The Sun Also Rises
by Ernest Hemingway
Quick synopsis: A group of American and British expatriates travel through Paris and Spain, where they fish, drink, eat at cafes, and attend the fiestas of the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona.
My first Hemingway novel. I never thought I'd make it through, but somehow, someway, I did.
I remember reading The Snows of Kilimanjaro in my English class a few semesters ago and being mesmerized by it. It was so strong, so heartfelt, so... sentimental. The prose was thick and vivid, the characterizations so fierce, the word usage so perfect. I may not remember much about the plot itself, but I do remember being really impressed.
I guess I expected the same thing with The Sun Also Rises. And because this is not a book club and I promised myself I would speculate why people are so taken by this classic, I cannot sit here and write about how bored I was reading it, or how pithy it sounded, or that I missed seeing and feeling the scenes and the emotions of each character.
I will admit, though, that by the end, my vexation was relieved somewhat--I am now not so turned off to the idea of reading another Hemingway novel. In fact, I welcome it, and I hope I do it someday so I can compare it to his first. Because, after all, he got me on a short story--maybe it was just this novel that didn't necessarily float my boat.
If anything, Hemingway is a master at his own technique: this idea that stories are related to icebergs, and that 7/8ths of it is underwater. We don't see it, but we know it's there. And it's true. In very simple terms and in very simple means, I understood the (somewhat) the emotional conflict between Jake, the narrator, and Brett, the flighty woman every man falls in love with. It became so apparent to me what was going on (most of the time), yet I was shocked at how little there was. Hemingway at his best.
I did miss something that was very important, in my opinion, that I didn't realize until I read some reviews and articles on the book. Jake Barnes is impotent from a wound he got in the war, and that is why he cannot be with Brett. She, being sexually needy, cannot be with a man who cannot satisfy her, and that is why their relationship would never work. Somehow, I didn't catch this factoid, and I just figured she could never be with him because she just couldn't settle down with one man. Was this something I missed because I skimmed? Because I would go days without opening the book, thus becoming disoriented at starting again? Or did I miss it because it wasn't actually said in plain text? I don't know. Unfortunately, I can't go back in time and re-experience reading it.
The book became magical for me during the intense scenes of the bull-fighting. Maybe because it was the most descriptive, and that is what I craved. Maybe because it I understood the characters more and their place in the novel and in the world, and they weren't just names (which, I will say, I felt like they were up until this point). Maybe because, I don't know, I forgot I was reading and was fully invested in this dream, fully participating in these scenes.
I do appreciate what Hemingway did for literature, becoming a pioneer of the modern style, making the simple and seemingly trite perhaps more complicated than it looks and sounds. And no matter my opinion on the man and his work, it means really nothing when compared to what he has done for authors and readers alike, even if I may not be quite there. In the end, I wasn't as annoyed with The Sun Also Rises as I was when I first began, and I hope that one day I can give it another read and become absolutely mystified.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
When he was only thirteen...
I don't know how many people read this blog. I realize it isn't for everyone, especially the casual blog reader. However, for those who have been reading it (or at least know about it and its routine), I should apologize for being so incredibly late on updating.
Unfortunately, with my new job, my life has become a whirlwind, and I no longer have the luxury of waking up in the morning, reading for a few hours, doing whatever throughout my day, reading again for another hour, doing some more stuff, and then reading again before bedtime. Life is fast-paced, and I was jarred, utterly, with my new schedule of go, go, go. Because I wasn't prepared for it, I wasn't prepared to keep up my same rigorous reading schedule, and soon days would pass without the cover so much as being looked at. How depressing.
However! I resolved with myself that, if I can't keep up a book a week, I can at least keep reading, no matter how long it takes. Really, a book a week is quick, but I was able to do it because my time in school and work had reduced dramatically. Now that my schedule is not as laid back as it was, I can't spend nearly as much reading as I'd like to. I just can't. I don't know where in my day I could squeeze in a few hours. A half hour, yes, but hours on end?
