Great story that has a mystery but is not a mystery. Beautifully told, maybe a little bleak, easy to read but not a shallow read. I need more fiction Great story that has a mystery but is not a mystery. Beautifully told, maybe a little bleak, easy to read but not a shallow read. I need more fiction like this in my life. ...more
A blend of memoir and nonfiction exploration of the National Park Ranger career. Did you know that Park Rangers are the most likely law enforcement ofA blend of memoir and nonfiction exploration of the National Park Ranger career. Did you know that Park Rangers are the most likely law enforcement officers to be assaulted? More than border patrol, more than FBI agents, more than beat cops. I’ve imagined a simple, peaceful life of a park ranger for myself a time or two; the point of this book is to disabuse you of the notion that being one is anything but simple or peaceful. ...more
A rollicking good time, and one of the only things that can hold my attention these days. It’s about as close to watching a tv show as you can get wheA rollicking good time, and one of the only things that can hold my attention these days. It’s about as close to watching a tv show as you can get when reading a book. Despite feeling like it treads a lot of the same ground as the first book, this had me riveted most of the time and the ending especially made me excited for the next in the series....more
I've been hot or cold on John Scalzi in the past. Sometimes he gets a bit juvenile, but usually he's fun. I found this book inconsequential and unexciI've been hot or cold on John Scalzi in the past. Sometimes he gets a bit juvenile, but usually he's fun. I found this book inconsequential and unexciting, though....more
I love when an author or artist or musician can carefully walk a line between beauty and sadness and wonder. Mount Eerie does it in nearly every song,I love when an author or artist or musician can carefully walk a line between beauty and sadness and wonder. Mount Eerie does it in nearly every song, as does Andrew Wyeth in his paintings. And that's exactly what this book does: it's beautiful, it's sad, but it's quite wondrous. ...more
"Varied" isn't typically the first word used to describe Cormac McCarthy's oeuvre. After all, I think you could pick any random sentence in the world "Varied" isn't typically the first word used to describe Cormac McCarthy's oeuvre. After all, I think you could pick any random sentence in the world and I could tell you if McCarthy wrote it or not, and not just because of the lack of punctuation. His writer's DNA is just that potent. But looking back on all of his published work, there's a heckuva lot of variety there.
His career started out as a Faulknerian emulation, chronicling hillbilly tragedies and grotesqueries in The Orchard Keeper, Outer Dark and Child of God. Slight stylistic and thematic twist to Suttree's existential ramblings (more Shakespeare than Faulkner), then a swift righthand turn to philosophical Westerns with Blood Meridian and The Border Trilogy. Then pulp fiction in No Country for Old Men, and finally what for a long time seemed like it would be the last thing we'd get from McCarthy: the postapocalyptic father-son tale of The Road, which somehow is simultaneously the bleakest and the most hopeful book he ever wrote. This is not to mention his plays and screenplays and the short stories that are hard to get hold of.
What's great about The Passenger is that it feels like a walking tour through his whole career. Stylistically, this feels most similar to Suttree, with long digressions, a mostly silent protagonist, and a meandering plot, but it also has scenes of carefully described action a la No Country for Old Men or The Road. It's got the philosophically bloviant minor characters of The Border Trilogy. It's set in the same South of his first three books. Heck, it's got straight-up references to Blood Meridian.
But it treads a lot of new ground as well. This may be the biggest leap McCarthy has ever taken, bigger than switching from Southern dreadfuls to Western dreadfuls or apocalypses. I never would have expected McCarthy to write a transgender character in a way that wouldn't embarrass either of us, with grace. I didn't think I'd see characters travel around not only America but also Europe. While I knew McCarthy was interested in mathematics and physics, it was hard for me to imagine how he would fit them into one of his stories; he's always so concerned with life or death circumstances, with the corporeal. But in this book, the science fits with his themes perfectly.
For me, McCarthy has always stood alone. I don't like to imagine him in the modern world, talking to other people. I imagine him cloistered in a monk's cell, lined with bookshelves of Shakespeare and Milton and Melville and whatever other arcane books, spinning out his yarns. But The Passenger had me making a lot of unexpected connections. The structure and paranoia of Pynchon. The dialogue of David Foster Wallace. The family dynamics of Salinger's Glass family, even. I didn't know I wanted McCarthy to be brought down to earth, to be able to be compared with other authors I love. But it works.
