks of information into a brief call to save precious minutes. In places, it seems overwrought and artificial.
The characters are doing 20 things at once and all at an impossibly high level. For example, one character becomes pregnant, at five months almost loses the baby, but her obstetrician orders to bed for six months. At eight months, she goes on a three-and-a-half mile walk with the doctor.
These people are also frenetic drivers. I live in Waco, TX, and I have driven many times to New Orleans. It takes me eight hours, provided I do not run into any traffic problems around Houston. The trip from Waco to the South edge Dallas is an hour and a half. If it is near rush hour, it can take another hour to get out of the city on the north side. Dallas is about two and a-half hours to Oklahoma City, and Tulsa is a couple of hours further on. One character in A Dangerous Age drove from New Orleans to Tulsa in eight hours.
Gilchrist must have rushed this book because of these lapses. In another situation, one character is called to active duty in the Marines. He goes to great pains to tell his wife he is on some top secret mission and he can’t tell her about it. He then proceeds to tell, in great detail, all about is job – on the phone and in e-mails. Maybe Gilchrist was on a secret mission, too, but darned if I know what it was.
All in all, a disappointing effort from a fine writer. 2 stars
--Chiron, 4/24/08
Ellen Gilchrist has written a number of stories and novels I have enjoyed, so I was looking forward to this new one due out in June of 2008. In addition, this one is to be published by Algonquin Press of Chapel Hill, my favorite publisher and a usually reliable source of fiction.
To begin with the dialogue is dizzying. It reminds me of one of those cell phone commercials where the family frantically try and squeeze huge chunks of information into a brief call to save precious minutes. In places, it seems overwrought and artificial.
The characters are doing 20 things at once and all at an impossibly high level. For example, one character becomes pregnant, at five months almost loses the baby, but her obstetrician orders to bed for six months. At eight months, she goes on a three-and-a-half mile walk with the doctor.
These people are also frenetic drivers. I live in Waco, TX, and I have driven many times to New Orleans. It takes me eight hours, provided I do not run into any traffic problems around Houston. The trip from Waco to the South edge Dallas is an hour and a half. If it is near rush hour, it can take another hour to get out of the city on the north side. Dallas is about two and a-half hours to Oklahoma City, and Tulsa is a couple of hours further on. One character in A Dangerous Age drove from New Orleans to Tulsa in eight hours.
Gilchrist must have rushed this book because of these lapses. In another situation, one character is called to active duty in the Marines. He goes to great pains to tell his wife he is on some top secret mission and he can’t tell her about it. He then proceeds to tell, in great detail, all about is job – on the phone and in e-mails. Maybe Gilchrist was on a secret mission, too, but darned if I know what it was.
All in all, a disappointing effort from a fine writer. 2 stars
--Chiron, 4/24/08
Sunday, April 20, 2008
The Sum of Our Days by Isabelle Allende
Her previous memoir, Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses was thoroughly enjoyable with a sensuous and erotic tone. I have been away from Allende for a long time, so I was looking forward to this book.
Unfortunately, I did not enjoy this one as much as her other works. Not that there was anything terribly wrong with it, but I did find it to be a self-conscious letter to her deceased daughter. The Allende language was there -- fluid and conversational, but this mix of New Age clap trap, Buddhist philosophy, Chinese alternative medicine, and airing of family squabbles wore thin.
I need to read something else by her soon -- I don't want this book to press itself on my memory. Maybe I will go back to Aphrodite for a second read.
--Chiron, 4/20/08
Unfortunately, I did not enjoy this one as much as her other works. Not that there was anything terribly wrong with it, but I did find it to be a self-conscious letter to her deceased daughter. The Allende language was there -- fluid and conversational, but this mix of New Age clap trap, Buddhist philosophy, Chinese alternative medicine, and airing of family squabbles wore thin.
I need to read something else by her soon -- I don't want this book to press itself on my memory. Maybe I will go back to Aphrodite for a second read.
