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194883054X
| 9781948830546
| 194883054X
| 4.33
| 39
| Oct 10, 2019
| Jun 22, 2022
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None
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0
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Sep 23, 2021
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Paperback
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1940953561
| 9781940953564
| 1940953561
| 3.93
| 343
| 2014
| May 16, 2017
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Sep 23, 2021
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8439708130
| 9788439708131
| 8439708130
| 4.04
| 296
| May 30, 2001
| May 30, 2001
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Sep 23, 2021
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Paperback
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0571222811
| 9780571222810
| 0571222811
| 3.89
| 485
| 2003
| Jan 01, 2006
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really liked it
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CRITIQUE: Successive Obsessions The narrator of the intertextual novel, "Kensington Gardens" (which is based on the Peter Pan myth), is the fictional ch CRITIQUE: Successive Obsessions The narrator of the intertextual novel, "Kensington Gardens" (which is based on the Peter Pan myth), is the fictional character, Peter Hook. He's a novelist who has written a series of children's novels about the character, Jim Yang. Most of the narrative is directed towards a child actor, Keiko Kai, who plays Jim Yang in the films of the novels. Strangely, Keiko Kai remains silent, and never seems to respond to any of Peter Hook's conversation, thus effectively creating a monologue. "The Spark I Stole From You" The first Peter Plan play was published by J. M. Barrie in 1904. Peter Llewelyn Davies was J. M. Barrie's inspiration for the character, Peter Pan. Fresan's Peter Hook was born, much later, on April 5, 1960 (the day upon which Peter Llewelyn Davies committed suicide by jumping on the track in front of a train at Sloane Square Station). J. M. Barrie once said of Peter Llewelyn Davies (and his brothers):
J. M. Barrie was also the person with whom the narrator, Peter Hook, would one day become so obsessed (that he would write a/this biographical novel about him), in the same way that J. M. Barrie became obsessed with Peter Llewelyn Davies (and wrote a fabulous tale of fantasy about him). "The Boy Who Would Not Grow Up" The Peter Pan myth emerged just after the death of Queen Victoria, and the end of the Victorian era. It influenced the childhood (and postponed the adulthood) of the children who were born during this imperial era, in just the same way that Harry Potter would later affect children of the Noughties:
"Somebody Spoke and I Went Into a Dream" Much of Hook's novel concerns life in the Swinging Sixties, by which he was influenced. Children and youth were affected by literature, film, art, music, love, politics, and revolution. The Beatles were the biggest single influence, not to mention Peter Blake, Patti Boyd, William Burroughs, Michael Caine, Julie Christie, Eric Clapton, Sean Connery, Jerry Cornelius, Tom Courtenay, Quentin Crisp, Ray Davies, Herbert Marcuse, Jimmy Page, Anita Pallenberg, Pasolini, Tom Ripley, the Rolling Stones, and Pete Townshend ("I hope I die before I get old"). They frequented clubs like the Crawdaddy, the Flamingo, the Marquee, the Pickwick Club, the Talk of the Town, and the UFO Club. These lists of people and places read like a list of the characters on the cover of the album, "Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band". [image] "A Day in the Life" The song "A Day in the Life" (from that album) reverberates throughout the novel. It's notable that Fresan (like Manuel Puig) is so influenced by English and American pop culture, not to mention its Victorian predecessor. The only difference is that Puig integrates pop culture into Argentine or Spanish life and culture, whereas Fresan recognises that English and American culture remained preeminent in these two Golden Eras. "I'd Love to Turn You On" On the other hand, it's interesting that Fresan refers several times to Robyn Hitchcock and his song, "Madonna Of The Wasps". Fresan seems to have some knowledge of the post-punk era subsequent to the Swinging Sixties. Hitchcock himself was as much influenced by Bob Dylan, John Lennon and Syd Barrett as Fresan appears to have been. Paradoxically, Fresan's writing style isn't as lyrical as you would expect the style of such a romanticist or fan of psychedelia to be. Still, he's cultivated an invigorating (if not wholly magical) garden to inhabit for the duration of a reading. VERSE: Kensington Pan There's a statue made of bronze In the fair gardens of The royal Kensington Palace Designed to commemmorate The childhood and memory Of the lost boy, Peter Pan. More Than Ever Peter Pan He said he'd never grow up He'd forever hold the cup This child is very clever We love him more than ever. SOUNDTRACK: (view spoiler)[ The Beatles - "A Day In The Life" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=usNsC... "...somebody spoke and I went into a dream..." Jeff Beck - "A Day In The Life" (Live at Ronnie Scott's) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHHY3... The Beatles - "She Said She Said" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rLzfo... "She said, 'I know what it's like to be dead.'" The Who - "I'm One" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0wYS0... The Kinks - "Victoria" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z2GHl... Kate Bush - "In Search Of Peter Pan" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=buh11... The Black Keys - "Lonely Boy" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_426... Fatboy Slim (ft. Bootsy Collins) - "Weapon Of Choice" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCDIY... Jamiroquai - "Cosmic Girl" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-NvQ... Robyn Hitchcock & The Egyptians - "Madonna Of The Wasps" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5ayy... Yo La Tengo - "Tom Courtenay" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zG3VU... (hide spoiler)] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jan 2024
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Jan 08, 2024
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Sep 23, 2021
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Paperback
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1948830051
| 9781948830058
| 1948830051
| 4.30
| 86
| Mar 2017
| Nov 12, 2019
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Sep 23, 2021
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Paperback
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039912425X
| 9780399124259
| 039912425X
| 3.85
| 259
| 1979
| Oct 08, 1979
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it was ok
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MERE CRANKERY, INGENUOUS MIMICRIES AND ASININE LETTERS This randy Maryland campus novel is obliged to carry an over-sexed excess of relentlessly juveni MERE CRANKERY, INGENUOUS MIMICRIES AND ASININE LETTERS This randy Maryland campus novel is obliged to carry an over-sexed excess of relentlessly juvenile meta-fictional baggage and correspondence towards its mock-revolutionary destination, thus making fools as well as knaves of its characters and readers alike. Of all the many post-modernist works that I've read, this is undoubtedly the least rewarding of either effort or acumen. It's a narrative of no consequence about characters of no interest (view spoiler)[(except perhaps Napoleon I and Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, who never made it to Maryland, as far as I can tell.) (hide spoiler)] Dead Letter Office To appropriate the words of Vladimir Nabokov, this novel is "second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up, mediocre, bogus, trite." To appropriate the words of John Gardner, Barth is "well-meaning but trivial." To appropriate the words of Karl Marx, this novel "made it possible for a grotesque mediocrity to play a hero's part." A LITTLE SOMETHING TO RELIEVE THE TEDIOCRITY: A Tale of Two Fallen Men Interred [After Andrew Burlingame Cook VI] (Apologies to an Unknown Limericist) Though some think I should be deterred, Let me recall this Roman lore To which you might not be privy (Even if you know your Livy): Two men fell through a toilet floor And were found side by side interred. The Agitation of One Ambrose Mensch [Suggested by the Words of the Author] Bearded hipsters with shirts of starchless denim, They nag Marxists with squirts of pomo venom, This coterie assembles its daisy chains In which nobody challenges or complains, So that each successive member can facilitate An instalment of their divine ejaculate. A LETTER TO THE AUTHOR FROM A READER: "JB", "Author" "Dear" "Sir" I write so that you cannot pretend not to know me, one of your readers, if not an obsequious one. On 26 May, 2018, it came to my attention that you had written a REVOLUTIONARY NOVEL in order to establish a new and sounder base of empire, what's more, in pursuit of your audacious plan to become emperor of a world of your own creation. What is wanted to instigate the empire of your novel is nothing less than a Revolution, an adventure in which I at first considered myself well-suited by temperament at least to participate. By means which I will not here disclose (but which must bear some resemblance to the manner in which various other readers have obtained a copy of your NOVEL, notwithstanding that they might not yet have gone to the pains of reading it), I acquired a copy of your NOVEL and embarked upon the task of reading it on the date heretofore mentioned as closely and attentively as a college professor. Indeed, "dear" "sir", I must admit I embarked upon this task on no less than two occasions. For I learned soon after each respective embarkation that your NOVEL was a desolated rock upon which I might maroon myself, if I had not already done so. No sooner had my journey commenced than I wished that it might end. Yet it appeared from the weight that I held in my right hand that there was no ready end to my journey in sight. Nevertheless, I imagined that because my journey was both temporary (as I then thought) and as it were voluntary (if misguided), that I should persevere until its completion on, dare I say it, page 772 (which I confess is not the longest book I have had the pleasure of reading, albeit it might be the longest displeasure, if I am to be frank). Let me be the first to confess that I am no syntactical analyst, let alone a prescriptive grammarian. Yet I should be remiss not to admit that I soon enough came to sympathise with your propositions that the truth of fiction is that Fact is fantasy; that the made-up story is a model of the world. My principal complaint, and where perhaps we might have parted company, aye, there's the rub, regards the implication that it is the duty of the Revolutionary Novelist to create a model of the world in infinite detail and verisimilitude (as far as is permitted by the means of language). Since the author first published his Revolutionary Novel on the margins of the academic as well as the literary establishment (some many years before this reader commenced to peruse it), the reader has acquainted himself with certain other novels created, evidently, on the foundation of the author's propositions, you could say on the footers of those same false stones, only to find that the second or subsequent writer did not necessarily have the author's knowledge or skill to replicate his achievement (as I presume it must be, you claiming with some justification to be by temperament a fabricator, drawn to wholesale invention, not a drawer-from-life). Not everything that every so-called writer writes is worthy of writing, publication or, for that matter, reading and reviewing. These other writings (composed by young writers whose then ambition it was to render the entire quotidian into prose) filled me full, without fulfilling me, being little more than a visual orchestration of the author's Weltanschauung. Indeed, they seemed to do all in their power to mock your avant-garde contraptions and contrivances, your passion for everything, your literary career, your committee work, your apparently abundant sex life, and your legacy, by virtue of not being the exemplary fictions they represented themselves as being, but ciphered replies to various paternal or god-like academics and critics who like this kind of thing, and therefore practise the dark arts of Ad-mi-ra-ti-on, De-cla-ra-ti-on, Ex-hor-ta-ti-on. Perhaps now the author might understand why the reader was at first apprehensive and hesitant to read his NOVEL. That is if you are who you say you are, or the author is who the author in the book says he or she is. Surely it is enough that one author mimic the prose styles of other writers, without other writers in turn mimicing that author's prose style (the second an imitation of the first, the third a parody of the second)? That surely must be the task of the reader? The strategy would be madness if it were anyone else's; may be madness even so. To which speculation I will add only these few words, by way of completion of the author's own project. Wool of bat and tongue of dog. A Reader ON THE STRUCTURE OF "LETTERS" Six Characters in Search of An Author Barth (or one of his characters) explains "LETTERS" on page 654 of this 772 page contrivance:
This is about all you need to know about the meta-fictional strategy of the novel (it's a half page base for a 772 page superstructure), except for how the letters are arranged on the page. Writer's Calendar Block There is a block of text above the title of the novel that assembles the letters of the word "LETTERS" on individual pages of a calendar block (rotated 90 degrees). Each letter of the title consists of individual letters placed on the date of the month upon which a letter in the text is supposed to have been posted. Read from left to right, the block of text constitutes the subtitle of the novel. The reader is supposed to infer that the mathematical or numerical basis of the calendar block might have dictated the text as a whole. However, I suspect that the letters were simply placed in the appropriate place to spell the word "LETTERS". Thus, the actual dates could be fortuitous and of no literary consequence, except that the letters were written and responded to in a feasible sequence. The block appears to be merely cosmetic. So much for aesthetic theory. Abstract Possibilities of Form Barth intertwines a concern with revolution, recycling, recurrence, repetition (compulsion), resetting, and re-enactment throughout the text. There is nothing remotely political, let alone dialectical or materialistic, in the embrace of revolution. It is purely aesthetic, and only philosophical in a German Idealistic sense. One of Barth's alter egos scorns "one of your high-society lefties..." Another declares: "If one imagines an artist less enamoured of the world than of the language we signify it with, yet less enamoured of the language than of the signifying narration, and yet less enamoured of the narration than its formal arrangement, one need not necessarily imagine that artist therefore forsaking the world for language, language for the processes of narration, and those processes for the abstract possibilities of form." This stage of Barth's fiction (like the coterie of readers it attracts) is nevertheless trapped in an abstract literary world, where all that counts is the imaginary universe that has been fabricated by the (an[y]) author ("the written universe"), not to mention the boggy marshlands and semen-stained sheets of the author's fantasies. Foiled by His Own Folly The novel purports to be revolutionary in its methods, but is really only an appropriation of an exhausted form, the epistolary novel. It falls down in the execution, being just as exhausting and exhausted as its literary forbears and historical sources (view spoiler)[e.g., "Poltroons and Patriots" (hide spoiler)]. It engenders the same feeling in its readers, no matter how attentive and patient: "I