Modelled, of course, on Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet, Vargas Llosa imparts his wisdom as a novelist in a series of short letters, which are directeModelled, of course, on Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet, Vargas Llosa imparts his wisdom as a novelist in a series of short letters, which are directed towards an idealised novice. He covers the basics before moving on to some quite interesting and esoteric concepts, many of which were new to me. He makes reference extensively to examples within literature, and was able to reframe or cast in a new light several novels I have already read, as well as enticing me towards several new ones.
From the first letter - the somewhat disturbing “Parable of the Tapeworm” - Vargas Llosa characterises writing as a serious and consuming endeavour; symbiotic in nature, not unlike the relationship between a parasite and its host. There is no expectation that this book will teach an aspiring novelist how to write: it attempts only to illustrate the depth and breadth of what is possible through literature, and perhaps provide a couple of pointers in the right direction.
Vargas Llosa has an abundance of wisdom and experience, both as a writer and as a devotee of literature, and this is a resource for writers and readers both. My main criticism of this book is that it is far too short....more
This is a quiet but accomplished novel about post-war Japan; of reconciling both the state and individual of the modern world, with the crimes and conThis is a quiet but accomplished novel about post-war Japan; of reconciling both the state and individual of the modern world, with the crimes and convictions of the past. The novel is a thematic precursor to Remains of the Day, published three years later, which similarly uses an unreliable first-person narrative to explore what it means to have lived an honourable life. An Artist of the Floating World is a far more subdued novel, with a greater specific cultural focus, and as a result, its themes are perhaps a little less universal....more
Compared to The Gospel According to Jesus Christ, Saramago is a lot more laid back here, a lot less subtle, like he's shooting fish in a barrel. But aCompared to The Gospel According to Jesus Christ, Saramago is a lot more laid back here, a lot less subtle, like he's shooting fish in a barrel. But as far as contradictions and inconsistencies go, The Old Testament (or as Saramago calls it, The Book of Nonsense) is pretty low-hanging fruit. Whether it's God's destruction of innocent children in Sodom and Gomorrah, while choosing to save only the "honourable" Lot (who had earlier offered his daughters' virginity to the mob, and who later sleeps with them both himself), or God's punking of Abraham by calling for the mock-sacrifice of his son - the stories of the old testament show God to be not exactly the paragon of maturity and virtue. Saramago's take-down in Cain does not teach us anything new, but his approach is original and incisive, and above all it is a lot of fun....more
I adore the film adaptation (as I do many of Haneke's other films), and in particular Isabelle Huppert's powerful portrayal of the titular character, I adore the film adaptation (as I do many of Haneke's other films), and in particular Isabelle Huppert's powerful portrayal of the titular character, who is a singular personification of repression and abuse. Therefore, this novel was a profound disappointment.
While the atmosphere of the film is heavy with tension and anticipation, the novel's is awkward, and even comedic. The style is abrupt and grating. The author constructs his characters through copious exposition and explanation, constantly telling us the ways in which the characters are flawed, and how we are to feel about them.
The story and its themes are complex, and the characters are fascinating. But the movie is much better.
Saramago’s novels often have the appearance of grand allegories, but they are not. One gets the sense of a writer simply exploring a premise with greaSaramago’s novels often have the appearance of grand allegories, but they are not. One gets the sense of a writer simply exploring a premise with great freedom and a lack of embarrassment. Saramago allows himself to follow a line of thought to its logical conclusion, even if that conclusion is absurd to the point of ridiculousness. What makes this work is that he does not expect you to suspend disbelief. This is an exercise in conjecture, not realism. Where there are nonsensical contradictions, he is the first to point them out and laugh along with you.
Saramago begins Death at Intervals with very broad strokes. He is poking around, trying to kick up a worthy subject from under the dust, and it is clear from this haphazard approach that he really has no idea of the direction the novel will take. The scope narrows suddenly and dramatically in the second half of the novel, as he latches onto the single, salient figure that this rummaging has found for him. The entire thing is as absurd as it is refreshing. The surprising strangeness of the second half of the novel justifies the meanderings of the first.
But with Saramagos’s writing, it’s very much about the journey, not the destination. The author leaves no stone unturned, no question unasked, as he takes us on this strange trip. The characters themselves guide his writing, and they are allowed to roam unbounded within his imagination. There are so many surprising turns, so many dark corners of human experience that are uncovered in this free exploration, that are not acknowledged by any other writer. Death at Intervals is strange and flawed, but Saramago’s approach is just so unusual, and his imagination so free – it really is a wonderfully unique experience....more
Cannery Row is a series of vignettes from the Depression-era slums of Monterey, California. The characters are amiable and the tone is uplifting. SteiCannery Row is a series of vignettes from the Depression-era slums of Monterey, California. The characters are amiable and the tone is uplifting. Steinbeck writes with humanity and optimism, showing us that life can be joyous and meaningful under any conditions.