All this to say: yes, I'm stil reading, and I'm still very much interested and curious and speculative. I just don't think I can finish this project in 15 weeks like I had hoped. And that's okay. What I'm doing with my time is worthwhile, and as long as I keep opening that book, it doesn't matter if it takes me years.
Okay, now that that's out of the way, let's talk about To Kill a Mockingbird!
To Kill a Mockingbird
by Harper Lee
Quick Synopsis: A young brother and sister, Jem and Scout, deal with their town's racial injustice as their father defends a black man on trial, and are mightily captivated by Boo Radley, a man that never leaves his house.
I had heard so much about this book but knew so little. I remember my friends reading it in high school. I knew the character Boo Radley, I knew it was about a black man raping a young white girl, and... that was about it. I actually thought Harper Lee was a man. Imagine my surprise and delight when I found out she's a woman. What an inspiration.
I love this book. I mean, I LOVE it. It is my favorite so far, and probably will be on my top three of all time. It was hard for me to not finish it in a week because I wanted to get through it so badly, but really, I'm glad I took my time with it. I was able to spend more time with the characters, I was able live in Maycomb just a little bit longer, I was able to become a kid again.
And that's the magic of this book: Lee captures the wonderment and curiosity and bewilderment of these children so well. Some critics have said that they didn't buy it because how could our first person narrator, a 7 year old, narrate a story with such clarity and precision, such force and lyricism? What the "critics" weren't realizing was that it wasn't narrated by a 7 year old. It was narrated by an old woman, a woman who has spent years pondering this time in her life and finally decided to tell this story, to figure it out and make sense of it all. Even with the huge temporal distance between the time-now narrator (the old woman) and the time-then narrator (Scout at 7 years old), the magic of her childhood was never lost. I see this world as the 7 year old sees it because that's how the narrator sees it--she doesn't see it as an old woman. Lee knew exactly what she was doing.
Not only was I drawn by the sheer beauty of the language, but the story is one I found myself truly caring about. Boo Radley, this enigmatic being, this thing that the children both fear and revere, isn't just something to give the kids something to do. He stands for something, and what got me was that I didn't know what it was right away. I had to get deeply involved in the other story, the story about the trial that their father, Atticus, was defending, to really understand the significance of Boo and his place in the world and in the story.
And that's why it's so good: everything connects back to each other. It all makes sense. And it's beautiful. I cried. I admit it, I had tears in my eyes when I finished it.
I won't go into too much further detail in case you haven't read it--and if you haven't, I HIGHLY suggest that you do.
Unfortunately, with my new job, my life has become a whirlwind, and I no longer have the luxury of waking up in the morning, reading for a few hours, doing whatever throughout my day, reading again for another hour, doing some more stuff, and then reading again before bedtime. Life is fast-paced, and I was jarred, utterly, with my new schedule of go, go, go. Because I wasn't prepared for it, I wasn't prepared to keep up my same rigorous reading schedule, and soon days would pass without the cover so much as being looked at. How depressing.
However! I resolved with myself that, if I can't keep up a book a week, I can at least keep reading, no matter how long it takes. Really, a book a week is quick, but I was able to do it because my time in school and work had reduced dramatically. Now that my schedule is not as laid back as it was, I can't spend nearly as much reading as I'd like to. I just can't. I don't know where in my day I could squeeze in a few hours. A half hour, yes, but hours on end?
All this to say: yes, I'm stil reading, and I'm still very much interested and curious and speculative. I just don't think I can finish this project in 15 weeks like I had hoped. And that's okay. What I'm doing with my time is worthwhile, and as long as I keep opening that book, it doesn't matter if it takes me years.
Okay, now that that's out of the way, let's talk about To Kill a Mockingbird!
To Kill a Mockingbird
by Harper Lee
Quick Synopsis: A young brother and sister, Jem and Scout, deal with their town's racial injustice as their father defends a black man on trial, and are mightily captivated by Boo Radley, a man that never leaves his house.
I had heard so much about this book but knew so little. I remember my friends reading it in high school. I knew the character Boo Radley, I knew it was about a black man raping a young white girl, and... that was about it. I actually thought Harper Lee was a man. Imagine my surprise and delight when I found out she's a woman. What an inspiration.