feel I could write on, write on to the end of time!" The Farcical View of History It brings to mind a comment by Karl Marx (from "The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Napoleon") that: "Hegel remarks somewhere that all great world-historic facts and personages appear, so to speak, twice. He forgot to add: the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce." This is certainly true of "LETTERS". An Uphill Climb If nothing else, it is a farce from beginning to end, if not, regrettably, an entertainment. Ironically, George Steiner (the champion of the Tragic View) described "LETTERS" as prolix, narcissistic, and "a more or less indigestible classroom soufflé". One might well ask whether for every Narcissus there must be an Echo. One might also ask, as did Paul Keating, whether this soufflé could rise twice (that is, assuming it ever rose at least once). He should have thrown all of these letters onto the fire. Tidewater Island [Apologies to "Gilligan's Island"] So this is the tale of our castaways, They're here for a long, long time. They'll have to make the best of things, It's an uphill climb. SOUNDTRACK: (view spoiler)[ Gilligan's Island Theme https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H8Uf8... R.E.M. - "Rotary Ten" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yya--... Wishbone Ash - "Persephone" https://m.youtube.com/watch?v= Spirit - "Lady of the Lakes" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eGPH5... Spirit - "Like A Rolling Stone" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FWCxA... Spirit - "The Star Spangled Banner" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v5nex... Split Enz - "History Never Repeats" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tzuJX... Teenage Fanclub - "Ain't That Enough" https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=jdeqYx-... Cosmic Rough Riders - "Revolution (In The Summertime?)" https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=gpS9gyS... https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=kqaweET... The Soft Boys - "Narcissus" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U3roz... Robyn Hitchcock - "A Man's Gotta Know His Limitations, Briggs" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CDyM4... "A man's gotta know his limitations, Briggs Or he will just explode You lived in your imagination, Briggs You blew up in the road" The Dream Syndicate - "Recurring (Steve's Dream)" https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=jKFqLGZ... The Velvet Underground - "I Can't Stand It" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S3I71... (hide spoiler)] ...more |
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1
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Jul 05, 2018
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Aug 06, 2018
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Jul 28, 2014
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Hardcover
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0385041284
| 9780385041287
| 0385041284
| 4.15
| 137
| 1982
| 1982
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Dec 06, 2013
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Hardcover
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9041198563
| 9789041198563
| 9041198563
| 3.00
| 1
| Jun 13, 2002
| Jun 13, 2002
|
liked it
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Disclaimer Haha, there had to be one, didn't there! This review is not a review of this book, but a general comment on disclaimers. Cheated by the Fine P Disclaimer Haha, there had to be one, didn't there! This review is not a review of this book, but a general comment on disclaimers. Cheated by the Fine Print Have you ever tried to defend or assert your rights under a contract, only to be shown the "fine print"? Chances are that the fine print was a disclaimer; its role: to deny or cheat you of your rights. My Friend Col Nobody I know understands the inside of life insurance policies like my friend, Col. He's read just about every one published in the last 50 years. He helps people to understand and assert their rights, and therefore to get what they paid for. Col has a delightfully simple philosophy about drafting insurance policies. He thinks that they should tell us what the insurance company is insuring, not what they are not insuring. In other words, policies would be a lot easier to understand, if all they said was, "we will insure you for this, this and this (and nothing else)". Perhaps, if they were easier to understand, more people would buy them. Instead, people think insurance companies are rip off merchants, who won't pay your claim, when an insured event occurs. If more people bought insurance, the premiums could come down. So everybody loses out, when insurance companies seek to confuse consumers and avoid responsibility under their policies. Accentuate the Positive A disclaimer is a negative psychological, social, commercial and legal strategy. It is intended to exclude responsibility and therefore liability. It is designed to exculpate the guilty at the expense of the innocent, who are denied a remedy. (For it is written that "he who disclaims shall later exclude".) We consumers just want to know what we are buying. Disclaimers purport or pretend to clarify the issue by telling us what we are not buying or, having bought it, what we can't do, if there's something wrong with it. In a way, a "warranty" is what a seller is positively stating about their product; a disclaimer is what they are negatively stating, by way of exclusion. Often, the consumer has to sit the two together and identify, what is the end result? What am I actually being promised? Is it what I need? Is it good value? Am I prepared to pay good money for that promise? Why can't we accentuate the positive? Why can't there be more warranties than disclaimers? The Sting in the Tail of the Fine Print One of the problems is that disclaimers are written as if lawyers were being paid by the word or perhaps even the letter. Hence, they are usually inordinately long, polysyllabic and incomprehensible. They take up a disproportionate part of the policy or contract, so much so that people started reducing the font size of this guff, which is why it's called the "fine print". The other reason it is put in fine print is to discourage us from reading it. But we all know that, when the time comes, there is usually a sting in the tail of the fine print. Tell Us What You Really Think What Col was effectively saying is life would be a lot easier if you simply stated what you were selling in clear, unambiguous language. If you want to sell something, if you want to say something, just come right out and tell us plain and simple. If you think somebody might be offended, apologise, don't disclaim. Col's advice: Don't hide behind disclaimers. Don't disguise. Don't dissemble. Be honest. The world would be a better place without the fine print of disclaimers. Disclaim the disclaimer and all who sail in them! ...more |
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Aug 21, 2013
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Aug 20, 2013
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Hardcover
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3.84
| 157,212
| Jun 15, 1914
| 2001
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None
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1840226617
| 3.68
| 12,927
| May 04, 1939
| 2012
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it was amazing
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“Fabulous Pub Fare” Australians all let us read Joyce! Though we are liter’y, We dread the trouble and the toil. He’s not our cup of tea. His works abound “Fabulous Pub Fare” Australians all let us read Joyce! Though we are liter’y, We dread the trouble and the toil. He’s not our cup of tea. His works abound unread on shelves In bookstores everywhere. It’s time we tried Finnegan’s Wake, Dubliners and Ulysses. In Joyceful ways, then, let’s consume This fabulous pub fare! (Extract from “Proposal for a Chair in Joycean Studies” By Professor Bruce Bloomsday, Poet Lorikeet and Larrikin, Department of English, Scottish and Irish Studies, Finnegan’s Tavern Campus, University of Woolloomooloo) Review My review of the restored version of the novel is here: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show... SOUNDTRACK: “Fabulous Pub Fare” [aka "Advance Australia Fair"] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3VuC3... "Advance Australia Fair" (Official Lyrics) http://www.imagesaustralia.com/austra... ...more |
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Apr 13, 2014
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Apr 18, 2014
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Apr 12, 2013
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0141192291
| 9780141192291
| 0141192291
| 3.68
| 12,927
| May 04, 1939
| Apr 05, 2012
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it was amazing
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Prelured to a Nocturnal Pleasure "It isn't a matter of submitting uncritically to a difficult work; it's about trusting that the artist knows what he/s Prelured to a Nocturnal Pleasure "It isn't a matter of submitting uncritically to a difficult work; it's about trusting that the artist knows what he/she is doing, even if you don't apprehend it right away. Just keep reading: even the most difficult novel will eventually make some sense, and if you realise you've missed things, you can always go back for a second try if still curious...some people like a challenge...some people are open to new, initially puzzling experiences...": Steven Moore Thirst Daft from the Keg (Only Later in the Can) Allkey Dalkey. A quest for you! How and where should we dear readers start this vollhuminorous opus tome that is belabelled "Funny Gunsmoke"? Are you the typeface who wants to read a Wake? Or better still to hold its heft until and while yore fast a Schlep? The meaning ist all betweed the last and first one or two hemidemisentences of this nonomonograph: "Put off the old man at the very font and get right on with the nutty sparker round the back:...A way a lone a lost a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodious vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle & Environs." To here or where do we return? Howth Castle & Environs. HCE! Did you see that? What and hoodoo these letters stand for? Is it a code? Please sir, can I have some morse or semaphor? Is this the first of many mansions of real currency? Will we find the unity of people and place in time in these environs? Here? Down by the river? Recirculating? At night? In your dreams! Whether or not you're sleeping. Trust Joyce to resuscitate these ancient and wise abreathiations. (view spoiler)[HCE, the father: Humanity, Chemistry, Economics) (hide spoiler)](view spoiler)[Then later ALP, the mother: Art, Literature, Politics (hide spoiler)] Plus there's lots more to seacombe, if you feel encurrieged to go-on! The Loneliest Sphere Amonkst Us And so we start at the bigending and return to the beginning. We come full sphericircle via the roundabout or “O” in Vico Road. At wristwatchtime and to whichwhatend? The qwestian is regardless! This revolution is not revolting or odious, just kummftibbly commodious. You could advocake more communionist than communist or unionist, though bewhere if an onion ist made of many lawyers, becoz each one is set inside and upagainst annutter. Too! [image] And We're Off a Way Alone a Lost Astray Lost? Astray? A loan? At what interest rate? Howth else could you find a way, aweigh, that’s worth its wait in geldings? Watch your steppe, or euchred be waylaid. Respect the Bellowtrystic Massterboston Choosit Oilrich-Ammerricunstables and Diasporlastic Paddies. Heed acadamnic Doctorates and your Masters and/or Mistresses, hair weather they might hail from. Though observe that some tend to bury H.C.E.Z.R., when they say they come to praise him. Neertheless, hoefully you'll find the riteway to reed this book for you. Deftkneely beeknot misled by any Ashtraylian or hippopotantipodean of lettuce, french, inkwizitive or other whys. (view spoiler)[ Speed king of witch: arise for the natural anthem of Ashtraylia - "Ashtraylians all, let us read Joyce, For we are young and free." Travel vice: A void at all coasts the Manly Bondi surf offshore, give the bend of Botany Bay a swerve, eschew, a shoe, a thong (even the one that the Theekers thing), the East and Sea Bored, Neddie Seagoon, allsew togather close-knit jumpers from Woollengong, Dapto, Farewell Aunty Jack (We Know Ewe'll Be Black), Woy Woy, Milligan’s Bridge Work (sicness and axedental cover is essential, if not guaranteed!), Nucarsel urthkwack kwack (leica duck or a version kissed for the very first thyme), Hunter Wine Sellers, the Cult Chisel Star Hotel (all goon, no show now), and the Sudden Cross environs of the Filleterdhellfire Club. O Burnie, that must hurt! (hide spoiler)] Annalytical Parabbelais This could be James Joyce's second best book, if it's not deterred. They're all good, if you like this kind offering. It's a big wander oliver the world why he was neverwarded a Noble Surprise. Pearheaps because, like a lot of other civillillians and armoured worriers, he disceased during the World War Too and that made him ineligible. Never mind. The books are still availabellegible, so you can read them if you don't think they're too liffeycult. Joyce gnu all the words in the dickshunnery and moor B-sides that he made up from the manniplurabold languages of the whirled. He recreated them espeshfully fornication like this, youzing them for the very first and ownly time in this belaboured werk and wurterbuch. Howzat! Unlikewise, take note of Joyce's punkchewashuns, Oxford commanists, parents' theses, dashful hyphenates, apocraphyl apostropheats, semicolonial Manutians from afaraway, kissed ellipses lipglossy, penultimate fullstoppers and sentences high above suspended. It's very hard to fellow him, partickly even though he's dead. Still, he's proof that preservering with our ancestuous tends to keep our minds alife. Sum total lots of readers are put off "Finnegan's Wank", because they thank it's too long and too hard. Well, if you don't want to exhurt the mental musculiterature of your mind, you can still please yourself another way (view spoiler)[(which ineviterribly illicits the swift retort, "Things that make you go, Hmmmmm," from a Houyhnhnmmmmm who proseeds to imvitate a Gellover to innspect the Yahoos in his stable) (hide spoiler)]. There are lots of other books for ewes. Someone somewhere over the regenbocean said that James Joyce is the top man in the langwage department. Dispose that's better than the sandwich department. Haha! Lollgoll! In case this is an eggsample of what seven lindquists might call typographical eros, it's best that each reader be left to their erogenous own devices. A bout with witch and broom, more bryter layter. [image] James Joyce, Sylvia Beach and Adrienne Monnier at the Maison des Amis des Livres, Paris, 1938 © Photo Gisèle Freund / IMEC / Fonds MCC via www.fondation-pb-ysl.net The Polyguous Diversity of the Multivurst There are manny strangerous words in this book, some olden new, others single-minded, some double-malted, otherskwite polyguous, all of them all in all beeclaws unvacant lots of things happen in your dreams. It is a whole universe of words and images, that the awefer wrote down as they hopened in the night. You could say that all his words seem like they were relatively unedificated. However, you know that it would be untrue. You know that it would be a lyre. Ha! Good one, that's Awefeus, off course! This novel is spacifically inntended for any reader who adores perception and heaven and hell (not to mention Dandy Alligator). Mind you, some readers can be very tempting to overunderstand everything what goes on in the velvet underground belowcated down the rabbit hole. You could abcess about all of the contributaries of the River Liffey, all of the leaves on the Tree of Life and all of the ingreedients in the Sausage of Love. Irvinghowever, there is a chance that this might be a wursted effort. It is a nuff that yore first reading