For some reason I was compelled to visualise the characters in Cannery Row as their counterparts from the TV series Deadwood, despite the dissimilarity of the settings. In my imagination, Lee Chong was Mr Wu, Doc was Doc Cochran, and the others were an amalgam of various other inhabitants of the frontier town: workers, vagrants, and prostitutes. There are certainly passing similarities in some of the character traits, but perhaps there is also something else that compelled me to make the connection - something shared in the cultural composition of a slum and a frontier town, in the paradox that both a ruthless entrepreneurial spirit and an unbreakable sense of fellowship are needed to survive and thrive in the face of collective adversity....more
Despite its epic feel, fantastically evocative prose, mythic themes and strange, archetypal characters, I found little to propel me with much enthusiaDespite its epic feel, fantastically evocative prose, mythic themes and strange, archetypal characters, I found little to propel me with much enthusiasm through this novel. The narrative is extremely granular, which is not necessarily a bad thing, but when one is not engaged in the detail of the plot or characters, it can become quite tedious. The story is full of symbolism, with certain characters directly evoking obvious archetypes, and though this helped establish the novel’s mythical atmosphere, I ultimately found the comparisons (and often the characters themselves) to be a little too shallow and a little too blatant, traits which were often exposed by the level of narrative detail.
As its driving force, the novel seems to rely on the urgency and drama of the war itself – something that unfortunately I never came to feel through these pages. Too often it just felt like a sequence of minor events; one small thing of no consequence after another (I admit to reading the later battle scenes much less attentively than I could have). Reading through other reviews, it appears that what I found to be the novel’s weaknesses, others have seen as strengths. What can I say? Who really knows why we enjoy one thing and not another? Sometimes there is a feeling, and other times that feeling is not there. Perhaps that’s really all there is to it, and the rest is just rationalisation....more
In Waiting for the Barbarians, Coetzee has written a powerful, multilayered allegory. Its central theme deals with the implications of imperialism, buIn Waiting for the Barbarians, Coetzee has written a powerful, multilayered allegory. Its central theme deals with the implications of imperialism, but this examination creates a much wider array of harmonic overtones, which concern human nature in a broader sense. It illustrates the thinness of civilisation, its vulnerability, the eternal fear (and strangely corrupting attraction) of the seeming inevitability of its fall and rebirth, borne out time again by the cycles of history.
On a more personal, human level, we see in the Magistrate the simple shame of old age, with its accompanying loss of virility and strength. This is an allegory in itself, these attributes being so central to the perpetuation of hegemony. Gender plays an important yet perhaps overlooked function in the novel: its quintessential roles are a metaphor, and serve to isolate and differentiate the aspects of human nature that define and control behaviour in these political and social contexts.
The true costs of civilisation are often borne by outsiders whose suffering is hidden, or worse - ignored. The dehumanised "barbarians" of the novel exemplify the fear of the "other", which comes so naturally to groups, and is so often easily exploited both as a means of control, and a justification for cruelty, subject to the petty motivations of individuals. In these methods one notices the stirrings of totalitarianism, and disturbingly, echoes of our own world....more
This was my first Coetzee, and so my expectations were modest, as they usually are with a new author. Literature being so diverse, it usually takes a This was my first Coetzee, and so my expectations were modest, as they usually are with a new author. Literature being so diverse, it usually takes a little time to connect with an author’s particular style and voice, and there is something of an act of persuasion as the author slowly reveals themselves and coaxes you around to his or her point of view. Not so with Disgrace, which immediately gripped me in its raw power and honest depiction of the decline and fall of David Lurie. In his portrayal of Lurie, Coetzee is able to create sympathy for the unlikable character by exposing his peculiar sense of morality and the logic of his mind. Though his actions are not admirable, one cannot help but respect a person who demonstrates such resilience in the face of hardship.
The central theme - disgrace – is in itself emotionally powerful. A disgraced person becomes the focus of total and enduring moral derision, the effect of which is social isolation and deep, personal shame. Issues of morality, responsibility, dignity, blame and regret come to the fore, and these issues permeate the novel, which intertwines these with issues of poverty and race relations in South Africa. The novel is in many ways about the inevitable and inherent failings of man (or more precisely, male-ness), which appears to be the underlying cause of much of the damage. The differences between male and female nature are contrasted here, both in their role as the cause of, and reaction to the various disgraces depicted. The questions of responsibility, dignity and respect, are paralleled again in man’s treatment of animals, and indeed in man’s animal nature. The overwhelming feeling is one of powerlessness: the unavoidable prices that must be paid – or perhaps it is only stubbornness: the refusal to pay the price (in this question, is dignity considered a value or a vice?). This is a book of remarkable depth, especially considering its length. Coetzee absolutely explodes the central theme of disgrace, and leaves it to the reader to work through the mess. ...more
When We Were Orphans explores a wide array of political and personal themes, but its main focus is on memory, nostalgia, and the luxury of innocence. When We Were Orphans explores a wide array of political and personal themes, but its main focus is on memory, nostalgia, and the luxury of innocence. In the final sequence, the novel veers away from strict realism, into somewhat surreal, dreamlike territory. I felt the novel really reaching for something interesting here, and though it seemed to try a few ideas on, it didn't really settle on anything altogether concrete. Yet the surprising, unsettling quality of this latter section was my favourite part of the novel.
