Really quite surprisingly good for a bestseller, heavily influenced by John Gardner's Grendel and Lewis's Till We Have Faces. It captures the spirit oReally quite surprisingly good for a bestseller, heavily influenced by John Gardner's Grendel and Lewis's Till We Have Faces. It captures the spirit of the epics and myths well, even if it does at times seem like a textbook lesson in mythology, leading to it being way too long—I could easily have done without most of the first half. The prose is striking, although sometimes over the top in a pretentious Creative Writing MFA student kind of way. My hope is that those who love it are led toward Homer....more
Laurus is that rare novel that attempts to do the impossible. It attempts to comprehend the essence of a national character, and of the spirit that anLaurus is that rare novel that attempts to do the impossible. It attempts to comprehend the essence of a national character, and of the spirit that animates its life and production. It is a remarkable cross-section of the Russian milieu, that also so happens to be an astonishing exploration of the medieval mind. Another way of saying what I just said: Laurus is almost an equal mixture of Atonement, The Idiot, and Kristin Lavransdatter. The first of those might be a better creative assimilation of a national literary character, the second may get closer to what makes Russia what it is, and the latter is probably the finest imaginative presentation of the medieval mind that has ever been written. But this novel is all about the sum of its parts. It's an archaic postmodern novel that is both off-the-charts mad and strangely dispassionate. It's both hagiography and documentary. It's absolutely worth all of the acclaim. Not to say it lacks faults. Certain stretches are definitely less inspired than others, and the authorial interjections felt extremely jarring and out of place: probably intentionally so.
I do wonder if those who see it as an apology for Eastern Orthodoxy are being a bit eisegetical. Indeed, Vodolazkin achieves what only the best authors can do: he presents and interprets a way of life without arguing for or against it. Kristin is no apologetic for Catholicism, nor is Atonement a polemic for atheism, even though those terms describe their authors. Instead, these books are art, which is to say that they show us life by cloaking it in its inner maddening wonder. Laurus should find its way into any serious survey of Russian literature going forward, because it stands firmly in the national tradition of examining sainthood in the face of the terrible and the sublime. It does so by unfolding a world that sits somewhere between Heaven, Hell, this earth, and Fairyland; against which is explored all of the Great Questions that make it literature. This is very heady fare.
P.S. If you love this novel, you simply must see Andrei Tarkovsky's masterful 1966 film Andrei Rublev. The two works are almost identical in setting and conception, and are very similar in the things they explore. They are both incredibly moving spiritual sagas, although I would actually rate the Tarkovsky as a better work—it's literally a Russian novel on the screen. ...more
The first great novel of the 2020s is the kind of novel that can really only be written within a gestation period of at least ten years. I frankly canThe first great novel of the 2020s is the kind of novel that can really only be written within a gestation period of at least ten years. I frankly cannot fathom the intellectual rigor and sheer unbridled imagination that Clarke put herself through to write such a thing (I would have no problem believing that the sheer act of trying to write it caused her chronic fatigue syndrome). Simply put, it's totally unlike anything that has ever been published and most likely ever will be published. If you haven't read it, all I can say is you're in for a supreme artistic experience, and a one-of-a-kind one. If you read thousands of books in your life, I can guarantee you won't forget about this one even in your advanced age. But if you want to try to imagine it, think The Truman Show sprinkled liberally with Plato, shot through with Borges and similar postmodern playfulness, and tied together with a healthy dose of Charles Williams. Ultimately I see it as a parable with no obvious meaning; a spellbinding meditation on Beauty and the Infinite that nonetheless comes to no clear conclusion. I think some of the most enduring 21st century novels that will still be widely read and studied in centuries to come will be palimpsests and cross-sections of Western culture and the author's peculiar literary tradition (McEwan's Atonement is an example of a similar endlessly intertextual, relatively recent work that I think will endure) rather than works of "self-expression." This book really does leave the reviewer starved of phrases to accurately describe the experience of reading it. In that sense it is more like a painting than any other novel I've read. It will doubtless inspire countless academic articles in the years to come, but I don't think it can ever be "cracked". Needless to say, I'll be seeking out Jonathan Strange. And here's to hoping that we'll get at least one more offering from Clarke. I'll be eagerly awaiting it throughout the next 15 years or so.
Postscript 1: Unfortunately, this is not a book for young readers, which is a shame as I can imagine so many kids falling in love with the concept. The occasional yet strong profanity is a downside that I didn't think needed to be there.
Postscript 2: I liked the more substantial portions of the novel set in Piranesi's world much more than I did the "real world" parts, which jarred discordantly to me (but maybe that's the point?)