concentrate on the undiluted pleasesirs of the wurstplay on display. Afterwords, you can attend a jimjim and work-out the meaning of all detales, if six kneed bees, with an ingenerous glass of mead or a bitter class of grappa. The first and most imported object of the subject is that you enjoyce your shelf. Four for the Price of Three (or Three for the Price of Two?) The novel is diffided into fork quartets, but reely it's a tryst, a three yak worldplay, followed by the red currants of the myth as predicated vicoriously by an inflewential phallusupher who moonlights as a sham barrista. Buttfirst and befleur they are fourgotten, rejoyce in these words of the righter that have been reserved and reet petited: "God jests and Man mimics." If you are righteous enough, you can read Joyce in Gourd's sway. Or vice versa, if you're obwronxious. Then again, Joyce might have made it all up himself with no helpatall. According to this highpothesis, he was his own venquillotrist. Sounds good! Move on, Big Sir. Here you can find infinite jest that ascience to us readers the task of comprehension, aorbemusement and humble mimicry. There are many threories about the content of the tryst. You could adam and even write a nude science bookabetit. One will suffice for these porpoises. It sounds like the name of an album by the Red Hot Silly Meaufuckers: Birth! Sex! Death! Press enter and return. (view spoiler)[The forth stage coach out of town is a transitting, an evicotion, if not an explusion, vicos you re-inter by the font entranced and all commodoorius. (hide spoiler)] See! Magik!!! Complete with three Exhumation Marx!!! Hegelian Babel-bashers may well arks: Is this lettery structure opposed to the dielectrickal or is it just trialectrickery? Is it revolutionary or just gimmicky? Is this inturpretation reliarble or just untrystworthy? Is it jest or mimicry? Genuinelyflecked if eiderorpheus knows dancer! [image] James Joyce and Philippe Soupault with a manuscript of "Finnegans Wake" in 1931 The Beginning of Life So witch came first: the chicken or the yegg? Or as rural farmersists say: the fucken' or the clucken'? Itz a good christian, izn't it? It could be the clowndation of a "scienze of new ova". And that's just the beginning! What about the yend? How will it all stop? Or does it just go round and round like a one-armed canudist? James Joyce is just a belieber of the proposition that there's one big cyclist in hot pursuit of a circuitous root. He won't stop until he's had a nuff. Sex. A parently. And there is more than a nuff sex to go around of drinks. Round and round, in and out, round after round, in private homes and public houses, homewood or innward bound. It will go on forever and never stop. It will never be orgone. Good news for modem men and women. Hey? So this is why "Finnegan's Wake" begins with the ladder half of a sentence and ends with the foremast hoff. It's a circle of liff, a liffcycyle, a circle of life, a lifecycle. Another way of pitching and putting the same goffball into a different hole, is it's a Liffeycycle, a river, the river Liffey ("An Life," not "A Life" in Irish).(view spoiler)[It's possible that the English name "Anna Liffey" derives from the Irish expression "Abhainn na Life," which means "the river Liffey".The female character, Anna Livia Plurabelle, is a personification of the river and the river of life and love. (hide spoiler)] The river waters start in the mountains and flow towards the ocean, where they turn into clouds that ascend the mountains and regen down upon the urth, thus starting the river again. It's a good analogy. An even better allegory. What the Florentines called an "Alighieri". And Polymathematricians, an "Algorithm". Women, mothers, are responsibubble for our birth. They are on all fours with it. Or all floors. Blowing up their bellies like a rubadubblebubble. They are the source and cause, the saucy cause of conception and labour, of production and reproduction, of creation and procreation, of all types of activity and recreation, of all verbal words and wordal verbs: "They war loving, they love laughing, they laugh weeping, they weep smelling, they smell smiling, they smile hating, they hate thinking, they think feeling, they feel tempting, they tempt daring, they dare waiting, they wait taking, they take thanking, they thank seeking, as born for lorn in lore of love to live and wive by wile and rile by rule of ruse ’reathed rose and hose hol’d home, yeth cometh elope year, coach and four, Sweet Peck-at-my-Heart picks one man more." Birth entails and entales "the ensuance of existentiality." Birth is the dawn, the origin, the start of all things fantastic and funtastic. There is nothing more vital or important than women in da reddish-blonde red riding hood. [image] Livia Veneziani Svevo "They say I have immortalised [Italo] Svevo, but I've also immortalised the tresses of Signora Svevo. These are long and reddish-blond. My sister who used to see them let down told me about them. There is a river near Dublin which passes dye-houses and its waters are reddish, so I've enjoyed comparing these two things in the book I'm writing. A lady in it will have the tresses which are really Signora Svevo's." - James Joyce Onward Trysting Sodjers, Marching as to Whores Offcourse, it's not enough for a woman to be chaste. She must be chased about. And this is the role created epsexually for men. If women are the rock upon which socxiety is built, then men are the roll. You need both for birthing. Men have only a minor role at the outset, akindle to a Big Bang, only infinitesimorely smaller. If he pleases, he is invited to come again, to come on baby light my fire, he to be the flame that comes to light her Feuerabends, and keep her company and shareholders late into the night until the early mourning sickness becomes electriffic. Women have an infinite capacity for love, men a limitless appetryit for sex, "the natural bestness of pleisure." They are the nuts and bolts of sex and parenthood and fambily. After conception, men think their task is done, and that it is their right and obligation to bolt. This mythconception has a semantic horrorgen, obvoriously. Women must be nuts to put up with men. Men blame the sinductive powers of women. Men never fall so much for these powers of sinduction as when they are dupelicated or denied. If a man has trouble resisting the temptation of a woman, his temptatious plight is doubled by the prospect of a threesome: "Woman will water the wild world over. And the maid of the folley will go where glory. Sure I thought it was larking in the trefoll of the furry glans with two stripping baremaids..." Again, it seems to be a matter of semantics. The word "tryst" bears a greater etymanological resemblance to the number three than two, right back to the Lithuanian word "trys". (view spoiler)[Many such trysts are consummated outdoors under cover of a forest. In the sixteenth century, the practice was so widespread that often men and women of the court complained that they couldn't see the wood for the threes. (hide spoiler)] Eau contraire, a man's passion is often more greatly fanned by the absence of reciprostity or the denile of passion by the female. In this way, many a man who imagines a tryst ends up trystless or in tristesse. It is liffycult to describe a man's reaction to denial inwards. Iwronically, it turns many a man to one to one correspondence. What a man cannot describe orally, he must inscribe literally. Hence, litterature has its origents in men's love letters. (view spoiler)[If at first you can't pursue, o pen something to peruse. (hide spoiler)] A love affair carried on exclusively on the papers is called a quillotryst. Such a man must content himself with his quill, until other options arise, arouse and present themselves. When finally a woman commands a man's attention, then it is his swollen duty to respond with an appropriate degree of erectitude. Finnegan's Wake-Up Call "What has gone? How it ends?" Inevitabaldly, the human physique deterrorates and one day, as is the way of all fleshes, our time onnurth will come to an end, leaving us inert. Joyce speculates that the end need not be so bitter, but maybe even better: the big end will one day be a new beginning. All nights come to an end, but they are followed by another dawn. Our ancestors live on in our genes, even if our children don't innherod our belle bottoms. That's the way it's been since levis and devlins first loved livvy. But it's the same every wear. And so, the Liffey goes on, liff goes on, life goes on, and love goes on. We all go on to gather. We are each of us a small part of a great cycle. However, there would be no cycle without us. And there would be no remembery of us, unless we wrote it down in allforbettercal letters, if not order. The experience of life can be rich and diverse and rewarding, without necessarily being in order. So how to write a last line? A suitable end. A moment at which it's true, it's said, it's written down, inscribed, it's all been said and done, and there's nothing more to do, nothing more to say, nothing more to tell, like finis, finn, then, well...fools stop! [image] Anna Livia Plurabelle "Aye aye, she was lithe and pleasable." "You will always call me Leafiest, won’t you, dowling?" James Joyce, "Finnegans Wake" MISS ELAINE HERE: [Weiver a Gnidnep Nettirw] Professor Stephen Knight "Read it? I haven't even lectured on it!" Vroom the Beltholes Candice Postlebee Liviup tooplural belle Hyperblurbole? A Game for Those Throne Open Doubleyous Riverrun where Tumblestone and Redfork meet Howth and House Tully. SOUNDTRACK: (view spoiler)[ Radio Birdman - "Man with Golden Helmet" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GgZb6... "He's the top man in the language department." Radio Birdman - "Aloha Stephen Dannodalus" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lkKiZ... The Doors - "Curses, Invocations"/"Light My Fire" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MifWl... "I'll always be a word man, better than a bird man." The Doors - The Story of "Light My Fire" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iGQwA... Suede - "She's Not Dead" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l6s9r... "What's she called? I dunno, she's fucking with a slip of a man..." "She was just a young thin pale soft shy slim slip of a thing then, sauntering, by silvamoonlake." - James Joyce, "Finnegan's Wake" Thelonious Monk - "Epistrophy" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZ9El... "epistrophe" - the repeating of words at the end of successive phrases, clauses, or sentences to increase emphasis." Thelonious Monk - "Blue Sphere" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gy4Lx... "Has not [the master monk,] Theophrastius Spheropneumaticus written that the spirit is from the upper circle?" - James Joyce, "Finnegans Wake" James Joyce - Reading [from "Finnegans Wake"] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JtOQi... Tangerine Dream - "Mother of All Sources" [From the album "Finnegan's Wake"] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHeNI... Short film by Bórd Scannán na hEireann - "Pitch 'n' Putt with Joyce 'n' Beckett" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p856C... Another one for the Beckett List. (hide spoiler)] ...more |
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Apr 13, 2014
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Apr 18, 2014
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Mar 06, 2013
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Hardcover
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1560977981
| 9781560977988
| 1560977981
| 3.87
| 141
| Dec 17, 2007
| Dec 21, 2007
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Jan 07, 2013
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Hardcover
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038515951X
| 9780385159517
| 038515951X
| 4.28
| 548
| Apr 1981
| Apr 1981
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it was amazing
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PRAEAMBULUM: What the Critic Says [Professor Emeritus Murray Jay Siskind] ...a masterpiece of creative irreverence...written in pedantic sentimeter... It PRAEAMBULUM: What the Critic Says [Professor Emeritus Murray Jay Siskind] ...a masterpiece of creative irreverence...written in pedantic sentimeter... It yields nothing of sense to those intellectual quackshites, daubers of logic, and gowned vultures and spies who...surround it in some kind of official jingbang... [Yet] if you're a good listener, you'll find it's made of extraordinary talk that scales the heavens and ransacks the earth, talk in which memories of a curious past mingle preposterously with doctrines of art, comic mimicries, and prevaricating theories about love and hate... [It] thoroughly deserves your full, large-hearted, open-hearted, humble attention... What the Author Says [Alexander Theroux] One of the things I loathe...is self-promotion and self-aggrandizement... When I review a book, I consider it almost a mission, not a trade, to review it with all my strongest intelligence and my largest heart...You have an obligation as a reviewer and as a liver of life to seek meaning, to find the meaning, to turn over stones... I have great respect for readers, but they very rarely live up to my dream counterpart. I think people just want to go to the beach with a beach read... Using my novel as a benchmark, I think people just don't want anything complicated...people are just not learned...people don't want to think! They don't want to have their feet put to the fire. They don't want to look up a word! They don't want to listen to that allusion! That's why I'm basically very sympathetic to Thomas Pynchon, because I deeply appreciate the work he's done in his books... Dostoevsky once advised someone to write short chapters, and I always was very appreciative in his novels that the chapters were short... Why obfuscate?...I'm proud of the fact that my books can all be read...[even if you] might have to look up a word or go back a few pages to check something out... I do have a pyrotechnic or maximalist prose style...In Darconville's Cat...there's a very serious plot...I read one critic that said I just wrote a bunch of essays and basically have no talent as a fiction writer, that this is just a compilation of essays. It's a ludicrous point, because there's an actual story from the beginning to the end of this book...