Banks’s search for his parents through the active warzone of the slums reminded me of the “tiger” skit from Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life:
SERGEANT: Thirty men killed in 'F' Section. AINSWORTH: Yes. I see. Mm. SERGEANT: I should think about a hundred-- hundred and fifty men altogether, sir. AINSWORTH: Jolly good. [sniffs] SERGEANT: I haven't got the final figures, sir, but there's a lot of seriously... AINSWORTH: Yes. SERGEANT: ...wounded in the compound. AINSWORTH: Yes. Well, the thing is, Sergeant, I've got a bit of a problem here. One of the officers has lost a leg. SERGEANT: Oh, no, sir!
I think what is being satirised in this exchange is not so different to what Ishiguro intends for us to see in Bank’s own behaviour: a sort of naïve self-absorption, a cultural myopia, a lack of understanding of the world as it is. Once again, I felt there were hints, little glimpses of a deeper metaphor that was almost, but not quite realised. Still, When We Were Orphans is a complex and nuanced novel, highly entertaining, though perhaps at times a little too subtle and enigmatic in its expression....more
It's no surprise that Beckett got on so well with Joyce. Both share certain similarities of style and tone, as well as a selfish lack of concern for tIt's no surprise that Beckett got on so well with Joyce. Both share certain similarities of style and tone, as well as a selfish lack of concern for the reader. It takes concentration to extract the plot from the quagmire of wordplay. Sometimes the action is clear, and other times - well, you either follow the author's strange line of thought, or you are lost (a dictionary won't help). But this is Beckett, so it's not supposed to be easy, or make complete sense.
The prose is playful, masterful, exuberant, and the story is often funny, at times poignant. It is certainly a wonderfully executed instance of the kind of thing that it is, if you are into that kind of thing. I am thinking that maybe I am not. I don't know why, but I feel less impressed by this kind of writing the more I am exposed to it. There is depth in the language, but very little in the humanity....more
The most insidious form of prejudice is the one that's internalised and self-directed. The Bluest Eye examines the ways in which latent cultural measuThe most insidious form of prejudice is the one that's internalised and self-directed. The Bluest Eye examines the ways in which latent cultural measures of beauty and self-worth can become reinforced and self-perpetuating. White people figure rarely in the narrative, and yet whiteness is pervasive as the very currency of self-worth: a means of defining value, and of establishing one's own superiority over others. The novel digs out the dirt to examine the roots of this behaviour, but provides no comfortable resolution for the reader.
This was my first Toni Morrison novel (and hers too). A beautiful and devastating book....more
I'm done. I'm exhausted. I'm all Becketted out. Somehow, The Unnamable is even more abstract and frenetic and and disjointed than its predecessors in I'm done. I'm exhausted. I'm all Becketted out. Somehow, The Unnamable is even more abstract and frenetic and and disjointed than its predecessors in the trilogy. Impossibly, it has even less of a coherent thread to hold it together. Beckett's talent is undeniable, but after nearly 500 pages of aimless, unstructured meandering, the limits of my patience and sanity have truly been tested. I almost gave up. I wasn't sure whether I would make it. I enjoyed reading The Unnamable only intermittently. But I am glad to have read it, both in that it was an enriching and memorable literary experience, but equally, I'm just glad to be done with Beckett for a while....more
Alright, I think I'm starting to figure this out. Inevitably, any rational person will approach a novel with the expectation that certain narrative coAlright, I think I'm starting to figure this out. Inevitably, any rational person will approach a novel with the expectation that certain narrative conventions will apply: that there will be a logical progression from A to B to C; that there will be events that make sense in the context of the story; that it will contain characters that are solid and persistent; and that despite the bewildering complexity, the multitude of loose threads will eventually be gathered up and drawn into some sort of conclusion.