I love this book. I mean, I LOVE it. It is my favorite so far, and probably will be on my top three of all time. It was hard for me to not finish it in a week because I wanted to get through it so badly, but really, I'm glad I took my time with it. I was able to spend more time with the characters, I was able live in Maycomb just a little bit longer, I was able to become a kid again.
And that's the magic of this book: Lee captures the wonderment and curiosity and bewilderment of these children so well. Some critics have said that they didn't buy it because how could our first person narrator, a 7 year old, narrate a story with such clarity and precision, such force and lyricism? What the "critics" weren't realizing was that it wasn't narrated by a 7 year old. It was narrated by an old woman, a woman who has spent years pondering this time in her life and finally decided to tell this story, to figure it out and make sense of it all. Even with the huge temporal distance between the time-now narrator (the old woman) and the time-then narrator (Scout at 7 years old), the magic of her childhood was never lost. I see this world as the 7 year old sees it because that's how the narrator sees it--she doesn't see it as an old woman. Lee knew exactly what she was doing.
Not only was I drawn by the sheer beauty of the language, but the story is one I found myself truly caring about. Boo Radley, this enigmatic being, this thing that the children both fear and revere, isn't just something to give the kids something to do. He stands for something, and what got me was that I didn't know what it was right away. I had to get deeply involved in the other story, the story about the trial that their father, Atticus, was defending, to really understand the significance of Boo and his place in the world and in the story.
And that's why it's so good: everything connects back to each other. It all makes sense. And it's beautiful. I cried. I admit it, I had tears in my eyes when I finished it.
I won't go into too much further detail in case you haven't read it--and if you haven't, I HIGHLY suggest that you do.
Monday, June 6, 2011
If you really want to hear about it...
The Catcher in the Rye
by J.D. Salinger
Quick synopsis: A young man named Holden Caulfield gets kicked out of his school and searches for something--anything--that isn't phony or lousy, although almost everything he comes in contact with is just that.
This is the only book on my list that I once began. Many years ago, I went through a phase, a short phase, of wanting to read books like the ones I'm reading now. I started with The Catcher in the Rye. I didn't get very far. I think I stopped somewhere in the beginning, because then, I didn't have much tolerance for books that didn't grab me right away. And, truthfully, my tolerance level may have only gone up just a tad--but if it weren't for the commitment I made to myself, I probably would have closed this book before its end again.
But this is not the place to rant about how unentertained I was. I'm here to speculate why this book, THIS book, has become an American classic.
One of things I've thought about was its connection and relatability to teenagers. So many high schoolers read this book because, I'm sure, they feel the same way as Holden does. They have the same unexplainable angst, the same desires (or lack thereof), the same worry and fear of identity. I believe the ending is what has made it so timeless. If Holden hadn't changed (and some critics do argue that he didn't change and he was still just as "lousy" as he was in the beginning), then this book would have gone no where. But for two-hundred-some-odd pages, we're subjected to this whiney guy who is never in the mood to do anything, gets kicked out of school AGAIN, and seemingly has no direction, no care in his life whatsoever. Yet, as it ends with the beautiful image of him sitting in the pouring rain, watching his kid sister Phoebe, whom he truly adores, I can't help but think that that's what makes this book so great: that it goes beyond the depressive moods and the listlessness of Holden. It becomes something larger than him, which we never really get to experience until the end.
The stylistic choices of Salinger were spot on, and although the tone of the piece began to irritate me, I do feel like this is another reason this book has achieved such status. I'm not too familiar with contemporary American literature, especially literature published when Catcher was published, so I can't say that this style was "inventive" or "unique" (I hope to learn this, though, in my many years of studying literature), but I can say it seems to ring as innovative and ingenious. I can imagine being in the early Fifties and reading this book and seeing the slang and the cursing and the casual and conversational tone and being shocked that "lit-re-ture" would sound like this. And if you want to become a classic, I've learned, you've got to shock people.
I don't really have much more to say about the book.