[though] I will drop the story in order to make a chapter I felt I need to put in there... http://www.3quarksdaily.com/3quarksda... [image] Luca Signorelli, detail from "The Damned Cast into Hell", 1499-1504, fresco, 23' wide (San Brizio chapel, Orvieto Cathedral, Orvieto, Italy) HUMBLE, LARGE-HEARTED REVIEW: Maximal Insufficiency There are 100 chapters in this 700 page novel, an average of just seven pages per chapter. It tends to be lumped into the genre of Maximalism, and Theroux even admits to its stylistic maximalism. Nevertheless, I'm not convinced that this description is of any critical value. It doesn't communicate anything about a book other than its length, nor does it suggest any commonality with other long books (other than their length). The qualities usually associated with Maximalism can equally be found in and applied to the style of some shorter fiction. Ultimately, I think it's just a term that's been used by one or more generations of writer, critic, academic and reader to differentiate themselves from earlier and/or later generations, in some cases to acquire the jobs or limelight of their predecessors (who are viewed as having outstayed their welcome or not sufficiently earned their status). However, this is not to detract from the supreme merits of Theroux' book, just to say that they need to be stated more precisely without the crutch of Maximalism. Fall from Grace Although it presents to some extent as a work of metafiction, "Darconville's Cat" is really a deeply religious and metaphysical novel. At the heart of its concerns is the metaphor of Man's fall from grace, our abandonment of God for the attraction of the world and each other, starting with Adam and Eve. Some of the blame for this Fall is attributed to God's rival, Satan. Religion would have us believe that beauty is truth, and truth is God. If we seek truth elsewhere, in an other, then perhaps we turn our backs on God. It's Satan's avowed goal to lure us away from God. One of his tools is the love between a man and a woman; then when we find love wanting, when the allure of love expires, Satan tries to attract us to hate. Both love and hate (of the earthly variety) seem to be designed to partition us from God. [image] Michelangelo - "The Fall from Grace" Darconville, the Novel and the Third Person The novel is narrated primarily in the third person, although mostly it reflects the perspective of the protagonist, a 28 year old college lecturer, Alaric Darconville. By the end of the novel, we learn that he has written a novel much like this one (although it's not clear whether or to what extent this is the novel he is supposed to have written). It's clear, however, that Theroux is ploughing metafictional ground. Do Your Worst! Darconville's one great love is Isabel Rawsthorne, a student at his college nine years his junior. A third of the novel describes their idyllic love; the rest, their break up, and the repercussions. Angered by his continuing attention, Isabel urges Darconville to "do your worst", almost defying him to seek revenge against her and her new beau. Darconville falls under the influence of Crucifer, a Harvard professor who's, needless to say, a metaphor for Satan. The remainder of the novel concerns the impact of the pact between the two (including the mysterious disappearance of Darconville's cat and soulmate, Spellvexit). For all the unrelenting verbal negativity of the Crucifer chapters (including the chapter in which the contents of the Misogynist Library are catalogued or listed book by book at length), they make for the most amazing reading. They locate and distil the misogynist prejudice and sexual imbalance that seems to have sat latent, if not patent, in society since the beginning of time. It's fascinating to witness these diabolical monologues, as manic and horrific as they are. It's proof, if we needed it, that the Devil has all the best tunes. An Aelurophile in the Misogynist Library Many reviews of the novel express discomfort with the level of misogyny. I don't feel this concern does justice to Theroux' positioning of the subject matter. We need to remember that it's Crucifer, not Darconville (or Theroux), who is the misogynist and the owner of the Misogynist Library. In fact, the dramatic tension of the entire novel effectively revolves around whether Crucifer can convert Darconville into a vengeful misogynist after the bitter end of his relationship with Isabel. [image] The Golden Apple of Discord For the Fairest Darconville is torn between God and Satan/Crucifer, good and evil. Thus, Theroux gives us one of the great dialectical conflicts, and we can do little but watch in awe as it unfolds. Theroux alludes frequently to Adam and Eve, whose love of each other and the contents of the world is one of the reasons (the other being Satan) for their Fall from grace with God. He asks, implicitly, whether the Homeric quest "for the fairest (three words that had started the Trojan war)" conflicts with or detracts from the love of God. Similarly, he questions whether hate can and must fill the hole left by the failure of love. Return to God's Embrace Alternatively, can what remains of the abstract capacity for love return the individual to God's love and embrace? In other words, if Darconville can't reconcile with his former lover, can he at least turn his back on Crucifer and hatred, and reconcile with God? Can he be reunited with God's love, if not that of Isabel, after the Fall? Truth and Beauty Darconville's life might turn ugly after the end of his relationship, but it's a book (and from a metafictional point of view, potentially this book) that restores at least beauty, if not also truth, to his life. Ultimately, the novel is both a work of beauty, and a celebration of the beauty and art/-ifice of human creation (whether inspired by God, nature or each other), regardless of the repercussions of the Fall. So it is that, in this novel, Darconville fails to do his worst. Instead, he does his best, his most truthful and his most beautiful, as does Theroux. Overloaded I came to this work sceptical of its merit, or at least sceptical of the basis upon which its merit has been declared. Paradoxically, most of this Maximalist acclaim actually deters readers. This is yet another case where the ideological and agenda-based shaping of a novel's promotion and reception deters or obscures a deeper reading, understanding and appreciation of its greatness. "Darconville's Cat" is literally loaded, if not overloaded, with a love of ideas, words, language, rhetoric and allusion. The Pleasure of the Definitionary I tend to avoid the term "encyclopaedic novel", just as much as Maximalism. However, there is a sense in which one of its connotations might apply to "Darconville's Cat". To the extent that the novel is more than the plot and its characters, it's an album, a digest, a companion, a compendium, a treasury of words about love and hate, beauty and truth, a garland subtly assembled around a schema of 100 chapters. The novel doesn't purport to be a portrait of an entire culture. However, it does take these few key characteristics, focus a lens on them, and describe them in detail, perhaps definitively as well as definitionally. Theroux really knows his subject matter, but his knowledge is both revealed and relevant to his subject (Darconville) and the narrative. There is nothing to fear in this novel, nothing about which to be apprehensive. For the intellectually curious reader, it will enrich your heart, your soul, your life...even, perhaps, your cat. One Creation under God "Darconville's Cat" honours and celebrates Man's creativity, as well as God's creation. In it, Theroux has fashioned a tribute to thousands of years of literature, a classically inspired and inspiring fairy tale, fable, allegory, satire, farce, tragedy, comedy, morality tale, entertainment. Every page compels you to think of Homer, Cervantes, Rabelais, Shakespeare, Sterne, Milton, Donne, Dante, de Sade, Goethe, Bunyan, Poe, Pope, Joyce, Thomas Mann, and/or Nabokov. In true Rabelaisian and Shandian fashion, the alchemical Theroux creates something precious and vital from a blend of profound learning, profane intercourse and mischievous play. Love of Life and Language When compared with other late twentieth century works, "Darconville's Cat" deserves to be read and lauded in the same company as William Gaddis' "The Recognitions". On the other hand, it contrasts a love of life and language with the documentation of hatred that William H. Gass seems to have made his preserve. In short, Theroux achieves with words both more and more beauty than Gass. Whatever your concerns about the length of the novel, it never ceases to stimulate and reward, qualities that tend to make length irrelevant. You could spend a lifetime in this labyrinth of truth and beauty. [image] (view spoiler)[ THEROUX THE EYE OF A NEEDLE: (Or Looking Through a Needless Eye) [Assembled From or Inspired by the Words of Theroux] Lend You My Ears [For Jurisconsult and Wiseacre] On a chaise longue and in the know, Cracker leaned up on his elbow, Then proclaimed, we must never like Bellow, Mailer, Roth or Updike, But fiction angry, long and white, Which he pronounced sheer delight. Having declared, he was content, He resumed his place, and then lent His right ear to his erstwhile Androti-kolobo-massophile. Genesis (In Which Creation was Individuated) One became many After two days, so it could Be comprehended. Just Like Spellvexit's Noise Exactly O my God, my sweet little thing, I can't tell which I more adore: The colour of your crimson cheeks, Your uncontrollable laughter, Or the rat-a-tat-tat of your Lovable, bubbable squeaks! The Epistemology of Love Was to remove The mystery To take away All the wonder? Upon Being Expelled from Eden Let's hurry away Together to Quippishland And Pellucidar. Rumpopulorum [A Drinking Haiku] Hey, ho! Rubelow! The devill kis his culum For eternity! Darconville's Cataloguist Who is this scrivener? A salesman disguised As a catalogue. A purveyor of Secondhand sunshine. An empiriocritical Yahoo ferreting And rummaging in The quisquliliae Of all time and space. The Black Duchess In the absence Of the light Of a cold day, The black duchess And the white, As well as grey, Are much of A muchness. The Black Kite The black kite shivered, Then nosedived downward, and so Plummeted to hell. A Higher Who Why desert you 'Cept to pursue A seat close to A Higher Who? The Cradle of Arrogance A man has just as Much arrogance as he lacks Self-realisation. Swan Songs Swans remain silent All their lives, so they might sing Well a single time. Fall from Grace Was it like Satan Falling from Heaven that turned Mit into gegen? Mad as a Hatter Might the fate of Darconville Be to become An assassin, Pistol in hand, In the rainy season, With leaky shoes In a mottled wood By night, travestied By moonlight? My Cat! My Cat! My heart My soul My life My cat. [image] SOUNDTRACK: Van Morrison - "The Way Young Lovers Do" https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=BFSmkY1... The Cure - "Friday I'm In Love" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGgMZ... The Cure - "Just Like Heaven" https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=n3nPiBa... The Cure - "The Lovecats" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mcUza... Prefab Sprout - "The Devil Has All the Best Tunes" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sjl0m... The Church - "The Unguarded Moment" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xn2e6... The Pogues - "If I Should Fall From Grace With God" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B4v6a... Pere Ubu - "Non-Alignment Pact" https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=DZty5DT... (hide spoiler)] ...more |
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Nov 27, 2015
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Dec 09, 2015
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Jul 20, 2012
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Hardcover
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0330349422
| 9780330349420
| 0330349422
| 4.19
| 6,760
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Paperback
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1564782131
| 9781564782137
| 1564782131
| 4.03
| 1,766
| Feb 21, 1995
| Apr 01, 1999
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really liked it
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The Tunnel Conceit The tunnel is an authorial conceit on the part of William H Gass as well as his protagonist, William F. Kohler. It's probably best to The Tunnel Conceit The tunnel is an authorial conceit on the part of William H Gass as well as his protagonist, William F. Kohler. It's probably best to abandon any preconceptions of what it might mean when you enter either tunnel as a reader. The metaphorical tunnel doesn't represent an escape route out of anywhere, nor does it represent a method of entry into somewhere else. Instead, it constitutes a long strange trip or journey through the mind of the first person protagonist. At this level, the novel is simply an account of the intellectual life of the protagonist. It's not clear whether it's merely thought or written down. I'll settle for the latter, because of its self-consciously literary tone. Language is the vehicle by which this mind's ore is drilled (bored?), extracted, conveyed to us and laid bare, so that, if we're interested enough, we can sift through it, looking for gold (or gelt or guilt). The Dirty Digger So much for the metaphysical tunnel. At a more physical level, Kohler (his name is German for "digger") goes down to the basement of his home, and starts digging a tunnel or hole. It's not clear what he intends to do with his hole or where he hopes it will take him. It's almost as if it's sufficient, as if it's an act of liberation in its own right, that Kohler is digging his own hole. This hole belongs to him. It is his very own piece of nothingness. Kohler is a man for whom nothing is enough. On the other hand, Kohler is a dirty digger. The act of digging a hole requires him to dig up and remove dirt. He doesn't want his wife, Martha, to realise he is digging a hole for himself. So he shovels the dirt into the chests of drawers and dressing tables upstairs (in all of the rooms other than the room in which, this might come as a surprise, she sleeps separately). Of course, Martha finds out and quite reasonably remarks, "I don't want your dirt in my drawers any more than I want your ideas in my head." You've got to admit, this is pretty funny in the absurdist manner of Beckett. Only the playwright didn't take 651 pages to achieve a similar result. Plus, structurally, the two-act play enabled Beckett to ensure that, at least, nothing happened twice. Here, nothing only happens once. It's just that there's a whole lot of nothing going down. That's enough about the conceit of the tunnel. It's little more than a framing device for a monologue. Digging All the Dirt on Kohler Over the course of these 651 pages, we literally get to know everything about Kohler. Perhaps, a better way to say it is that we get all the dirt there is to know about Kohler. The more he digs, the more dirt we get. The remarkable thing is we get Kohler, warts and all, from the horse's mouth. Needless to say, it's not pretty. In fact, he is a disgrace in just about every aspect of life. Even more remarkably, we don't get any sense of embarrassment or shame about anything he has to say about himself. It's as if he has to tell somebody else, for it to be really true. In the telling, his story becomes history. You don't have to be a king to make history. You just need to have lived, to have been alive. To this extent (only?), he has something in common with everyman. Ironically, or perhaps not, Kohler is an academic historian. He has written a book called "Guilt and Innocence in Hitler's Germany". At the beginning of the novel, he sits down to write the Introduction to the book, only his own story distracts him. This alone suggests that history can't be written objectively; there will always be something subjective of the historian or author in the telling. Thus, we are misguided, if we think that history is objective. Conversely, we're entitled to ask, what can we learn from history? It seems that we will encounter more unreliable narrators in history than we do in fiction. We don't learn much about what Kohler has written in his book. Perhaps, if we did, it could have constituted his Introduction! However, we learn a whole lot about his past. The Mad Meg Legacy Gass started writing the novel in 1965, when he was about 40. He took another 30 years to finish and publish it. It's difficult to judge when the novel is set, or at least when the narration is taking place. A couple of times, it's mentioned that Kohler is 50. There is little reference to contemporaneous events, other than a brief mention of protests against the Vietnamese War. There is some incidental mention of hippies, but no suggestion that the Summer of Love has occurred. Thus, it's possible that the narration occurs about 1965, which means that Kohler was born in about 1915 and was about nine or ten years older than Gass himself. This difference in age makes it possible for Kohler to have spent at least a year studying in Germany, after Hitler came to power. It seems that he studied history under a charismatic, persuasive and compelling pro-Nazi Professor (Magus "Mad Meg" Tabor) who greatly influenced his actions and beliefs. It's tempting, but ultimately futile, to try to work out who Mad Meg represents (view spoiler)[Hitler? Nietzsche? Heidegger? (hide spoiler)]. We soon learn that Kohler shares in the guilt of the Nazis: he threw a brick through the window of a Jewish grocery store on Kristallnacht in November, 1938. Although Kohler's colleagues suspect that he has pro-Hitler tendencies, we never learn how much it is reflected in his book. However, Gass leaves it to us to infer that Kohler must be asked the same questions about guilt and