This book is definitely not for everyone. It's not going to satisfy you if you're looking for the gripping, pulpy plot of No Country For Old Men, even though it's being advertised similarly. There is the seed of a pulp fiction here, where protagonist Bobby Western, a salvage diver, discovers a sunken airplane that's just covered with mysterious circumstances, but this is no reason to read the book. It's got other things on its mind. The Passenger is basically plotless, but that doesn't mean it's storyless. There's story dripping off the pages; history and tangents and dreams are abundant here. But most of all, there's character.
I have an affinity for shaggy, overgrown and serpentine novels. When it comes to Pynchon, I prefer V. over The Crying of Lot 49. I love the sprawl of Delillo's Underworld to the focused precision of White Noise. Give me the bloated mess of Les Miserables over Dickens's tightly plotted novels any day. And while I love McCarthy's Blood Meridian, Suttree is more suited to my tastes.
So this is the perfect book for me. It feels like a gift McCarthy gave me personally, not to be overly sentimental about it. He could have left me with The Road and I would have been perfectly happy with that, but now he's given me this: a strange, difficult, bloated, wonderful novel. It's perfect for me. (And there's another one coming! December can't come soon enough.)
Merged review:
"Varied" isn't typically the first word used to describe Cormac McCarthy's oeuvre. After all, I think you could pick any random sentence in the world and I could tell you if McCarthy wrote it or not, and not just because of the lack of punctuation. His writer's DNA is just that potent. But looking back on all of his published work, there's a heckuva lot of variety there.
His career started out as a Faulknerian emulation, chronicling hillbilly tragedies and grotesqueries in The Orchard Keeper, Outer Dark and Child of God. Slight stylistic and thematic twist to Suttree's existential ramblings (more Shakespeare than Faulkner), then a swift righthand turn to philosophical Westerns with Blood Meridian and The Border Trilogy. Then pulp fiction in No Country for Old Men, and finally what for a long time seemed like it would be the last thing we'd get from McCarthy: the postapocalyptic father-son tale of The Road, which somehow is simultaneously the bleakest and the most hopeful book he ever wrote. This is not to mention his plays and screenplays and the short stories that are hard to get hold of.
What's great about The Passenger is that it feels like a walking tour through his whole career. Stylistically, this feels most similar to Suttree, with long digressions, a mostly silent protagonist, and a meandering plot, but it also has scenes of carefully described action a la No Country for Old Men or The Road. It's got the philosophically bloviant minor characters of The Border Trilogy. It's set in the same South of his first three books. Heck, it's got straight-up references to Blood Meridian.
But it treads a lot of new ground as well. This may be the biggest leap McCarthy has ever taken, bigger than switching from Southern dreadfuls to Western dreadfuls or apocalypses. I never would have expected McCarthy to write a transgender character in a way that wouldn't embarrass either of us, with grace. I didn't think I'd see characters travel around not only America but also Europe. While I knew McCarthy was interested in mathematics and physics, it was hard for me to imagine how he would fit them into one of his stories; he's always so concerned with life or death circumstances, with the corporeal. But in this book, the science fits with his themes perfectly.
For me, McCarthy has always stood alone. I don't like to imagine him in the modern world, talking to other people. I imagine him cloistered in a monk's cell, lined with bookshelves of Shakespeare and Milton and Melville and whatever other arcane books, spinning out his yarns. But The Passenger had me making a lot of unexpected connections. The structure and paranoia of Pynchon. The dialogue of David Foster Wallace. The family dynamics of Salinger's Glass family, even. I didn't know I wanted McCarthy to be brought down to earth, to be able to be compared with other authors I love. But it works.
This book is definitely not for everyone. It's not going to satisfy you if you're looking for the gripping, pulpy plot of No Country For Old Men, even though it's being advertised similarly. There is the seed of a pulp fiction here, where protagonist Bobby Western, a salvage diver, discovers a sunken airplane that's just covered with mysterious circumstances, but this is no reason to read the book. It's got other things on its mind. The Passenger is basically plotless, but that doesn't mean it's storyless. There's story dripping off the pages; history and tangents and dreams are abundant here. But most of all, there's character.
I have an affinity for shaggy, overgrown and serpentine novels. When it comes to Pynchon, I prefer V. over The Crying of Lot 49. I love the sprawl of Delillo's Underworld to the focused precision of White Noise. Give me the bloated mess of Les Miserables over Dickens's tightly plotted novels any day. And while I love McCarthy's Blood Meridian, Suttree is more suited to my tastes.