I do, however, want to give a shout-out to my girl Kati Spayde, whose book I inherited when I bought it at a used-bookstore at Amazon.com. Kati had highlighted about 73% of the book. She even wrote things like, "New character!!" or "Why can't Holden enjoy the small things?" I found myself competing with this Kati Spayde, thinking, I'll show her--I'll show her what REAL annotation looks like. I wonder if her teacher would give me the same 86% that she received.
by J.D. Salinger
Quick synopsis: A young man named Holden Caulfield gets kicked out of his school and searches for something--anything--that isn't phony or lousy, although almost everything he comes in contact with is just that.
This is the only book on my list that I once began. Many years ago, I went through a phase, a short phase, of wanting to read books like the ones I'm reading now. I started with The Catcher in the Rye. I didn't get very far. I think I stopped somewhere in the beginning, because then, I didn't have much tolerance for books that didn't grab me right away. And, truthfully, my tolerance level may have only gone up just a tad--but if it weren't for the commitment I made to myself, I probably would have closed this book before its end again.
But this is not the place to rant about how unentertained I was. I'm here to speculate why this book, THIS book, has become an American classic.
One of things I've thought about was its connection and relatability to teenagers. So many high schoolers read this book because, I'm sure, they feel the same way as Holden does. They have the same unexplainable angst, the same desires (or lack thereof), the same worry and fear of identity. I believe the ending is what has made it so timeless. If Holden hadn't changed (and some critics do argue that he didn't change and he was still just as "lousy" as he was in the beginning), then this book would have gone no where. But for two-hundred-some-odd pages, we're subjected to this whiney guy who is never in the mood to do anything, gets kicked out of school AGAIN, and seemingly has no direction, no care in his life whatsoever. Yet, as it ends with the beautiful image of him sitting in the pouring rain, watching his kid sister Phoebe, whom he truly adores, I can't help but think that that's what makes this book so great: that it goes beyond the depressive moods and the listlessness of Holden. It becomes something larger than him, which we never really get to experience until the end.
The stylistic choices of Salinger were spot on, and although the tone of the piece began to irritate me, I do feel like this is another reason this book has achieved such status. I'm not too familiar with contemporary American literature, especially literature published when Catcher was published, so I can't say that this style was "inventive" or "unique" (I hope to learn this, though, in my many years of studying literature), but I can say it seems to ring as innovative and ingenious. I can imagine being in the early Fifties and reading this book and seeing the slang and the cursing and the casual and conversational tone and being shocked that "lit-re-ture" would sound like this. And if you want to become a classic, I've learned, you've got to shock people.
I don't really have much more to say about the book.
I do, however, want to give a shout-out to my girl Kati Spayde, whose book I inherited when I bought it at a used-bookstore at Amazon.com. Kati had highlighted about 73% of the book. She even wrote things like, "New character!!" or "Why can't Holden enjoy the small things?" I found myself competing with this Kati Spayde, thinking, I'll show her--I'll show her what REAL annotation looks like. I wonder if her teacher would give me the same 86% that she received.
Monday, May 30, 2011
They're out there
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
by Ken Kesey
Quick synopsis: Chief Bromden narrates the story of the mental institution in which he resides, and how McMurphy, the new-comer, turns everything upside down, resists authority, and refuses to follow the rules.
This book was one of those books that I had to take some time from to really appreciate and understand its implications and meaning. When I finished it, it was like, great, now I am done with this chore. But as I thought more and more about it--and as I talked about it with my husband (who, by the way, has read like 98% of my reading list), I realized I hadn't seen it all at first. But that's how it goes, and that's why discussion is imperative.
First off, I have to go back to point of view: this novel achieved a technique I find very fascinating. It was told in the first person from Chief Bromden (who is assumed by everyone to be deaf and dumb), but it focuses on McMurphy and the other patients more than it does him. One, I say because they are way more interesting than someone who doesn't speak and "can't" hear anything, and two, because we needed to see McMurphy for the charming, whacky, manipulating shrewd man he is. It would not be the same if it were McMurphy's first person. We need Bromden's perspective because he is the one who inhales it all, he is the lens we see everything through.