Postscript 3: The extremely overt Narnia references are fascinating, and notable in a book that otherwise is quite subtle about its references. This may very well be the first book to actually treat Lewis as a canonical author who deserves to be referenced and engaged with in serious literary fashion. Clarke may very well intend us to take this story as one that occurs within the same world as the Chronicles, but in a postmodern, contemporary version of that world for adults....more
Robinson writes with an extraordinary gossamer touch that is simply unmatched. To read one of her novels is to exist within the dappled light and shadRobinson writes with an extraordinary gossamer touch that is simply unmatched. To read one of her novels is to exist within the dappled light and shade of a secluded forest on a Midwest summer day. She doesn't write stories; she writes snapshots of lives. It's hard to believe you could get so sucked into a book that is apparently about so little. Most of Home consists of dialogue between a pair of siblings in their father's living room. Robinson is so concerned with The Human Condition and classical notions of truth, beauty, and goodness that it can be easy to forget that her books are just as daring and innovative in conception as any avant-garde film or postmodern novel. But that's not what you notice when you read it. It's hard to express just how wildly impressed I am by this writer. She is one of the Greats.
Despite all that, between an arresting opening paragraph and a symphonic last 50 pages, this was probably a three-star read for me. I was concerned that so much of it simply repeated the events of Gilead: it seemed like a cop-out. For example, if you've read the latter, you already know the "secret" about Jack's hidden family life revealed at the end of this one. And for all Robinson's understated brilliance, I had the same concern I had with Lila (which I would probably rank beneath this one overall): without the unforgettable voice of John Ames and the copious interweaving of historical, theological, and cultural strands that makes Gilead one of the great novels of the 21st century, Robinson's art can seem slightly facile and mundane. Something vital seems missing. There was plenty of loveliness and melancholy, but not too much in the way of lasting, distinctive literary pleasures for most of it. Yet I was deeply moved by the end, even if more so by the poignant one-liners and moments scattered throughout, and most profusely toward the end, then by the grand effect of the whole. But Home remains a deeply rewarding read in its own peculiar ways, and it may hit too close to home for comfort if you have difficult or traumatic family experiences or relationship history. If that's you, you'll want the Kleenex at hand. However, I do think it is best read on its own terms, not as an attempt to add to the sheer concentrated beauty and mastery of that great inaugural effort. Novels like Gilead (and the much earlier, arguably even greater Housekeeping) require many years to write, and I don't blame Robinson for settling for lesser quality in her most recent novels. Even second-rate Robinson is still miles better than most contemporary novelists....more
An unforgiving yet deeply affecting look into the fundamental divides of the contemporary West, and particularly America. White and Black operate on sAn unforgiving yet deeply affecting look into the fundamental divides of the contemporary West, and particularly America. White and Black operate on such utterly different assumptions about everything that they may as well be speaking two different tongues. Based on this and his other work, it would seem that McCarthy believes the basic choice when it comes to faith is to follow either Schopenhauer or Kierkegaard—any middle ground is unfeasible. The drama takes place in an isolated world apart from exterior reality, as evidenced by the obvious inconsistencies and impossibilities in the characterizations and events as they are recalled. Along that line, the pair come perilously close to being pure stereotypes; but McCarthy mercilessly shows us the true logical consequences of atheism. Nietzsche talked a big game and in many ways he did show the same consequences, but tried valiantly to dress up his nihilism as a "science of happiness." With the character/archetype of White, McCarthy shows that this is a fool's game. But Black, hardly an orthodox believer and perhaps a disturbed madman who sees God as a sort of teddy bear, doesn't come off looking a whole lot better. Typical of McCarthy, you can expect a ridiculous amount of ambiguity, in addition to at least one moment of appalling violence and a phobia of commas, capitalizations, and apostrophes. It really epitomizes in a nutshell the outlook one sees in his novels. But there remain too many faults and shortcomings for it to be the truly Great Work that it has the potential to be....more
I normally don’t frequently read contemporary novels, but I’ve found myself reading a few more of them during this quarantine time. In terms of pure wI normally don’t frequently read contemporary novels, but I’ve found myself reading a few more of them during this quarantine time. In terms of pure writing this is surely an achievement of the highest order. Baume clearly sees herself as an inheritor of the great weird, wild, Irish literary legacy of Yeats and Joyce and this shines through in her giddy romps through the myriad gardens of the English language. It’s certainly enough to make any lexophile like myself drool throughout, and the overall effect is like a tremendous modernist poem of diaphonous music. I found myself reading some passages repeatedly aloud just to savor the raw voluptuousness of the diction. In fact one could even make the same criticism that was repeatedly levied against the poet Dylan Thomas (one of my personal favorites) - that is suffers from overwrought verbal extravagance and a lack of restraint. But for those who love to swim and revel in words like a refreshing dive in a pool, this is one you have to read. But once we get past the surface many of the problems that afflict much contemporary writing start to well up - blatant playing on the reader’s emotions, discrepancy between the protagonist’s and the author’s voices; limp, rambling plotting - yet these are not as prevalent as so many other novels and we are definitely in the hands of a top-tier writer here. I question many of her artistic choices but cannot argue with the impressiveness of the product. This is a quiet, disturbing monodrama that is possessed of an extraordinarily polished patina and it is a book that ought to be read. ...more