innocence as he purports to ask of the German people. The Abyss Regardless of any question about the complicity of the average German, the Holocaust must be regarded as the single most evil act committed in human history. As at 1965, the philosophical implications were still highly topical. The Holocaust was particularly relevant to post-war philosophies such as Existentialism and philosophers like Heidegger, who had started to get widespread attention in America from the 1950's onwards. Philosophy had started to discuss the plight of modern man in terms of the Abyss. Even though it is now believed that Heidegger was a Nazi sympathiser (not a simple issue to deal with), there can be no better practical example of the Abyss than the Holocaust. For all the centrality of history and philosophy to the novel, Kohler's tone is comic, light, complacent, conceited, flippant, even dismissive. There is no sense of the gravity of the Holocaust. He seems to embrace the meaninglessness of the Abyss rather than trying to escape it with some rational argument or philosophy. He is no man of action or commitment. He is a man of inaction, an exponent of passivity, a "gnomic wiseguy". He spends the whole of his life in a swivel chair (inherited from Mad Meg), changing perspectives as he sees fit. He argues, "We are as free to be of value as chewed gum...our philosophies rot in the back lots of our culture like struck sets...reality doesn't really give a shit...the truth plainly doesn't matter a damn." The Tunnel Shot The one source of solace seems to be sex ("the furry tunnel"), whether or not with Martha, or his mistresses or students (it's not clear whether they are real or just figments of his imagination). In this pastiche of Nabokov, he is massaging his lover, Lou: "Il...li...nois. I liked that name, that stream. It knew how to run, where to flow. Initially, the Il...li...nois would slide a little way along her upper shoulder before turning down, would tend to seek cracks, where the arm rested against her body, or run a deep indentation at the waist, before falling between her buttocks to tiptongue - that lightly - over her anus to...nois's home in the cleft of her cunt. But she would wiggle a little resentfully then, thinking I was trying to rouse her again. I suppose, though I wouldn't have minded that, rivers always roused me, and once in a while Il...li...nois would encounter the wad of Kleenex she used to mop me up with: I liked that, I thought it a fitting end to such a cunt-hunting river." A lot of the novel is hilarious. Often, it reminded me of "A Confederacy of Dunces", "Catch 22", "Seinfeld" (view spoiler)[another show about nothing (hide spoiler)], "Family Guy", "South Park" or "Gravity's Rainbow". Most of the sexual escapades and descriptions are amusing in a vulgar, undergraduate (view spoiler)[though Kohler's colleague and alter ego, the well-named Culp is a master of postgraduate wit, puns and limericks (hide spoiler)], Pynchonesque, Pythonesque, almost absurdist way. However, many readers will find them gratuitous and offensive. (view spoiler)[For example, I'm not sure about the wisdom of describing "a family in need of fumigation" in this context. (hide spoiler)] Tell Me What You Really Think Gass avoids any complicity in the philosophical or sexual offensiveness of the novel, because we don't know his views as author or person. All we have to go on is Kohler, who we already know to be a dirty digger. Importantly, Kohler doesn't aspire (view spoiler)[well, to be frank, he does aspire to nothing and/but the Abyss! (hide spoiler)], he doesn't change, he doesn't improve, he doesn't redeem himself, he doesn't even seek forgiveness. In the end, this self-proclaimed fat man (view spoiler)[in history (hide spoiler)] with a small penis is neither punished nor well hung. He remains in his hole(s): "I am an intransitive man. I'm reconciled to it. Even my husbanding has no object. With my tunnel, I have committed the ultimate inactive act. After all, what is a useless hole? I can honestly say I have accomplished Nothing... "Such doughnut-shaped deeds have amassed this pile of paper, determined my present detachment from my work, developed my unimpinging personality,...endlessly rehearsed these unheard lectures, projected my antiutopian visions onto a darkly boarded black screen, formed there my dishevelling plans. I've done nothing except fill her drawers with dirt. When she finds out, what then?" Yes, exactly, what then? This is the point of discovery at which Gass chooses to end his novel. Unfortunately, there is no what then. Holocaustic Remarks Like any good (Post-) Modernist, Gass reserves the right to hide behind his protagonist and not give anything away. Even when the subject matter is the Holocaust, Gass' authorial practice seems to prefer the beauty of language in the abstract to the ugliness of how and why it is used. It's true, history is not poetry. But sometimes or in some circumstances, poetry is not enough. I recognise and respect the effort and skill that went into this novel. However, I didn't find it wholly satisfying. Gass is clearly literate in the metaphysics of the issues his novel raises and discusses. The philosophy of Hegel and Heidegger is mentioned frequently, as are the ideas of Rilke. However, Gass seems to be content with a smokescreen rather than sending smoke signals, however subtle. Kohler versus Herzog Kohler luxuriates in a world of pointlessness, by which he means: "...the weakening of resolve,...the absence of any value, good or ill, the shoreline of the banal..." What appealed to him about Hitler was that he [Kohler] could be a "little finger...in a big fist". He didn't have to act or think. He just had to stay in synch with the fist, whether it was willed to do good or evil. Contrast this with Saul Bellow's character, Herzog (view spoiler)[(a model for Kohler's Uncle Balt?) (hide spoiler)]: "In the sphere of culture the newly risen educated classes caused confusion between aesthetic and moral judgments...reaching at last the point of denying the humanity of the industrialised, 'banalised' masses. "It was easy for the Wastelanders to be assimilated to totalitarianism. Here the responsibility of artists remains to be assessed. "To have assumed, for instance, that the deterioration of language and its debasement was tantamount to dehumanisation led straight to cultural fascism." What is present in "Herzog", but missing from "The Tunnel", is any sense that we might owe it to the victims of the Holocaust to choose, value and champion Being and Existence (as opposed to Nothingness). There is no intimation that we could (or should) develop enough backbone to climb out of the Abyss that we seem to have dug ourselves into. "Herzog" treats these issues very seriously, whereas "The Tunnel" seems to treat them as a bit of a joke. Any glimmer of Humanism is wishful thinking. Rather, Kohler seems to be undermining Humanism like a termite burrowing under the floorboards. This book is his tunnel. Ironically, the respect for existence and life that emerged (or was at least reinforced) after the Holocaust is equally available to any life, including that of a Kohler. He's entitled to be treated as a human being, even if he thinks of himself and all others as worms. Of course, Gass might argue that this is all Post-Modernist play, that the author has a right to remain silent, and/or that his novel is a legitimate attack on Modernism and possibly, through it, Humanism. If Post-Modernism finds Modernism wanting in this regard, then I prefer this aspect of Modernism. If Gass is capable of something better and more Humanist than metaphysical and literary glibness, then it's not on display here. This novel is riddled with the wormholes of ignoble protagonistic hatred. I wonder how, had Gass finished it, it would have been received in 1965, a year after the publication of "Herzog" (a novel to which it seems to be a response, to which I think it deserves to be compared adversely, and which contributed to the reasons Saul Bellow was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature). Still, even now, the question remains, how should we respond to someone (a protagonist, an author) who hates. This much. A lot. And hard. The Tunnel (According to Culp) You'll dig why Culp's smile is so mighty, When you meet his wife, Aphrodite. As you might know, from the fable, She's ready, willing and able, He just needs to lift up her nightie. SOUNDTRACK: Robyn Hitchcock - "Balloon Man" http://www.jukebo.com/robyn-hitchcock... "He was round and fat and spherical" ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 21, 2014
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Dec 23, 2014
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Oct 23, 2011
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Paperback
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0141180102
| 9780141180106
| 0141180102
| 4.00
| 2,181
| 1966
| Apr 01, 1997
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really liked it
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"I Know Not Whence...Nor Whither, Willy-Nilly Blowing" William H. Gass positions words on the page, one after the other. Soon, a sentence takes shape, "I Know Not Whence...Nor Whither, Willy-Nilly Blowing" William H. Gass positions words on the page, one after the other. Soon, a sentence takes shape, then a paragraph, then a chapter, then a section, then a novel in its entirety. The words are not necessarily directional from the outset. A sentence goes in the direction dictated by each additional word. They don’t necessarily follow a preordained sequence or work towards a goal: "I know not whence, like water willy-nilly flowing... Nor whither, willy-nilly blowing..." Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám Like Omensetter, Gass (our very own Willy-Nilly) is prepared to try his luck, tempt fate, go with the flow, see what happens. "The Moving Finger Writes and, Having Writ, Moves On" There is no necessary plot as such. The novel emerges from the natural flow: "You do not tell a story; your fiction will do that when your fiction is finished." Gass is the vehicle for these words to get onto the page. His is the hand that moves or the finger that writes: "The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on..." Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám His words are poetry. They are made to be spoken, to feel your tongue and lips and teeth move around them, they are made to be heard, even if you only listen to your own voice, whether inwardly in the imagination or outwardly alive and aloud. The Movement of Language Gass is interested in the "movement of language", as well as the language of movement. These words sound, they move around, they jostle for favour. Together they constitute or compose music: "What you make is music, and because your sounds are carriers of concepts, you make conceptual music, too." Having achieved their task, the words move to the back, unchanged, permanent, irrevocable: "Nor all thy Piety nor Wit, Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it." Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám The words are passed, gone, irrecoverable, at least until, in the manner of Proust, they insinuate their way into the memory of the reader and insist on being recalled. Only, in the unique case of "Omensetter’s Luck", this is not strictly correct. Gass’ initial draft of the novel was stolen, and he had to reconstruct it from memory. Ironically, he felt it improved in the process. Still, "Omensetter’s Luck" is for me an example of what Gass said about Italo Calvino’s "Invisible Cities": "[it] is one of the purer works of the imagination. It is prose elevated to poetry without the least sign of strain." Omensetter and His Luck While the novel is named after Omensetter, or at least his luck, I wouldn’t say that he is the chief protagonist. He is a relative innocent, an ingénue, a naïf, almost a simpleton, someone who is content to see what fortune has in store for him. In the words of Israbestis Tott, town gossip, when he arrived: "He had everything he owned piled up in the wagon with this cradle tied to the top of it, and nothing covered. That was the kind of fellow Brackett Omenstter was. He knew it wasn’t going to rain again. He counted on his luck." He is passive rather than active, he is not an agent who dictates the direction of his own life or that of his family. He declines to rescue a fox that is trapped in a well, he fails to obtain medical assistance for his own sick baby. If either were to die, he would justify it as God’s will: "The Sky Rolls Impotently On As Thou or I" Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám In a way, he succumbs to determinism. He bears no burden of decision or responsibility. His plight, his blessing and his curse, is "to lose the heaviness of life". This approach to life might be understandable if you only have to deal with nature. Perhaps we are powerless in its path. The problems start when you join a community or broader society. The Love and Sorrows of Henry Pimber Henry Pimber, who soon becomes Omensetter’s landlord, thinks he is "a foolish, dirty, careless man". Yet, others describe him as a "natural-born politician; he’s what they call the magnetic kind". Their faith is borne out when Omensetter apparently heals an affliction that Henry suffers (metaphorically, like the fox, "Pimber’s down our well"), after which "Henry’s own salvation was the central thing". This salvation implicitly challenges the authority of the local Doctor Orcutt and the faith in and of Reverend Jethro Furber. The Reverend Jethro Furber’s Change of Heart Gass devotes three-quarters of his novel to Furber, the real protagonist, despicable as he is. He is trained in rhetoric and has the town under his control, until Omensetter’s arrival. Gass uses a stream of consciousness technique to show us what is really happening in the mind of this man of the cloth. He is both lascivious and lyrical in an almost Old Testament fashion, "shaping his lips for strong sounds". He obsesses about the "glabrous cleft" of a young girl’s private parts and the "lower lips of fatty Ruth". Espying an older woman with large breasts, he imagines himself partaking in a "tipple from her mountainous nipple". Yet he sits in judgement, as God’s proxy, over the "lewd speech and slovenly habits" of the townfolk, "[preaching] against frivolity with heat." He counsels the congregation against "indecent prepositions", all the time contemplating indecent propositions. It seems as if Furber is the most vulnerable to "the way of all flesh". Gass signals that Furber might undergo a change of heart with the title to this section. I won’t discuss whether or how this occurs. The plot detail is not important, but it is desirable that readers experience how he uses language to achieve what little overt plot he utilises to serve his literary purpose. These Are a Few of My Favourite Things It remains to let you sample Gass' writing. Below are some examples of his prose that I have arbitrarily chosen and versified. I hope you can sense and enjoy the movement of language: "Every bush would blossom Each twig sharply thrown And every paltry post embark For consciousness as huge" "Well the rose is too common And the phallus too foolish." "There was hair and nose and napkin cloth And painted trim along the stair." "She was like an after-image still A scar of light A sailor’s deep tattoo." "How could man beget Unless his flesh would rise And what was there in innocence To move the simplest muscle In a gesture of desire." "He’s a bit better And a bit luckier Maybe Than most of us." "They would wallow safely In the worst sensations Conceive the most obscene devices Place him, their preacher In vulgar postures Ravish him on ornate altars Or on the floors of pews." "The penis in repose Professor With that little hat of skin Why, it’s a lovely childlike thing And each man’s gentle babyhood Is in it." "He had fathered every folly, every sin No goat knew gluttony like this No cat had felt his pride No crow his avarice." "Note how sweetly I pronounce her Musically wigwag My ringalingling tongue." "You may call our soul our best But this, our body, is our love." ...more |
Notes are private!