--Chiron, 4/20/08
Sunday, April 06, 2008
The Door by Margaret Atwood
I have most of Atwood’s fiction – it has a certain charm: sometimes humorous, sometimes cautionary, almost always nostalgic. I have enjoyed all her work, particularly Cat’s Eye, my clear-cut favorite. This is my first volume of her poetry, and I have to say they all share a consistent voice, sometimes discordant and jarring, sometimes with mildly disturbing images, sometimes (rarely) lyrical. Several of the poems I liked a lot, and most others were okay.
This collection needs going over several more times before I can rate it. Atwood’s voice comes out clear, though, and something makes me want to crawl inside these poems and see what is really there. A few are obscure to me. About 40 of the fifty poems are collected on a CD read by Atwood.
--Chiron, 4/6/08
This collection needs going over several more times before I can rate it. Atwood’s voice comes out clear, though, and something makes me want to crawl inside these poems and see what is really there. A few are obscure to me. About 40 of the fifty poems are collected on a CD read by Atwood.
--Chiron, 4/6/08
Still Life with Elephant by Judy Reene Singer
I am not sure how to classify this novel. Let me tell you some things about it that might shed some light on where it falls between To Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street by Dr. Seuss and James Joyce’s Ulysses.
First the characters. Neelie, the main character, strikes me as a dope with several annoying habits. One habit is mangling the words she hears from her family and friends into incomprehensible phrases, which she then has to translate – sometimes successfully, most often not. This “habit,” or perhaps more accurately “affectation,” as it seems to become, predictably disappears when she meets Tom. For someone with a Master’s degree in psychology, her vocabulary seems woefully inadequate – numerous, slightly less than common words, elude her. It is not cute, and it wears thin in the first twenty pages.
Speaking of Tom, he is completely one-dimensional, and I scratch my head at how he achieved his place in the novel.
Maybe I suffer from a life strewn with mistakes that have sometimes merited forgiveness and other times not. When a character (Neelie) suffers because of a mistake by a loved one (Matt), and that loved one almost immediately shows remorse, and begs for a pardon, doesn’t love require another chance? Is there anything so terrible that true lovers can not forgive, even if only once? How about if that mistake occurred because both lovers were real big dopes? How about if the mistake was partly caused by Neelie? Except in the case of a severe pathology (sex addiction), I firmly believe that responsibilty for adultery can be placed on a continuum from 10-90% to 50-50% percent. This is not to excuse it, but I do not think Matt has a sexual pathology. The author's note says she has a degree in psychology, but I think a character suffering from sex addition would be beyond her literary powers.
I found this plot situation entirely unbelievable, along with the circumstances of the first trip to Africa. The dialogue was banal, annoying, and full of clichés. Several other key situations simply did not ring true.
Maybe a new classification is in order. How about a “novel of delusion”? These characters are delusional about life, relationships, politics, foreign countries, travel, just to name a few items on an extremely long list. Since this is an advanced reader’s copy, I can’t list exact quotes, and I won’t be buying the published edition to make comparisons. I would also add predictability to this work’s list of faults. Two stars for a mildly interesting sequence in Africa.
--Chiron, 4/6/08
First the characters. Neelie, the main character, strikes me as a dope with several annoying habits. One habit is mangling the words she hears from her family and friends into incomprehensible phrases, which she then has to translate – sometimes successfully, most often not. This “habit,” or perhaps more accurately “affectation,” as it seems to become, predictably disappears when she meets Tom. For someone with a Master’s degree in psychology, her vocabulary seems woefully inadequate – numerous, slightly less than common words, elude her. It is not cute, and it wears thin in the first twenty pages.
Speaking of Tom, he is completely one-dimensional, and I scratch my head at how he achieved his place in the novel.