Robinson is never easy, instantly fulfilling reading, but she is a master of the art that conceals art. I totally understand the criticism that she isRobinson is never easy, instantly fulfilling reading, but she is a master of the art that conceals art. I totally understand the criticism that she is a writer who focuses too much on “fluff” and sentimentality under a literary guise - she’s definitely not Greene or O’Connor - but her subdued exaltation of the nuances and miracles of life is just as valid a theological approach as a more “hard minded” mentality. I didn’t think this worked as well as Gilead (which is a masterpiece) and Housekeeping (which is a jaw-dropping masterpiece) because there were times I wasn’t sure whether Robinson was exercising her rustic simplicity or simply not being creative enough - but she has own brand of Great American Novels and those who don’t have the patience to sympathize with her view of life will want to look elsewhere. ...more
This is a cracking read no matter which way you slice it. Martel orchestrates his novel subtly and intelligently, writes with a firm hand and strong eThis is a cracking read no matter which way you slice it. Martel orchestrates his novel subtly and intelligently, writes with a firm hand and strong eye, and cooks up a tale that is universally entertaining in its outlandishness. The first part didn't do much for me, but obviously the central focus here is the long survival portion, and Martel sure knows how to write a survival story because my attention never flagged for a second. At times I wasn't quite sure what he was trying to do, mixing quasi-sublime rhapsody with visceral grotesquerie and pseudo-philosophical tangents, but it's a lot of fun either way. Notice I said "pseudo-philosophical." That's pretty much the highest praise I can muster up for its surprisingly weak thematic skeleton. This is really a postmodernist novel dressed up in traditional prose. The final part with its "choose your own ending" cutesiness is painfully cliched, simply finding a new way to repeat the elderly relativist anthem of "Truth is what you make it" and "you're in control of your own destiny," etc., etc. In all honesty these are themes that run through the whole novel, and it's impossible not to notice the utter incompatibility of the religious speculation with the postmodernist messages. It's like lightweight comfort piety for fervent, animal-loving relativists. This is not a "philosophical novel" in the grand old sense of Dostoevsky, a tradition that has been extended into the present day by such masters as Marilynne Robinson; both of which whom would have had made something really special out of Martel's plot. This is needlessly convoluted exposition of a watered-down, insubstantial worldview. I rate Martel highly for his creative style and his ability to write magical realism that actually seems like realism with magic rather than magic with realism like many seem to see it as. He gets dragged down for noodling around vague thematic blocks and making his messages seem more complex than they really are....more
It's hard to believe that it's going on six years since I first read Gilead. I was a high schooler who wasn't really familiar with literary fiction, aIt's hard to believe that it's going on six years since I first read Gilead. I was a high schooler who wasn't really familiar with literary fiction, and I remember glossing over or simply not comprehending many of Ames's theological passages, but I fondly recall being overwhelmed by the reading experience. I had never read anything that was written with such extraordinary grace and serenity, like a doe walking in the woods. I was fascinated, disturbed, and inspired by the central conflict with Jack Boughton, which I still think is the most finely-drawn relationship between a pair of fictional characters that I have ever encountered. And in my original review, I called the novel "a birthday party for the miracle of existence"; a phrase that I undoubtedly congratulated my 16-year-old self for cooking up. This time around, reading it for a college seminar within the context of other modern American works that deal with the possibilities of faith in the contemporary era, I encountered it completely afresh. The vast majority of the book felt totally new to me, thrown into a totally different light by all the reading and thinking I have done since that first memorable experience. Robinson's prose is so light and mellifluous, yet so pregnant and luminous with meaning, that it bears the reader along as effortlessly as a kayak down the rapids, even as she explores the richest and most challenging aspects of being human (and incorporates many moments of sterling humor—after all, it's rare that a great novel does not contain comic elements). This time around I also picked up on the fact that, beneath all the apparent disarming simplicity and directness of the book lies a convoluted, labyrinthine Faulknerian narrative technique and hardly any conventional novelistic elements. By stripping plot, conflict, and character development down to their bare minimum and presenting a series of gently adorned snapshots of internal and external contemplation, Robinson produces one of the most purely literary texts I've ever read—one that reads like life itself, and winsomely forces us to adjust our souls to its nature.
It's perhaps the single greatest piece of imaginative writing that America has produced this century. The only other novel that has caused me to weep at its sheer plenitude of beauty is Middlemarch. John Ames's voice is a lighthouse that will beckon every subsequent generation of readers to return to the clear springs that feed life. Situated as it is on the brink of the Age of Anxiety and the Information Age, it is piercingly elegiac, but utterly bereft of bitterness or advocacy. Prior to this, critics had declared for decades the death of language that consoles and affirms and ideas that kindle one to seek the transcendent. Any attempt to resurrect them would be equivalent to didacticism or sentimentality. And to answer the quagmire of postmodernity, Robinson crafted a novel that, more than anything else, simply exists, suspended in a perpetual pool of light. As Ames emphasizes so repeatedly, the mere existence of something wondrous is more than reason enough to embrace it. Gilead makes a number of arguments, but that is not its primary intention. Rather, it is the still small voice that speaks after the storm, fire, and earthquake. This is the definition of a humanitarian artwork....more
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