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Apr 06, 2013
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Apr 17, 2013
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Oct 23, 2011
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Paperback
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1564780236
| 9781564780232
| 1564780236
| 4.11
| 289
| 1987
| Apr 01, 1993
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it was amazing
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Along the Curve of Our Resolve Joseph McElroy took a photo of America in 1977 and then, in the manner of Tristram Shandy’s father, took ten years to co Along the Curve of Our Resolve Joseph McElroy took a photo of America in 1977 and then, in the manner of Tristram Shandy’s father, took ten years to convert it into a panoramic painting or tapestry of modern life ("Oh cripes I thought this was gonna be in Technicolor"). He constructed an apartment building (a "multiple dwelling" or "articulated structure that gives play to a multiplicity of small-scale units"), populated it with multiple characters (including "multinational corporate selves" and a small cast of multi-racial players) and then devised "a multiplicity of small-scale acts" (some intransitive, some transitive, some real, some apparent, some causal, some miraculous, some repetitive, some disappearing) for them to dramatize. The narrative is hardly linear, if at all, perhaps a curve, a graph, which plots the movement of these variously "parallel and intersecting populations" , parallel in the sense that Jim Mayn and Grace Kimball, two contrapuntal protagonists, never meet, although they live within floors of each other in the same building and are otherwise only one degree of separation apart. I found a sub-let in the building and spent five intense days there, getting to know and love them all (even if I do have my favourites). The point is not the length of the novel, but whether you like these characters and their stories. Their stories are told unconventionally. But so they are in real life. We don’t learn about people in strict, chronological sequence. Why should we insist on it in fiction? Knowledge and narrative and progress, then, now, and in the future, are incremental and accretive, achieved by tentative successive questioning and prodding. There is not one narrator, but as you would expect, a multiplicity, giving us a multiplicity of perspectives (yes, inevitably, there is some repetition ["repetition with increments"] as points of view change, but that is the point). Like the stories told by Jim’s grandmother, Margaret ("These were all dreams that came via her" and "I leave the history to you"), they are "stories that often did not finish and were easy to understand [Ed: well, most of them, but not because the novel is long], he thought; stories that passed the time. Stories that he retold himself to remember in new form, across the gap between what she had said and what she had not." When two characters encounter each other, "two stories meet... [and] maybe slide together." Stories become histories, some credible, some incredible, some authorised, some unauthorized, some true, some false. It depends who is doing the telling. Or the asking. For the questions you ask can determine or shape the answers. The novel is concerned with both political history and personal history. Three political issues particularly matter to McElroy; all involve misrepresentation, deceit, untruth, the gap between representation and fact, between appearance and truth. New seaborne arrivals to America are greeted by a statuesque woman who proclaims "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free", yet the man behind her (in the words of Lou Reed, but see also Paul Auster’s "Leviathan") has been just as likely to piss on them (e.g., on a statuesque social studies teacher), as he has also done on America’s indigenous Indians. Secondly, the Government lies to its people, witness the 1960 U-2 incident in which a US spy plane was shot down over the Soviet Union, while allegedly on a NASA weather reconnaissance mission. Thirdly, the CIA facilitated the illegal assassination (i.e., murder) of the democratically-elected Socialist Chilean President Allende in 1973. There is a gap between histories, the official and the truthful. McElroy asks us to take a breather, so that we can resuscitate the truth, our own and that of the world around us ("take some time for yourself, you know, a breather"). America has become paranoid and schizophrenic, prone to passive-aggressive behavior and psychotic reactions. The United States of America has become the "United Conditions of America". Like Pynchon, McElroy is compelled to diagnose the body electric, so that, healed, it might sing again. Many of the 33 chapters involve questions, enquiries, interrogatories, interrogation (Who? What? When? How?). The narrator's voice is not so much omniscient as omniquisitional. The interrogator isn’t identified. It could be a federal agent (the fraternal Ray Spence?), multiple interrogators or an "interrogator of dreams". However, there are occasions when it seems to be History or Time itself (the Future?) ("Are these words that ask, that interrogate, are they part of words to come?") or perhaps just a Post-Modernist narrative device ("Who is this We?"), an Implied Reader (he is "part of us and we him"). Is McElroy watching, gazing at us, Venus-like (1), while we watch him at work? It doesn’t really matter. People matter. People = matter. People R matter. And if people are matter, and matter is mass, and mass can be transformed, then people can be "transformed". Subject matter or plot device? "T" for TRANSFER, "T" for TRANSFORM, "t" for future....plus (+): "The older transformation equations got us through ethereal obstacles as if they existed or plotted our inequalities up L slopes and round R curves." Does the "R" stand for "revolves" or does it represent a "revolution"? ("Wheels, rotation, motion," revolution?) Does the wind curve in its journey around the Earth? Is change circular? Why is it that when we change, we "turn" into something else? Does the Future arrive not so much by linear evolution, but by mapping out a revolutionary curve? Yet, it must always be people who will transform, for we are the vehicles of history. We do history, we tell our histories. History is the tale of our transformation and change. According to the Navajo nation, the First Woman and the First Man were transformed from two ears of corn, the one white, the other yellow. They subsequently have a child, Changing Woman (a mother’s labor gives rise to a division, hence "the division of labor",) who in turn gives birth to the Hero Twins (who slay the Monsters, but that’s another story). This is the mythic past. The mythic future involves a transformer plate that will transform two people into one and transport them to a frontier colony out in Earth-Moon space. To be honest, I was less interested in the "mystic fictions", the "Trace Windows" and this SF twist than the transformation of two into one as the basis of a new relation or relationship. McElroy gives us infidelities, suicides, disappearances, estrangements, separations, relinquishments and divorces. There are distances, gaps, voids between people. Things come between us, objects ("Look it’s all in Hegel, the evolution and obstacle quest of the spirit, that’s what you’re doing in here.") Relationships need to be revitalized, not just between lovers or spouses, but parents and children, and between siblings. Contrast the Separatist philosophy of the Feminist Grace Kimball who conducts Body-Self Workshops for women, until she decides she wants to make money out of men as well, at which point she becomes the Priestess of Le Swing and the Doctor of Open Marriage: "Keep the sexes apart for the time being, just a working model, teach ‘em the wings they fly ain’t only yr joint wings twain bonded in the ground of birth." [There’s a funny exchange where a woman asks, "Where did the sexes first split?" Another responds, "The Paramecium", which is not as you might expect a Greek myth as retold by Plato.] The real quest in "Women and Men" is not the separation of the sexes, but the "rearrangement of women and men", the promotion of the ability of two people to overcome obstacles, to reach "across the gap" , to converge in a relationship, to become one, not in terms of physical matter, or necessarily metaphysically: "All things to him, she was"; "I want you to stay the night"; "Can we go back and make love?"; "We make a good couple"; "I love her more now than ever"; "You liked the idea of me, you know you did"; "I love her looks and her humor"; "She is funny and beautiful." McElroy, meticulous, gentlemanly, charming and affectionate, has written a "warm though sexist novel" . It deserves to be loved. You could learn how to love it, if you approach it the right way. Disclaimer: "I am subject to factual error. It is the story of my life." FOOTNOTES: (1) "Rokeby Venus" (also known as "The Toilet of Venus" and "Venus at her Mirror") by Diego Velázquez: [image] Wikipedia: "The Venus effect is a phenomenon in the psychology of perception, named after various paintings of Venus gazing into a mirror, such as Diego Velázquez's 'Rokeby Venus', Titian's 'Venus with a Mirror', and Veronese's 'Venus' with a mirror. "Viewers of such paintings assume that Venus is admiring her own reflection in the mirror; however, since the viewer sees her face in the mirror, Venus is actually looking at the reflection of the painter." SOUNDTRACK: (view spoiler)[ Thelonious Monk - "(I Don't Stand) A Ghost Of A Chance (With You)" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w9odej... Billie Holiday - "(I Don't Stand) A Ghost Of A Chance (With You)" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=djSlIX... Bing Crosby - "(I Don't Stand) A Ghost Of A Chance (With You)" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GH5gmt... Sarah Vaughn - "The Nearness of You" Black and White Version (with lyrics, but slight skip in first verse): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jPiscu... Colorised Version: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pV61Gr... Lou Reed - "Lou Reed - Dirty Blvd." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dWz60e... "Give me your hungry, your tired, your poor, I'll piss on 'em. That's what the Statue of Bigotry says. Your poor huddled masses, Let's club 'em to death And get it over with and Just dump 'em on the boulevard." Lou Reed - "Tatters" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uK1rVF... "Some couples live in harmony, Some do not. Some couples yell and scream, Some do not... Some people wait for sleep To take them away While others read books endlessly Hoping problems will go away... I'm told in the end That none of this matters. All couples have troubles And none of this matters..." Lou Reed - "Ecstasy" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4rp-5e... "I see a child through a window with a bib And I think of us and what we almost did. The Hudson rocketing with light. The ships pass the Statue of Liberty at night." "Our little thing is lying here in tatters." (hide spoiler)] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 27, 2013
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Dec 31, 2013
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Sep 28, 2011
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Paperback
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0385043996
| 9780385043991
| 0385043996
| 3.75
| 2,175
| 1966
| 1966
|
it was amazing
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A FEW PRELIMINARY WORDS: [A Review...] In a Word A-Plus! In a Few of Leonid's Words By George! My head spin! I'm such a dumb, I have to think about! In a A FEW PRELIMINARY WORDS: [A Review...] In a Word A-Plus! In a Few of Leonid's Words By George! My head spin! I'm such a dumb, I have to think about! In a Few More of Leonid's Words...Later Greatnesshood! Splendidacy! In Leonid's/Father's Last Word Gratituditynesshoodshipcy! Glossary of Terms Used in the Novel Glossary Insert Huge Picture Here... [image] REVIEW: Extraordinary Conception As you'd expect, John Barth’s fourth novel (from 1966) is a brilliant allegory wrapped in a mischievous metafictional frame story that inevitably questions its authorship. Was it written by a human, a goat or a computer? Or two or more of the foregoing? No matter! It's a story! Not only does it adopt aspects of the structure of Sophocles' "Oedipus Rex" and Dante's "The Divine Comedy", it’s a step by step articulation of the patterns and characteristics of the mythical hero set out in Lord Raglan's "The Hero", Otto Rank's "Myth of the Birth of the Hero" and Joseph Campbell's "The Hero with a Thousand Faces". [image] In Which Some Author (or Other) Acts the Goat The novel utilises two other authorial conceits: First, it features a Pan-like protagonist, George or Giles Goat-Boy (formerly Billy Bocksfuss, who for his first 14 years believed he was half goat, half boy), which gives the author the licence to act the goat. Second is the description of the Universe as a University. This doesn't necessarily mean that the work is a campus fiction. It just allows Barth to develop an entire glossary of terms based on the analogy, and to build a narrative that works on at least two levels. A Staggering Variety of Exquisitries Barth proceeds to satirise the Cold War-era world within a framework that is classically trained, philosophically knowing, religiously sceptical, Rabelaisically exuberant, sublimely comical, and sexually explicit (i.e., vulgar, and likely to be perceived as obscene and offensive by "I don't think of myself as a feminist, but..." prudes and dudes). The novel is a more metafictional and metaphysical version of the textbook referred to between the covers that contains “such a staggering variety of sexual practices, stunts and exquisitries as to make ordinary genital intromission seem as tame as shaking hands.” Yet, somehow, for all its sexual frankness, the Goat-Boy perspective enables the reader to observe the human race without any sense of prurience, embarrassment or disgust. I hope our next alien visitors get to read this book before they arrive. You Beist Beauty One of Barth’s Beatnik characters argues, "The worst thing about that old prudery...it made everybody so afraid of their desires. Nothing in the mad University mattered except Beauty: the beauty of art, of language, and above all, of simple existence. That...was the first principle of Beism..." Barth definitely succeeds in his Nabokovian quest for artistic and linguistic beauty, even if the existence he describes is mythological. Beism itself seems to be a form of Existentialism, a pre-hippy Beatnik philosophy that highlights the verb “to be”: "To Be, and once more to Be! To burst into all creation; only to Be, always to Be, until no thing was: no Billy Bocksfuss, goat or Graduate, no I nor you nor University, but one placeless, timeless, nameless throb of Being!" George initially confuses Being with Desire. He misconstrues the verb “to be” as meaning “to fuck”. Hence: “Being...wherein every creature in the University [is] clearly