Maybe I suffer from a life strewn with mistakes that have sometimes merited forgiveness and other times not. When a character (Neelie) suffers because of a mistake by a loved one (Matt), and that loved one almost immediately shows remorse, and begs for a pardon, doesn’t love require another chance? Is there anything so terrible that true lovers can not forgive, even if only once? How about if that mistake occurred because both lovers were real big dopes? How about if the mistake was partly caused by Neelie? Except in the case of a severe pathology (sex addiction), I firmly believe that responsibilty for adultery can be placed on a continuum from 10-90% to 50-50% percent. This is not to excuse it, but I do not think Matt has a sexual pathology. The author's note says she has a degree in psychology, but I think a character suffering from sex addition would be beyond her literary powers.
I found this plot situation entirely unbelievable, along with the circumstances of the first trip to Africa. The dialogue was banal, annoying, and full of clichés. Several other key situations simply did not ring true.
Maybe a new classification is in order. How about a “novel of delusion”? These characters are delusional about life, relationships, politics, foreign countries, travel, just to name a few items on an extremely long list. Since this is an advanced reader’s copy, I can’t list exact quotes, and I won’t be buying the published edition to make comparisons. I would also add predictability to this work’s list of faults. Two stars for a mildly interesting sequence in Africa.
--Chiron, 4/6/08
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Australian Classics: 50 Great Writers by Jane Gleeson-White
This collection of 50 essays on prominent Australian writers is one of those books I love to revel in and savor slowly. First, some background.
In reading a review or essay, I forget where, I came across the name Patrick White as the only Australian to win the Nobel Prize (1973). Descriptions of several of his novels were intriguing, so I got The Aunt’s Story and loved it. I picked up several others of his books, most notably Voss. Reviews of both these books appear elsewhere on this site. A search of LibraryThing.com revealed a small number of members who also had White’s works. I contacted one member who lives in Australia, and began a discussion of his works. LibraryThingers are great people, and this member sent me a copy of this book.
The essays are even and really whet my appetite for Australian Literature. I have always wanted to travel there, and now I am determined to make the trip one of these days. My TBR list now has a dozen new titles and authors which will open wider the door to this fascinating land.
Some of these authors I knew: Elizabeth Jolley, Kate Grenville, Miles Franklin, Shirley Hazzard, and, of course, Patrick White. Most of them, however, were completely unfamiliar. The preface explains the sense of place all these authors share, but I would add the sense of history is equally dominant. Anyone who has seen some of the great Australian films recently knows what I mean: Gallipoli, The Rabbit Fence, and Picnic at Hanging Rock. These films, all of which Gleeson-White mentions, clearly evoke place, but also history. 5 stars.
--Chiron, 3/30/08
In reading a review or essay, I forget where, I came across the name Patrick White as the only Australian to win the Nobel Prize (1973). Descriptions of several of his novels were intriguing, so I got The Aunt’s Story and loved it. I picked up several others of his books, most notably Voss. Reviews of both these books appear elsewhere on this site. A search of LibraryThing.com revealed a small number of members who also had White’s works. I contacted one member who lives in Australia, and began a discussion of his works. LibraryThingers are great people, and this member sent me a copy of this book.
The essays are even and really whet my appetite for Australian Literature. I have always wanted to travel there, and now I am determined to make the trip one of these days. My TBR list now has a dozen new titles and authors which will open wider the door to this fascinating land.
Some of these authors I knew: Elizabeth Jolley, Kate Grenville, Miles Franklin, Shirley Hazzard, and, of course, Patrick White. Most of them, however, were completely unfamiliar. The preface explains the sense of place all these authors share, but I would add the sense of history is equally dominant. Anyone who has seen some of the great Australian films recently knows what I mean: Gallipoli, The Rabbit Fence, and Picnic at Hanging Rock. These films, all of which Gleeson-White mentions, clearly evoke place, but also history. 5 stars.