So this is the perfect book for me. It feels like a gift McCarthy gave me personally, not to be overly sentimental about it. He could have left me with The Road and I would have been perfectly happy with that, but now he's given me this: a strange, difficult, bloated, wonderful novel. It's perfect for me. (And there's another one coming! December can't come soon enough.)
Merged review:
"Varied" isn't typically the first word used to describe Cormac McCarthy's oeuvre. After all, I think you could pick any random sentence in the world and I could tell you if McCarthy wrote it or not, and not just because of the lack of punctuation. His writer's DNA is just that potent. But looking back on all of his published work, there's a heckuva lot of variety there.
His career started out as a Faulknerian emulation, chronicling hillbilly tragedies and grotesqueries in The Orchard Keeper, Outer Dark and Child of God. Slight stylistic and thematic twist to Suttree's existential ramblings (more Shakespeare than Faulkner), then a swift righthand turn to philosophical Westerns with Blood Meridian and The Border Trilogy. Then pulp fiction in No Country for Old Men, and finally what for a long time seemed like it would be the last thing we'd get from McCarthy: the postapocalyptic father-son tale of The Road, which somehow is simultaneously the bleakest and the most hopeful book he ever wrote. This is not to mention his plays and screenplays and the short stories that are hard to get hold of.
What's great about The Passenger is that it feels like a walking tour through his whole career. Stylistically, this feels most similar to Suttree, with long digressions, a mostly silent protagonist, and a meandering plot, but it also has scenes of carefully described action a la No Country for Old Men or The Road. It's got the philosophically bloviant minor characters of The Border Trilogy. It's set in the same South of his first three books. Heck, it's got straight-up references to Blood Meridian.
But it treads a lot of new ground as well. This may be the biggest leap McCarthy has ever taken, bigger than switching from Southern dreadfuls to Western dreadfuls or apocalypses. I never would have expected McCarthy to write a transgender character in a way that wouldn't embarrass either of us, with grace. I didn't think I'd see characters travel around not only America but also Europe. While I knew McCarthy was interested in mathematics and physics, it was hard for me to imagine how he would fit them into one of his stories; he's always so concerned with life or death circumstances, with the corporeal. But in this book, the science fits with his themes perfectly.
For me, McCarthy has always stood alone. I don't like to imagine him in the modern world, talking to other people. I imagine him cloistered in a monk's cell, lined with bookshelves of Shakespeare and Milton and Melville and whatever other arcane books, spinning out his yarns. But The Passenger had me making a lot of unexpected connections. The structure and paranoia of Pynchon. The dialogue of David Foster Wallace. The family dynamics of Salinger's Glass family, even. I didn't know I wanted McCarthy to be brought down to earth, to be able to be compared with other authors I love. But it works.
This book is definitely not for everyone. It's not going to satisfy you if you're looking for the gripping, pulpy plot of No Country For Old Men, even though it's being advertised similarly. There is the seed of a pulp fiction here, where protagonist Bobby Western, a salvage diver, discovers a sunken airplane that's just covered with mysterious circumstances, but this is no reason to read the book. It's got other things on its mind. The Passenger is basically plotless, but that doesn't mean it's storyless. There's story dripping off the pages; history and tangents and dreams are abundant here. But most of all, there's character.
I have an affinity for shaggy, overgrown and serpentine novels. When it comes to Pynchon, I prefer V. over The Crying of Lot 49. I love the sprawl of Delillo's Underworld to the focused precision of White Noise. Give me the bloated mess of Les Miserables over Dickens's tightly plotted novels any day. And while I love McCarthy's Blood Meridian, Suttree is more suited to my tastes.
So this is the perfect book for me. It feels like a gift McCarthy gave me personally, not to be overly sentimental about it. He could have left me with The Road and I would have been perfectly happy with that, but now he's given me this: a strange, difficult, bloated, wonderful novel. It's perfect for me. (And there's another one coming! December can't come soon enough.)...more
A page-turner, even if I did turn the pages rather slowly. It's better than the tv show, and the tv show wasn't bad (I only watched the first season.)A page-turner, even if I did turn the pages rather slowly. It's better than the tv show, and the tv show wasn't bad (I only watched the first season.) For the most part, they're very similar, but there were some differences, especially near the end. The book is actually less complex than the show, which had more characters and plotlines to follow. Here, there are two points of view: Holden and Miller. I get the sense that the scope is going to open up in the next book, but this was a such an easy, quickly paced book, it was hard not to like. I'm excited to continue....more
I swear, Europeans are always so miserable when they're on a beach vacation. Meursault from Camus's The Stranger was so unhappy at the beach he just hI swear, Europeans are always so miserable when they're on a beach vacation. Meursault from Camus's The Stranger was so unhappy at the beach he just had to kill an Arab. Alberto Moravia's Agostino, instead of relaxing and working on his base tan, obsesses over his mom's sexuality to the point of despair. And then there's this French kid Leonard who sees a friend choking to death on a swingset and can't muster up the enthusiasm to untangle the ropes for him.