pleasured...a mere coupling of this to that, the business of a minute, but which lent zest to any idle pass or chance encounter; among strangers a courtesy, towards guests a welcome, between friends a bond. A meal's best dessert; a tale's best close.” Sphincteriddle Diddler Certainly, Barth opens and closes his tale on this note, in a circular fashion that calls to mind James Joyce’s “Finnegan’s Wake”. When the story, the tape, is finished, you want to "unwind, rewind, replay". The narrative is bookended by the secondary focus of the novel, George's original goatkeeper, Herr Doktor Professor Maximilian Spielman. His masterwork "The Riddle of the Sphincters" (a parody of the Riddle of the Sphinx) is the source of "Spielman's Law," which concludes that the "sphincter's riddle" and the mystery of the University are one and the same (“ontogeny recapitulates cosmogeny” or “proctoscopy repeats hagiography”). [See the entry for Spielman in the glossary for the context of these Maximisms.] In other words, if you think too much about the meaning of life or your own place in it, you might disappear up your own navel (rather than the axis mundi) or, failing that, up your own rectal passage or nether region. Eventually, George seems to be content in the knowledge that happiness can be as simple as a mother's peanut-butter sandwich or the look in a child's eye. Well, maybe that's not strictly true or enough... [image] "Is it now that I am nothing, that I am made to be a man?" Indifferent Distinctions Written between 1960 and 1965, the novel is critical of the diverse failings of capitalist America even before the Summer of Love in 1967: “...its oppression of Frumentians [Africans], its lawless Informationalism, its staggering wastefulness, its pillage of natural resource and spoil of natural beauty, its hostility to learning and refinement, its apotheosis of the lowest percentile, its vulgarity, inflated self-esteem, self-righteousness, self-deception, sentimentality, hypocrisy, artificiality, simple-mindedness, naive optimism, concupiscence, avarice, self-contradiction, ignorance, and general fatuity...” George initially responds on the basis of superficial, but still philosophical, distinctions (e.g., capitalism versus communism), only to realise later that they are false or inadequate: “Studentdom it was that limped: hobbled by false distinction, crippled by categories! My infirmity was that I had thought myself first goat, then wholly human boy, when in fact I was a goat-boy, both and neither: a walking refutation of such false conceits.” We Are One, Though I Am Not Giles Goat-Boy's fledgling worldview (assuming he's not just kidding) is analogous to Mahayana Buddhism: “The true Graduate is the student who can say with understanding: 'I and the Founder are one; I am the University; I am not.'” Distinctions collapse, until there is no difference. What was once twofold is now as “inseparable as two old faggots, or ancient spouses”. Barth describes a former nemesis in these terms: “He was my adversary, as necessary to me as Failure is to Passage, i.e., not only contrary and interdependent, but totally undifferentiable.” Spiritedness Examined What emerges is the primacy of personal energy: “...a certain kind of spiritedness was absolutely good, no matter what a person's other Answers are. It doesn't have anything to do with education.” It’s this energy and spiritedness that translates into the libido of the protagonists, and then onwards, inwards and upwards: “I and My Ladyship, all, were one.” Two become one, making the way for all to become one. Sheela-Na-Gig The relationship isn't just one-sided, it’s reciprocal. His Ladyship engages in a little sheela-na-gig, calling on George to “examine me...look me over...[measure me with your eyes].” Which he does. But that's not all. Barth has explained, "On the tragic view, there is not any way to win; there are only more or less noble and spectacular ways to go down." Here, he catalogues some of these ways to go down, some noble, some ignoble, some spectacular, some less spectacular. But, most importantly, they're comic rather than tragic. Many readers have expressed discomfort with the sexual content of the novel, not because it's sexual, but because it's portrayed from a male perspective and in many cases the sexual activity constitutes rape. This might be true to some extent, but in fact it's portrayed from the perspective of a Goat-Boy, and the overwhelming message to and from the women in the novel is "assert yourself". Women, too, are entitled to need, to want, to desire. [image] Shofar, Shogood I had known of this novel for decades, but I honestly had no idea what to expect from the little I had read about it. Most reviews just advise you to read or not read the novel. Like imperious campus mandates. It deserves to be held in the same high regard as more familiar but comparably far-sighted works by George Orwell, Aldous Huxley, Joseph Heller and Kurt Vonnegut. It's a long book, both satirical and satyrical, but its intelligence, energy and spiritedness never flag. It would make a great pair with Robert Coover's "The Public Burning", a novel started in 1966 (the publication of which was delayed until over a decade later), but with similar energy and playfulness. [image] SOUNDTRACK: (view spoiler)[ O Brother Where Art Thou - The Sirens - "Go to Sleep Little Baby" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dY5v9... PJ Harvey - "Sheela Na Gig" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FgoC1... "Been trying to show you over and over Look at these, My child-bearing hips Look at these, my ruby-red ruby lips Look at these, my work strong-arms You've got to see my bottle full of charm Lay it all at your feet You turn around and say back to me He said, sheela-na-gig, You exhibitionist." PJ Harvey - Sheela-Na-Gig (Peel Session) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X1-gL... PJ Harvey Sheela-Na-Gig (Live at Reading Festival on 28 August, 1992) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkS_R... Beastie Boys - "Bodhisattva Vow" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jnENZ... Charles T. Martin - "Sounding the Shofar" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJiVp... [image] (hide spoiler)] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jan 05, 2016
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Jan 11, 2016
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Sep 16, 2011
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Hardcover
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0586018921
| 9780586018927
| 0586018921
| 4.11
| 7,360
| 1960
| Jan 01, 1972
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it was amazing
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Sextants and Parallels John Barth took four years to write this epic Epic, and published it at the age of 30 in 1960. I more or less spent four days ins Sextants and Parallels John Barth took four years to write this epic Epic, and published it at the age of 30 in 1960. I more or less spent four days inside its four walls over Easter (I was determined to gobble it up before the chocolate Easter eggs were finished!), but I could spend a lifetime (or what little remains of it) recounting its marvels. This was my third Barth novel. I loved the first two. But this one totally blew my mind, both in terms of ambition and execution. Swords and Cannons I have my favourite novelists, just as I have my favourite novels. I'm reluctant to canonise authors, let alone entire oeuvres, or even individual novels. Hence, despite my favourites, I've always been reluctant to claim that there might be such a thing as a Great American Novel (which is little more than a marketing term), let alone one whose glory extends beyond the boundaries of the United States. Yet, having just finished this work, I'm tempted to argue that it's the best American novel written in the twentieth century. The only thing that holds me back is the fact that I haven't read Pynchon's "Mason & Dixon", which explores the past like this novel. Art and Wile One of the reasons for my enthusiasm is how the work fits into the history of the novel. It's at once a parody and an homage. But it also passes itself off as a pretty amazing iteration of what it seeks to parody. I read and enjoyed a lot of voluminous, early English novels in my youth, before I became more impatient with my time. Midway through my life, I briefly doubted the virtue of length and maximalism, arguing that, if a writer had 900 pages in them, then why couldn't they split them into three discrete works? This experience has persuaded me that, at least in Barth's case, I should trust the author's assessment of appropriate length: "The tale is no marvel of brevity...yet it must be told." In this tale, Barth immerses us, sometimes over our heads, in both a world and a worldview, and it's a delightenment. There were times when the pace of the novel seemed to slow, and I wondered why there were still hundreds of pages to go. However, each time, in retrospect, it seemed as if Barth was merely slowing down to take a corner. Once through it, he accelerated, and the tale was off again, even if sometimes on a different tangent. Raillery and Bookish Converse Barth argues that this is when he discovered what we now call Post-Modernism. He might be right, insofar as the movement embraces imitation. He would say later that novels like "The Sot-Weed Factor" are "novels which imitate the form of the Novel, by an author who imitates the role of Author." Pranks and Larks What I love about this assertion is the degree of mischief implicit in it. If we have read any of these earlier novels (from the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries), readers will be familiar with the form adopted by their authors (especially the chapter headings that sometimes sound like head notes in reports of legal cases). Yet we also know that how they were written and what they wrote about reflected the time in which they were written. Barth might attempt to write in this manner, but he is/was still a twentieth century (schizoid) man writing in the form of an eighteenth century novelist. To an extent he was a passenger in someone else's vehicle. He might have donned the garb, and he might have looked the part, but he and we are both conscious that it's a pretence. Aye, there's the rub! But what a pretence! [image] Gerrit Dou imitates an ear-ringed Barth Ink and Quill How to describe this fiction then? "Dear God! 'Tis marvellous. What a comedy! 'Twas a marvelous tale, well told, and as nicely pointed as one of Aesop's. A pretty tale indeed, if not a virtuous. Aye, spread the word!" Wags and Wits Barth cautions us against taking authors too seriously or at their word: "'Tis a great mistake for a tale-teller to philosophise and tell us what his story means; haply it doth not mean what he thinks at all, at least to the rest of us." On first appearance, this might seem to warn us against emphasising too much the author's literary or philosophical intentions. To this extent, it urges us to enjoy the author's play (authors and characters alike can "play this world like a harpsichord"), not just their earnestness. Spin and Tangle However, it also suggests that an author doesn't necessarily understand the true effect or import of their own tale. My book is not necessarily what I intended. Ironically, it might be no more than what I realised. Still, a tale requires a listener, just as much as a speaker, so we don't know its meaning, until we know how it has been heard. A tale, therefore, is constructed by both author and reader. What's important, too, is how well the tale is told. Its appeal is in the telling. It doesn't have to be perfect, as long as it is fit for purpose or is entertaining. Being a tale, it's also delivered in parts. We might enjoy some parts more than others: "Tales are like tarts, that may be ugly on the face of 'em and yet have a worthwhile end." Innocence and Experience For all the bawdy humour, the novel deals incidentally, at least, with serious issues. At heart, it's a tale of innocence and experience. The virgin poet Ebenezer Cooke and his twin sister, Anna, are the innocents. Their former tutor and friend, Henry Burlingame III, is the experienced one. There is a creative tension between the three, although Henry is the primary source of it: like the author himself, "he makes game of my innocence". Needless to say, the game encompasses twins, coupling and couplets! Entwining, swiving and rhyming abounds! And so it should! Pretty or not, it makes no claim to virtue. Preachment and Practice Of course, innocence comes before experience. Hence, innocence is associated with virginity; the loss of it with the fall and subsequent worldly experience: " 'Twas carnal knowledge, knowledge of the flesh, that caused man's fall." In Henry's case, it also motivated and drove his engagement with the world: "Yet anon I lost [my virginity], and so committed me to the world; 'twas then I vowed, since I was fallen from grace, I would worship the Serpent that betrayed me, and ere I died would know the taste of every fruit the garden grows!" Sneak and Subterfuge So begins Ebenezer's quest to learn about the (new) world (of Maryland), if not necessarily lose his virginity. Still, everywhere he goes in this not quite Virgin Maryland, he encounters Henry in his various (dis-)guises: "He loves the world, and comprehends it at first glance - sometimes even sight unseen - yet his love is flavoured with a similar contempt, from the selfsame cause, which leads him to make game of what he loves." Sundry Trials and Impostures Henry, who ironically has "nor wealth, nor place, nor even parentage", is far more relaxed with the world. He doesn't strive to understand it in its totality. He seeks only to understand himself within it: "One must needs make and seize his soul, and then cleave fast to't, or go babbling in the corner; one must choose his gods and devils on the run, quill his own name upon the universe, and declare, " 'Tis I, and the world stands such-a-way!" One must assert, assert, assert, or go screaming mad." Henry confronts real life every moment of the day, often masked or impersonating an other: "I know you not from one hour to the next...The world's a happy climate for imposture." Factions and Intrigues Personality is fluid and fragmented. Nothing is whole. Each of us has a "driven and fragmented spirit." We have to reinvent or rediscover ourselves step by step on the journey through life. Henry advises Ebenezer: "You must embrace your Self as Poet and Virgin, regardless, or discard it for something better. In either case don't seek whole understanding - the search were fruitless, and there is no time for't." Ostensibly, the novel is the tale of Ebenezer's education. However, his rival is equally educated over the course of the novel, for all his worldliness and playfulness. Idlers and Ne'er-Do-Wells Like most in the American colonies, Henry is an orphan. The absence of a father means the absence of a father figure, and therefore a source of authority. Just as orphans might lack a heritage, some lack a moral compass. These are the men who colonised the New World: "The plain fact is, the greatest part are castaways: rebels, failures, jailbirds and adventurers. Cast such seed on such soil, and 'twere fond to seek a crop of dons and courtiers..There is a freedom there that's both a blessing and a curse, for't means both liberty and lawlessness. 