--Chiron, 3/30/08
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Sartor Resartus by Thomas Carlyle
I read this novel in a Victorian prose class in graduate school more than ten years ago. Although I enjoyed it then, I felt I was missing something because of time pressures, and I wanted to read it at a more leisurely pace. I also reread the introduction. I had forgotten how influential this book was. Its ancestors include Laurence Sterne and his imaginative novel, Tristram Shandy. Sartor’s descendents include Melville’s Moby Dick, and James Joyce’s Ulysses. The appendices, which I did not read then, proved helpful in understanding Carlyle’s thoughts during and after the writing of the novel.
As the short biography included in my edition tells us, Carlyle was the son of a dour, strict Calvinist, who viewed fiction as some form of deceit. This was a fairly wide-held view in the 19th century, hence the number of novels based on “found manuscripts,” in which the author was careful to warn the reader that the author could not attest to the veracity of the "facts" related. Carlyle abandoned fiction for this dubious line of reasoning after completing Sartor.
This imaginative novel is really an essay about a made up philosopher, Diogenes Teufelsdroeckh, who has written an extensive treatise on clothes. Now, I can imagine this might sound boring to some, but it is full of humor – the extremely dry British variety, and this novel contains much of the philosophy current in the early years of the Victorian Age. Again, as the Introduction says, Sartor is key to understanding that influential period.
In fact, the Introduction also claims that Sartor did for the Victorian age what Lyrical Ballads did for the Augustan Age – turn it on its head before destroying it.
So. Am I glad I reread this novel? Yes. At just over 200 pages it only took a few hours, and I really do think I have a better understanding of Carlyle’s great novel now than I did back then. Four stars.
--Chiron, 3/20/08
As the short biography included in my edition tells us, Carlyle was the son of a dour, strict Calvinist, who viewed fiction as some form of deceit. This was a fairly wide-held view in the 19th century, hence the number of novels based on “found manuscripts,” in which the author was careful to warn the reader that the author could not attest to the veracity of the "facts" related. Carlyle abandoned fiction for this dubious line of reasoning after completing Sartor.
This imaginative novel is really an essay about a made up philosopher, Diogenes Teufelsdroeckh, who has written an extensive treatise on clothes. Now, I can imagine this might sound boring to some, but it is full of humor – the extremely dry British variety, and this novel contains much of the philosophy current in the early years of the Victorian Age. Again, as the Introduction says, Sartor is key to understanding that influential period.
In fact, the Introduction also claims that Sartor did for the Victorian age what Lyrical Ballads did for the Augustan Age – turn it on its head before destroying it.
So. Am I glad I reread this novel? Yes. At just over 200 pages it only took a few hours, and I really do think I have a better understanding of Carlyle’s great novel now than I did back then. Four stars.
--Chiron, 3/20/08
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
A Summons to Memphis by Peter Taylor
My friend Bob recommended this novel to me 20-some years ago, and I started it, but abandoned it after the first chapter. I couldn’t stand the stilted, pretentious language, and I am always suspicious of books that print the author's name in a font two or three times larger than the title. This may be the first book to which I applied the “rule of 50,” but I noticed the title mentioned in several recent essays I have read, so I decided to have another go at it.
At first I was still annoyed by all the “shalls,” “nonces,” “one’s habits,” and other such archaisms, but I kept going anyway. It was pouring rain -- a perfect day for reading.
Taylor’s novel is an “onion” book – layers are slowly revealed by the narrator between the time he receives his summons and his arrival in Memphis the next morning. Phil Carver’s father is about to remarry at the ripe age of 81, and his sisters are determined to torpedo the match and preserve the family fortune. Ah! The old South.
As I approached the climax, a thought occurred to me – this is a kind of retelling of King Lear from the viewpoint of the loyal child, Cordelia. The old man is also going blind, and…wait, I have already said too much.
Not a great book, despite the Pulitzer Prize, but worth a rainy afternoon or two. A mild surprise at the end awaits the persistent reader. If you have ever had a childhood grudge against your parents, maybe this is a book you should read. Four stars.
--Chiron, 3/18/08
At first I was still annoyed by all the “shalls,” “nonces,” “one’s habits,” and other such archaisms, but I kept going anyway. It was pouring rain -- a perfect day for reading.