A finely and simply written, if depressing, tale of teenage angst taken to the extreme. Big dollops of Camus and Salinger....more
Whatever you think about Elon Musk, it's undeniable he has become one of the most relevant and influential people in the world. He's not just an eccenWhatever you think about Elon Musk, it's undeniable he has become one of the most relevant and influential people in the world. He's not just an eccentric billionaire anymore; he's in the middle of just about every major issue going on right now. I used to admire him quite a bit. Now I'm conflicted, to say the least.
I admit I thought it very strange when I first heard that Walter Isaacson wrote this book. Elon Musk is just 52. A biography seems premature, especially because it seems we're currently at some kind of tipping point in which Musk's career will either begin to fall apart or he becomes even more consequential to this world. But Walter Isaacson is the right guy for this job, however strange it is. He's great at writing about flawed, divisive geniuses. There are many parallels between this book and Steve Jobs.
Like Jobs, Musk is a genius. Also, an asshole. But it's that dichotomy that makes both of them so interesting. Are they so effective and successful because or in spite of their flaws? Is there something about being a genius that makes you a difficult person? What should we all think or say about a person with so much power and potential, but such a mercurial relationship with the world? Along with the story of Musk's life, these are the questions Isaacson sets to explore, if not actually answer.
One of the reasons I chose to read this is to try to make sense of how Musk, an exceedingly brilliant thinker and strategist, could be making so many bizarre and self-destructive mistakes of late. The answer is simply that he is a severely damaged person. There's a good bit in here about his rough childhood, his absolutely demented father, his mental health struggles, his megalomania, his hero complex, his strained relationships with women and his children. To be honest, it's surprising that he's as healthy as he is.
And if you're wondering specifically about his follies with Twitter, there's quite a bit of that here. The book does a good job of laying out the context of each decision made with Twitter and while Musk definitely has made a lot of mistakes in its purchase and running it, things do make a little more sense than it seems when I scroll Reddit. For one, it does seem like there was a huge amount of waste. Musk does not abhor anything more than waste. He runs lean, no-nonsense companies. One of the biggest themes of the book is Musk's algorithm, which he applies to products, systems, and workforces... question every requirement; delete any piece you can (and if you don't have to add any pieces back later, you didn't delete enough.) The mass layoffs at Twitter were the first step in that algorithm: he deleted so many employees, he's having a hard time hiring back enough of them to run the company. Inhumane, perhaps, but not an insane strategy.
Musk is also an extreme risk taker and an adrenaline junkie. He thrives on drama and is exhilarated by controversy. The amount of times he placed his companies on the line for a risky bet to pay off is almost unbelievable. And somehow, they've just about always worked out. Maybe with Twitter, he's finally running out of luck.
The questions I wanted to answer with this book was this: does the good Elon Musk has contributed to the world outweigh the bad? Is he fundamentally good or evil? And there is no answer, not yet at least. The story's not over yet....more
A great continuation of the story begun in Too Like the Lightning. This is a curious series, because it's difficult to read, frustrating at times, wayA great continuation of the story begun in Too Like the Lightning. This is a curious series, because it's difficult to read, frustrating at times, way more complex than it really needs to be, but I could not put it down. I wanted to take a break after the first book and spend some time reading easier books, but this world called me back.
Too Like the Lightning was weird; this book gets even weirder. It strains the brain to retain all the different concepts, characters, philosophy, and even the plot. There are many twists within the story, but they aren't the normal twists you'd expect from sci-fi, where something out of left field happens and surprises you. The twists here are more about reinterpreting what you've already learned from the story. You'll encounter a revelation about a character's past that totally changes the way you feel about them and what they've done, and it'll flip the whole plot on its head. At the end of book one, a revelation about the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash' changes everything about how you interpret the entire story so far. That happens several times in this book as well.