'Tis more than just political and religious liberty - they come and go from one year to the next. 'Tis philosophic liberty I speak of, that comes from want of history. It throws one on his own resources, that freedom - makes every man an orphan like myself and can as well demoralise as elevate." Morals and Metaphysics America's origins are therefore both de-moralised and demoralised. When Ebenezer arrives in Maryland, it is fast going from sot-weed (tobacco) to pot (well, opium, actually). Ebenezer's poetry, his culture, his civilisation is no solution. It's too removed from reality: "Literature...availed him not, for though it afforded one a certain sophistication about life and a release from one's single mortal destiny, it did not, except accidentally, afford solutions to practical problems." Shifting and Confounded For all Man's love of Reason, there is no order or logic in Life. History too is a fabrication, ours: "We all invent our pasts, more or less, as we go along, at the dictates of Whim and Interest; the happenings of former times are a clay in the present moment that will-we, nill-we, the lot of us must sculpt. Thus Being does make Positivists of us all. Moreover, this Clio was already a scarred and crafty trollop when the Author found her." Toss and Tempest Ultimately, Life is a tempest, that tosses us around on the waters: "This thing we call civilisation...'tis a bumboat-load o' judges, dons and poets, on a dark and vasty main o'erwracked with storms". Life is beyond our control, and that of our factors and agents. We might be a character on its stage, but it tells its own tale, fearless of outcome or coincidence or absurdity We don't write Life; it writes us: "Life is a shameless playwright." But so were Rabelais and Shakespeare, and so is Barth. All three of them have writ large about Life for our reading pleasure. Their subject matter is the stuff of life, drawn both dramatic and comic, tragic and farcical. In Barth's twinned words (many of which I've used for my sub-headings), this novel contains within: fops and fools, love and candor, lust and pride, trysts and secret meetings, hypocrisy and lewd delight, gasps and titters. Some might equal these tales and their telling, but none are better. At least, none that come to mind. [image] Detail of Back Cover and Spine Illustration by Owen Wood ADDED EXTRAS: [Couplets and Eulogies] (view spoiler)[ I Shiver at the Memory (Of Joan Toast) [In the Words of John Barth] 'Twas in my chamber I saw her last, As pink and naked As a lover's dream. You'd not believe How fine her fair skin feels, Or how tight and sprightly Is her whole small body. How could I forget The fat of her little buttocks O'ertop the hard young muscle? Or the softness of her breasts That gently flattened When she lay supine, But hung like apples of Heav'n When she bent o'er me? I shiver at the memory. The Hudibrastic Virgin Falls for a Scarlet Harlot On virgin shelf, Eb found himself. With wealth nigh nought, Five guineas short, His night ended, Unbefriended By Mistress Joan, In bed alone. Though he dreams of A new found love, We must deduct, He's still un(view spoiler)[plucked. (hide spoiler)] The Clucky Cuckold's Wife Come, listen To some stories, Writ down in rhymes From olden times. In these verses, Bawdy, but old, Poet versus Rustic cuckold, Who's too busy To prize the treats Or plough the field Between his sheets. While farmer's off On his tractor. What poets do Does attract her. No farmer he, The poet comes With virile seed And furrowed brow. When soon she begs, He's ready now To fertilise Her monthly eggs. Although he writes What's in his mind, His tale is told Between her legs. Folio Society [Turn the Page] If recto can't Accomplish, Then verso might Astonish. The Original Poem "The Sotweed Factor" By Ebenezer Cook http://pages.uoregon.edu/rbear/sotwee... A Bio of the Real Ebenezer Cook http://newfoundpress.utk.edu//pubs/le... (hide spoiler)] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Mar 29, 2015
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Apr 06, 2015
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Aug 23, 2011
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Paperback
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0140077022
| 9780140077025
| 0140077022
| 3.86
| 115,908
| Jan 21, 1985
| Jan 07, 1986
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it was amazing
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100 Words in Search of a Precis (For Those of Us Who Prefer the Short Form of Stimulation) At its heart, “White Noise” is a comic dramatization of the 100 Words in Search of a Precis (For Those of Us Who Prefer the Short Form of Stimulation) At its heart, “White Noise” is a comic dramatization of the fear of death. In modern consumer society, we are only fulfilled if our shopping bags are filled full. We do it in crowds. It must be right, if we’re all doing it. It’s part of the natural order. It’s “ordernary”. It’s a collective delusion, “a convenient fantasy, the worst kind of self-delusion,” designed to distract us from our incapacitation in the face of death. Instead, DeLillo urges us to regard life with wonder and awe, and just get on with it, appreciating each day as it comes, sunrise followed by sunset. My Review My more formal review as at 23 January, 2012 is here: http://www.goodreads.com/story/show/2... In the Ring with Deadly Don DeLillo Compere: Yes folks, welcome to Gym Combat, Nottingham’s premier gym and home to Saturday Night Fight Night. Tonight …what…what… Spontaneous applause breaks out as former undefeated Commonwealth & IBO Welterweight World Champion, Jav Khalik, enters the ring. Compere: Jav, why don’t you tell us…who’ve we got on tonight? Jav: Tony, a very special friend of mine, local boy, Paul “Southpaw” Bryant… Compere: Fresh from last month’s second round TKO of Brett “Western and Easton” Ellis… Jav: Wasn’t that a fight, Tony? Compere: I’ll say, Jav… Southpaw totally smashed that American Psycho. Jav: Annihilated him. Compere: Got what he deserved, ended up how he started, a bloody nihilist pornographer. Jav laughs, but stops when Southpaw Bryant slides gracefully through the ropes into his corner. A woman in a Batgirl costume runs up to the ring and thrusts an autograph book at him. Batgirl: Southpaw, write something for me. Southpaw’s manager unscrews the top of an inkwell and hands him a quill. Southpaw dips his quill and writes down, Southpaw 909. Batgirl: What’s this? Southpaw: My room number. Many women in the crowd wriggle, whoop and whistle excitedly. Batgirl swoons and drops the autograph book as Southpaw’s manager catches her in his arms. In the mayhem, the autograph book is passed hurriedly back from hand to hand towards the back of the crowd, until the last man to hold it feels a gloved hand wrench it from his clasp. He looks up and sees a slight, scowling grey-haired man in a metallic cape. He has just entered the gym from his limousine outside, followed by his manager and a sliver of twilight sun. The audience can see him too, on the screen. The compere senses the arrival of Southpaw’s opponent and looks nervously at Jav. He lifts the microphone to his lips… Compere: Ladies and gentlemen, you might not know this man, but he is a true heavyweight, some say the heavyweight champion of the Word… Jav: He’s no fall guy… Compere: No mere falling man… Jav: He doesn’t pull any punches… Compere: He doesn’t push any rivers… The audience looks around quizzically. Jav: Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Southpaw’s nemesis, Deadly Don De Lillo. The audience looks around quizzically again, still. Southpaw (sensing their dilemma): “White Noise”. Suddenly, there is a wave of recognition in the crowd. The audience (as one): Wanker! Batgirl (who has lifted herself up on one elbow): Post-modernist! The audience (as one): Post-modernist wanker! Deadly Don lifts one leg over the top rope and then another and then another, and suddenly the bell has rung and the fight has started. Round One: Southpaw (bouncing around, poking his chin out): Give me your best, De Lillo, come on. Deadly Don: Another postmodern sunset, rich in romantic imagery. Southpaw: Describe it, paint me a picture! Deadly Don: Why try to describe it? Deadly Don feints at Southpaw with his scribbly left hand. Deadly Don: It’s enough to say that everything in our field of vision seemed to exist in order to gather the light of this event. Southpaw: In the dark, who can see his face? Deadly Don (moving closer): What did you say? Southpaw: In the dark, who can reach him? Deadly Don: I can tell by the lines you’re reciting… Southpaw: In the darkness, the shadows move. Deadly Don: It’s not a movie… Southpaw: In the darkness, the game is real. Southpaw spots a patch of jaw between Deadly Don’s gloves and lands a left hook on it. Deadly Don falls pugilistically and slides back across the canvas. Southpaw: Shoot out the lights. Round One is awarded to Southpaw. Round Two: Southpaw: Ready for another blow against the empire, another shock to the system? Deadly Don: Ha! The system is invisible, which makes it all the more impressive, all the more disquieting to deal with. Southpaw: Nice prose… He hits the side of Deadly Don’s face with a solid left hook. Deadly Don stumbles, but regains his footing. Deadly Don: But we were in accord, at least for now. Southpaw (determined to finish his assessment): …shame about the plot. Deadly Don: All plots tend to move deathward. This is the nature of plots. Southpaw: In that case, think of me as an incendiary plot device. Southpaw swings carelessly, misses and receives a short, sharp jab to the right temple for his effort. Tears fill his eyes and a ringing fills an adjacent stinging ear, until his good ear senses the jingle jangle of a distant bell. Deadly Don (speaking over his shoulder on the way to his corner): Can you hear them now? The networks, the circuits, the streams, the harmonies. Round Two is awarded narrowly to Deadly Don. Round Three: Southpaw (cocky at the start of the last round): Prepare to die, De Lillo. Southpaw takes a careless swing and misses. Deadly Don (making a guffaw sound): Guffaw. Southpaw (still staggering): You’re history, De Lillo, bloody history. Deadly Don adjusts his gloves, makes to take them off, then thinks better of it. Deadly Don: Man’s guilt in history and in the tides of his own blood has been complicated by technology, the daily seeping falsehearted death. Deadly Don jabs at Southpaw’s good ear. Southpaw loses his sense of balance and falls sideways. He whispers something on his back that De Lillo can’t hear. Deadly Don (leaning over the suffering Southpaw): What did you say? Southpaw: What if death is nothing but sound? Deadly Don (appreciative of the line of questioning): Electrical noise. Southpaw: You hear it forever. Sound all around. How awful. Deadly Don (reaching closer to the expiring man’s face, looking into his dullard eyes): Uniform, white. Southpaw closes his eyes, Deadly Don twists his head in an attempt to detect Southpaw’s last breath, only the Englishman conjures up one last gasp of strength and head butts Deadly Don’s left eye socket, which still attached to the rest of his head, collapses on Southpaw’s chest. The referee kneels beside them, counting, before long deciding that the fight belongs to Southpaw. While all are still low on the canvas, Jav joins them. He too kneels, and places his microphone on the canvas, where it starts to generate feedback. For a moment, it blends with the sound of the bell in Southpaw’s ear. Only as the bell dies, the feedback intensifies. Southpaw (turns around groggily and demands): Turn off that fuckin' white noise, will ya? ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jan 10, 2012
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Jan 23, 2012
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Aug 22, 2011
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Paperback
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my rating |
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4.33
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not set
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Sep 23, 2021
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3.93
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not set
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Sep 23, 2021
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4.04
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not set
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Sep 23, 2021
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3.89
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really liked it
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Jan 08, 2024
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Sep 23, 2021
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4.30
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not set
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Sep 23, 2021
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3.85
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it was ok
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Aug 06, 2018
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Jul 28, 2014
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4.15
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not set
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Dec 06, 2013
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3.00
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liked it
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Aug 21, 2013
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Aug 20, 2013
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3.84
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not set
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Apr 12, 2013
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3.68
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it was amazing
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Apr 18, 2014
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Apr 12, 2013
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3.68
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it was amazing
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Apr 18, 2014
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Mar 06, 2013
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3.87
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not set
|
Jan 07, 2013
|
|||||||
4.28
|
it was amazing
|
Dec 09, 2015
|
Jul 20, 2012
|
||||||
4.19
|
not set
|
Oct 25, 2011
|
|||||||
4.03
|
really liked it
|
Dec 23, 2014
|
Oct 23, 2011
|
||||||
4.00
|
really liked it
|
Apr 17, 2013
|
Oct 23, 2011
|
||||||
4.11
|
it was amazing
|
Dec 31, 2013
|
Sep 28, 2011
|
||||||
3.75
|
it was amazing
|
Jan 11, 2016
|
Sep 16, 2011
|
||||||
4.11
|
it was amazing
|
Apr 06, 2015
|
Aug 23, 2011
|
||||||
3.86
|
it was amazing
|
Jan 23, 2012
|
Aug 22, 2011
|