Taylor’s novel is an “onion” book – layers are slowly revealed by the narrator between the time he receives his summons and his arrival in Memphis the next morning. Phil Carver’s father is about to remarry at the ripe age of 81, and his sisters are determined to torpedo the match and preserve the family fortune. Ah! The old South.
As I approached the climax, a thought occurred to me – this is a kind of retelling of King Lear from the viewpoint of the loyal child, Cordelia. The old man is also going blind, and…wait, I have already said too much.
Not a great book, despite the Pulitzer Prize, but worth a rainy afternoon or two. A mild surprise at the end awaits the persistent reader. If you have ever had a childhood grudge against your parents, maybe this is a book you should read. Four stars.
--Chiron, 3/18/08
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Moral Disorder by Margaret Atwood
Boston is about six hours from Philadelphia, but the length of the drive was no consideration when Margaret Atwood was going to read at the Harvard Bookstore Café. I carried about eight books with me, and she signed them all.
I have admired her since I read The Handmaid’s Tale when it was first published in 1983. Cat’s Eye followed in 1986 and immediately became my favorite Atwood novel. Her nostalgic, understated humor, her psychological insights impress me, and provide an immediate connection to my childhood, even though she grew up in Toronto – a whole world away from the Kensington section of Philadelphia.
This collection of short stories continues in that tradition. Atwood has written the story of Nell as a child, a young woman, and finally a senior citizen. Janet Burroway in Writing Fiction, calls the transitions between events in a story as “the mortar that holds scenes together.” What is missing is this mortar – but I do not mean that as a criticism, after all, this is a collection of short stories. Each story is a scene in Nell’s life – “spots of time” Wordsworth called them, and the transition from one to another is effortless. The humor, the nostalgia, the insights – all hallmarks of every Atwood novel I have ever read – are all here.
The last story, “The Boys at the Lab,” provides a cap to the stories as Nell reminisces with her dying mother over a series of photos from their lives. Nell seeks answers to questions only her mother has, but her mother’s memory is failing. These answers might fill in some of the gaps, but I don’t care. I am as happy with these stories as I could be. Five stars.
--Chiron, 3/13/08
I have admired her since I read The Handmaid’s Tale when it was first published in 1983. Cat’s Eye followed in 1986 and immediately became my favorite Atwood novel. Her nostalgic, understated humor, her psychological insights impress me, and provide an immediate connection to my childhood, even though she grew up in Toronto – a whole world away from the Kensington section of Philadelphia.
This collection of short stories continues in that tradition. Atwood has written the story of Nell as a child, a young woman, and finally a senior citizen. Janet Burroway in Writing Fiction, calls the transitions between events in a story as “the mortar that holds scenes together.” What is missing is this mortar – but I do not mean that as a criticism, after all, this is a collection of short stories. Each story is a scene in Nell’s life – “spots of time” Wordsworth called them, and the transition from one to another is effortless. The humor, the nostalgia, the insights – all hallmarks of every Atwood novel I have ever read – are all here.
The last story, “The Boys at the Lab,” provides a cap to the stories as Nell reminisces with her dying mother over a series of photos from their lives. Nell seeks answers to questions only her mother has, but her mother’s memory is failing. These answers might fill in some of the gaps, but I don’t care. I am as happy with these stories as I could be. Five stars.
--Chiron, 3/13/08
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Kristin Lavransdatter I: The Wreath by Sigrid Undset
So many people raved about this novel. Several declared it the best novel they had ever read. I had heard of Undset, and I had read something by her years ago, but that book has been lost. My principle period of literature is medieval, so I thought I was a natural match with this three volume epic.
Alas, I invoked the rule of fifty after the first chapter. I found it boring and confusing. I could not tell the names apart, I felt the descriptions were cliched and tiresome. I also had no idea the novel was so religious, although that does explain the attraction for several of the people who recommended it.