Applying this kind of reasoning to Beckett only leads to frustration. The material is constantly shifting and changing form; it's like trying to erect scaffolding around a cloud. At some point I came up with a sort of working model that allowed me to let go of the frustration and simply enjoy the book on its own terms. What I think Beckett is trying to do is to mirror the randomness of conscious experience. Malone's internal monologue is aimless and garbled, and because it's devoid of context it makes very little sense to an observer. However at times, it can also be strikingly coherent and profound. In Molloy and Malone Dies, Beckett chooses names for his protagonists that are similar: Molloy, Moran and Malone. These characters seem sometimes to share traits and histories, to the point that one might confuse them for the same person - and in some ways they might as well be the same person. To what extent is the meandering, random internal conscious experience of one person distinguishable from another, from the perspective of an observer who lacks their personal context? To what extent can one person really understand another on the basis of their mess of unfiltered thoughts? This, I think, is the question that Beckett is exploring here. If for a period of time you were somehow able to write down your own thoughts as they arise, without first organising or editing them, would they not somehow resemble Malone's in their character?
Now, it's very likely that this analysis may be obvious, simplistic, reductive or flat out miss the point (and by no means am I saying that's all there is to it), but in any case I found that the trick to enjoying Beckett is in letting go and embracing the style as an intentionally purposeless and random experience, without form, direction or destination. What we have here is something close to Beckett's own stream of consciousness, unbounded by form or narrative convention. His skill, I think, was to liberate his thoughts and allow his pen to wander where it may. The result is messy, inconsistent, and difficult, but Beckett's genius shines through. Despite the limitations that the style imposes, the execution is quite brilliant. ...more
Oh, Modernism, what am I going to do with you? You tread recklessly that line between brilliance and wank. What is this magnificent garbage? It has noOh, Modernism, what am I going to do with you? You tread recklessly that line between brilliance and wank. What is this magnificent garbage? It has no form to define it, no motive to propel it. Who are these people; what on earth are they doing? What the hell is this even about? Is there genius in the subversion of the narrative form, or is this just a cheap trick; a honey-pot for the gullible and the pretentious? I lean toward the former, but I am not completely convinced. Like the works of Kafka et al., the style is frustrating, and the reader of Molloy is compelled to proceed solely due to the outstanding quality of Beckett's sentences, and the small (but brilliant) moments of clarity and insight into the lives and minds of the protagonists. On some level, Molloy explores some pretty profound philosophical questions - about life and death, and the internal workings of the mind - but it does so obliquely, incongruously, at random, aimlessly and ultimately without resolution. So much is left hanging, unexplored and unexplained, one gets the feeling that a trick has been played - was it even there in the first place? ...more
This just didn't resonate with me at all. It's a mysterious, introspective allegory about self examination and the search for some sort of mystical trThis just didn't resonate with me at all. It's a mysterious, introspective allegory about self examination and the search for some sort of mystical truth. For me, it was too murky and elusive; the point of the book seemed too wrapped in mystery and metaphor, to the extent that it didn't seem to say much at all. I am not a mystical or religious person, however I really enjoyed Siddhartha, which depicts a compelling search for meaning, with interesting philosophical explorations. By contrast, The Journey to the East seems very shallow, like a cheap high. It has the guise of profundity, but like so many modern mystical writings, it lacks substance. ...more
I can understand the low ratings this book tends to receive; I can't imagine it would particularly appeal to people who don't have kids. The brilliancI can understand the low ratings this book tends to receive; I can't imagine it would particularly appeal to people who don't have kids. The brilliance of The Fifth Child is in its profound portrayal and examination of all the little anxieties (often unspoken or hidden) that constantly worry the minds of parents. These anxieties are made manifest in such a surreal and powerful way through Ben. He is terrifying, his presence is malignant; he is the incarnation of parental fear. A creepy, uneasy undercurrent runs though the entire book.
The Fifth Child also explores some interesting philosophical questions around nature and judgement. Ben's life is like a destructive force that destroys the family, but neither the parents nor the child are really to blame for the way things turn out. Every person born into the world is a roll of the dice, the genes that produce us are combined at random, and there is always the possibility of something not going to plan. It's fascinating that the experts consider Ben to be within the range of normal human physiology and behaviour, and yet all acknowledge that there's something not quite right about him. It's interesting also to contemplate how wide a net human behaviour is - consider the range of traits that have been beneficial at one time or another in humanity's past - of violence, cruelty and depravity. These traits did not simply disappear - they are still within the range of human behaviour. They are there in the population, whether or not we choose to think about it....more
Completely against my expectations, I loved Waiting for Godot. It is intelligent, the dialogue is witty, the characters are charming, and their actionCompletely against my expectations, I loved Waiting for Godot. It is intelligent, the dialogue is witty, the characters are charming, and their actions are at times genuinely funny. It is profound: it confronts the question of the meaning of life itself, but offers no obvious solution. I think it's a mistake to get caught up in over-analysis; to dig for symbolism and metaphor and attach to these an authorial intent. I don't think Beckett's aim was to create some sort of cryptic allegory. I think the point is for the audience to be prompted to cogitate about what it all could mean. The best art makes an artist of the observer, and Beckett does that so well here....more
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