Spoiler notes for myself to review when I pick up book three, to refresh my memory: (view spoiler)[
-O.S. is the arm of the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash' (allied with the Masons, Europeans, and Mitsubishis) that carried out assassinations for 200+ years in order to maintain world peace. They were exposed by Casimir Perry, which is now leading to a big ol' war.
-Sniper is named head of O.S. after Ockham Saneer is arrested. He assassinates JEDD Mason (who is brought back to life by Bridger) and then runs off, vowing to do whatever he needs to hold the Hive system together (probably by killing a bunch more people.)
-It's revealed that Casimir Perry used to be Merion Kraye, a European politician who was in love with, but forsaken by, Danae Mitsubishi. Perry holds a mean grudge and spent years working his way back into the political inner circles. His revenge was to expose O.S. and then he is killed when the European Parliament is bombed.
-Carlyle Foster spent most of their life as a gag-gene, but is revealed to be the child of Perry/Kraye and Danae.
-After everything goes down, Vivien Ancelet reveals themself as the Anonymous. Then they have to appoint a new Anonymous, which was supposed to be JEDD Mason, but as they've got their hands full, Mycroft Canner becomes the Anonymous.
-JEDD Mason is apparently a god from another universe who has been incarnated within a human body. After he was assassinated and then brought back to life, he says that he continued existing even when dead, so he's no longer afraid of using death as a tool, because it means that if every human is actually a god from another universe, then killing them does not mean ending a universe. He realizes the inevitability of war and assigns Mycroft the task of killing Sniper.
-Ando names Dominic Seneschal as head of the Mitsubishi Hive, for some reason.
-Bridger is overwhelmed with the responsibility of having the powers of a god, so he basically kills himself to give the Major his body. The Major is now a child-sized adult. Mycroft realizes that the Major has subtly evolved by Bridger incorporating his reading of Apollo's Iliad. He now has the knowledge and experience of three people, (1) the Major with his knowledge of World War 1 warfare, (2) Achilles with his knowledge of ancient Greek warfare, and (3) Apollo Mojave with his utopian knowledge and skillset. He is renamed Achilles Mojave. (hide spoiler)]...more
Quite the reputation, this one has. Which can sometimes lead to overblown expectations. While I liked it, I just wasn’t blown away by it.
I thought a Quite the reputation, this one has. Which can sometimes lead to overblown expectations. While I liked it, I just wasn’t blown away by it.
I thought a lot about one of my favorite plays, Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler, while reading this. They’re both about a female protagonist/antihero who’s undergoing an emotional crisis. But whereas Gabler feels like a Greek myth, a purity plucked from the heavens by Ibsen, something so perfect it was inevitable; Streetcar is much more complex, messier perhaps, more open-ended. That’s not to say it was bad, it was just less impactful to me.
I’ve never seen the Marlon Brando/Vivien Leigh film. Maybe the performances will change my mind. ...more
I'm not kidding when I say that Louis Sachar is one of my favorite authors. I liked him when I was a kid; I've found a deeper appreciation for his worI'm not kidding when I say that Louis Sachar is one of my favorite authors. I liked him when I was a kid; I've found a deeper appreciation for his work as an adult. Sideways Stories from Wayside School is pure joy and zaniness for a child to read, but it's a metafictional delight for an adult to read to a child. Holes shows a greater depth to an author who could have just stuck to silliness. It's a story with twists and turns and important themes like generational trauma and guilt; it's like Dickens for young readers.
But I wasn't emotionally prepared to read this book aloud to my son. It's about the bully Bradley Chalkers, who is an absolute pestilence at the outset. He torments his classmates, he's never done a lick of homework, and he seems to revel in his villainy. But then you start to see his inner life; his imaginary friends; his yearning to be "normal"; glances of how he came to be this way, his fear of abandonment. Sachar shows that a bully isn't a rotten apple, but something that we could all become, given certain circumstances.
Sachar shows that bullies deserve sympathy, or at least empathy. But more importantly, he shows that they are not lost causes. It takes awhile for even Bradley to realize it, but he doesn't want to be a bully. He doesn't want to be a loner, or to be shunned by teachers; he actually has a curious mind, he wants to have friends, but he doesn't have the tools for it.