Too many books, too little time to waste on something I do not enjoy. I put a bookmark in the page where I left off and returned all three volumes to the shelf. Perhaps I will come back to it some day.
--Chiron, 3/8/08
Alas, I invoked the rule of fifty after the first chapter. I found it boring and confusing. I could not tell the names apart, I felt the descriptions were cliched and tiresome. I also had no idea the novel was so religious, although that does explain the attraction for several of the people who recommended it.
Too many books, too little time to waste on something I do not enjoy. I put a bookmark in the page where I left off and returned all three volumes to the shelf. Perhaps I will come back to it some day.
--Chiron, 3/8/08
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Kusamakura by Natsume Soseki
The author note tells us this is an intriguing Japanese novel by "one of Japan's most influential modern writers, [who] is considered the foremost novelist of the Meiji period (1868-1914)." He died in 1916.
Intriguing to say the least! This tale is 60% meditation on the philosophy of art, particularly poetry, 40% travelogue, and 100% pure poetry. It took me a long time to read this novel, and I loved every single, slow swallow of wonderful passages, ideas, and thoughts. Sometimes, I would read a single sentence or part of a paragraph and work it over and over in my mind. For example: "As I get back to my feet, my eyes take in the distant scene. To the left of the path soars a mountain peak, in shape rather like an inverted bucket. From foot to summit it is entirely covered in what could be either cypress or cedar, whose blue-black mass is striped and stippled with the pale pink of swaths of blossoming wild cherry. The distance is so hazy that all appears as a single wash of blurred shapes and colors" (5).
This sounds like he is describing an impressionist painting. Soseki was educated in England after graduating from the University of Tokyo. References to Western art and literature are sprinkled throughout the book.
His style resembles an ordered stream of consciousness. The novel is the story of a journey around Japan, and it is obvious the experience the narrator has far outweighs the actual walk. Soseki frequently pauses to drink in the surroundings, only to be interrupted by a fellow traveler. “I return to my thoughts,” is a frequent refrain.
One of many of my favorite passages is his musing, after becoming soaked in a cloudburst. “If I picture myself, a sodden figure moving in this vast ink-wash world of cloud and rain shot through diagonally with a thousand silver arrows, not as myself but as some other person, there’s poetry in this moment” (13).
A shipment has already arrived from Amazon with five more of his novels. So many, many books; so little time. Five stars.
--Chiron, 3/6/08
Intriguing to say the least! This tale is 60% meditation on the philosophy of art, particularly poetry, 40% travelogue, and 100% pure poetry. It took me a long time to read this novel, and I loved every single, slow swallow of wonderful passages, ideas, and thoughts. Sometimes, I would read a single sentence or part of a paragraph and work it over and over in my mind. For example: "As I get back to my feet, my eyes take in the distant scene. To the left of the path soars a mountain peak, in shape rather like an inverted bucket. From foot to summit it is entirely covered in what could be either cypress or cedar, whose blue-black mass is striped and stippled with the pale pink of swaths of blossoming wild cherry. The distance is so hazy that all appears as a single wash of blurred shapes and colors" (5).
This sounds like he is describing an impressionist painting. Soseki was educated in England after graduating from the University of Tokyo. References to Western art and literature are sprinkled throughout the book.
His style resembles an ordered stream of consciousness. The novel is the story of a journey around Japan, and it is obvious the experience the narrator has far outweighs the actual walk. Soseki frequently pauses to drink in the surroundings, only to be interrupted by a fellow traveler. “I return to my thoughts,” is a frequent refrain.
One of many of my favorite passages is his musing, after becoming soaked in a cloudburst. “If I picture myself, a sodden figure moving in this vast ink-wash world of cloud and rain shot through diagonally with a thousand silver arrows, not as myself but as some other person, there’s poetry in this moment” (13).
A shipment has already arrived from Amazon with five more of his novels. So many, many books; so little time. Five stars.
--Chiron, 3/6/08
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