But along comes Carla, an absolutely incredible school counselor. I don't know if there are many Carlas out there in the real world, but I'm convinced that with enough Carlas, we could solve all the world's problems. In Bradley's world, she served as a nonjudgmental someone who accepted him as he was, who didn't tell him "the right" thing to do or demand that he get his act together. She just showed him what unconditional friendship is. And it's not really a surprise that, given some time, Bradley started modelling that behavior as well.
This may not be Louis Sachar's funnest book, but it is the only one to make me cry. And it may be his most important....more
I've been on a reading kick of wilderness thrillers. Peter Heller scratched that itch really well. This is like Peter Heller meets Breaking Bad. It haI've been on a reading kick of wilderness thrillers. Peter Heller scratched that itch really well. This is like Peter Heller meets Breaking Bad. It has some really beautiful nature writing as well. It's more complex, in a good way, but less pageturny than Heller. It was really good and I'm excited to check out Panther Gap....more
A nice, quick read. Not bad, but far less dramatic and enticing than The River.A nice, quick read. Not bad, but far less dramatic and enticing than The River....more
Paul Tremblay's A Head Full of Ghosts is a fantastic head trip of a novel that keeps the reader guessing. The horror of it is ambiguous: are these supPaul Tremblay's A Head Full of Ghosts is a fantastic head trip of a novel that keeps the reader guessing. The horror of it is ambiguous: are these supernatural horrors or just the average, daily horror of human brokenness?
In this book, Tremblay tries to repeat the same magic trick, but it just didn't work for me as well. This one is about vampires: are they real or is the narrator losing it? I won't spoil it, but I'll say that most of the book was not exactly riveting. For such a short book, it sure felt trudgy at points. But the end turned it around a bit; I liked the ending....more
I listened to this on audiobook on a drive from Kentucky to Florida. I've heard a lot about Blake Crouch's breakneck novels and thought it sounded likI listened to this on audiobook on a drive from Kentucky to Florida. I've heard a lot about Blake Crouch's breakneck novels and thought it sounded like perfect keep-me-awake-while-driving fare, but I found it pretty bland. I'm not sure anyone could have satisfied me with this premise, though: it's about a guy who receives a genetic upgrade that transforms him--within a matter of days--into a genius martial artist who can basically mindread. He's got to go on the run from, but also stop, a group of scientists intent on releasing the upgrade into the general public in a last ditch effort to save the world from climate change.
I don't have a problem with far-out sci-fi. I like ridiculous stuff. But I don't like when something that's supposed to be plausible feels ridiculous. This is supposed to be a near future scenario. Look, I don't know a lot about science or genetics, but I know when somebody tells you that humans only use ten percent of their brainpower and then say that we could unlock the other 90% and become super geniuses, I know that's BS.
This book could have used some subtlety. Every scene ends in a gunfight or an explosion. It probably would work as a movie; I find that action books don't work for me the same way action movies do. I love Mission:Impossible and in the movie theatre I can ignore silliness as long as what's happening onscreen is gripping enough, but I would have no interest in reading a Mission:Impossible book....more
I didn't really know what to expect with this book. All I knew about Walter Mosley--all I still know, really--is that he wrote some detective stories,I didn't really know what to expect with this book. All I knew about Walter Mosley--all I still know, really--is that he wrote some detective stories, so I thought this would be kind of pulpy. And it was kind of pulpy, but more in the way that masters of literature write pulpy things: the pulp isn't the point, it's just a way for them to explore important themes in an approachable way.
The narrator is a 30-something year old black man in New England. He's undeniably a bit of a loser (no job, no girlfriend, has a bit of an alcohol problem), but in an innocent way. He doesn't mean anyone harm, he minds his own business. He's a man-child who inherited a large family home and he does the bare minimum to keep it up.
One day, an enigmatic white man knocks on his door and wants to rent out his basement for a couple weeks so he can have some sort of hermitic experience. Mysterious, shadowy conversations about power and history and good and evil ensue. What does our heritage mean? What does it mean to be a slave or a master? How does one deal with guilt? Is it even possible to live a moral life in the modern world?
Surprisingly, the book that this most reminded me of was John Fowles's The Magus. You hardly ever can be sure of what's going on. Sometimes it feels like you're reading a man's nervous collapse. It also feels much like a plot that Muriel Spark could have conjured in one of her devilish little books. And lastly, the narrator is a soulmate of Holden Caulfield: innocent but disturbed, world-weary without a grasp on how the world works.
Christopher
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