At first, I was put off by this first person choice, vexed, even, because I knew the complications that would arise with furthering this technique. Any scene that is rendered would NEED Bromden present. And what about thoughts and feelings? He certainly can't interpret those!
But this is where the innovation comes in. Although it is never explicitly clear why Bromden is in the mental institution, it is clear that he suffers from delusions and hallucinations. The fog that is sometimes thick, sometimes thin, sometimes something he gets lost in; the machines in the walls, in the rooms, everywhere--the wires that communicate, the switches that dictate, the machines that control--they all prove Bromden's mental state. It is because of this intuitiveness that I believe he can say the words "Billy felt compelled to speak," and "he knows that there's no better way to aggravate somebody..." I give him permission to interpret others thoughts because he's obviously got somethin' going on up there. And if he can see fog wrapping around him, and he if he can feel the robots in the other room, then why wouldn't he be able to read minds?
Of course, this all goes back to reliability. As a smart reader, I don't take everything he says seriously. His mental state isn't "normal,"--he has delusions, for cryin' out loud! I don't deny that they aren't true--just that maybe the things he tells us are twisted to fit his perceptions. He also uses empirical evidence and details--clues that don't need thoughts or feelings--to coney the meaning of the scene, to give us readers a bone and say, pay attention to these.
Throughout reading it, I felt McMurphy come alive, really jump off the page, and I became envious of the way Kesey characterized him. Everything from his dialogue to the way he hooks his thumbs around his belt loops and rocks back--it was so brilliantly done. I can only aspire to one day write a character as vivid and real as McMurphy.
I personally have an interest in the subject matter of this book. I once took an abnormal psychology class, and all my life I can remember being fascinated by the human mind. I find this text to be monumental for what it means for the mentally ill and for the hospitals that control them. I don't believe the mental institutions are the same now than they were back when this novel was published, but I do believe the culture significance of this book did perhaps start the talk of the mistreatment and the controversies of ESTs and lobotomies. I believe this is part of what has propelled it to classic status.
by Ken Kesey
Quick synopsis: Chief Bromden narrates the story of the mental institution in which he resides, and how McMurphy, the new-comer, turns everything upside down, resists authority, and refuses to follow the rules.
This book was one of those books that I had to take some time from to really appreciate and understand its implications and meaning. When I finished it, it was like, great, now I am done with this chore. But as I thought more and more about it--and as I talked about it with my husband (who, by the way, has read like 98% of my reading list), I realized I hadn't seen it all at first. But that's how it goes, and that's why discussion is imperative.
First off, I have to go back to point of view: this novel achieved a technique I find very fascinating. It was told in the first person from Chief Bromden (who is assumed by everyone to be deaf and dumb), but it focuses on McMurphy and the other patients more than it does him. One, I say because they are way more interesting than someone who doesn't speak and "can't" hear anything, and two, because we needed to see McMurphy for the charming, whacky, manipulating shrewd man he is. It would not be the same if it were McMurphy's first person. We need Bromden's perspective because he is the one who inhales it all, he is the lens we see everything through.
At first, I was put off by this first person choice, vexed, even, because I knew the complications that would arise with furthering this technique. Any scene that is rendered would NEED Bromden present. And what about thoughts and feelings? He certainly can't interpret those!
But this is where the innovation comes in. Although it is never explicitly clear why Bromden is in the mental institution, it is clear that he suffers from delusions and hallucinations. The fog that is sometimes thick, sometimes thin, sometimes something he gets lost in; the machines in the walls, in the rooms, everywhere--the wires that communicate, the switches that dictate, the machines that control--they all prove Bromden's mental state. It is because of this intuitiveness that I believe he can say the words "Billy felt compelled to speak," and "he knows that there's no better way to aggravate somebody..." I give him permission to interpret others thoughts because he's obviously got somethin' going on up there. And if he can see fog wrapping around him, and he if he can feel the robots in the other room, then why wouldn't he be able to read minds?
Of course, this all goes back to reliability. As a smart reader, I don't take everything he says seriously. His mental state isn't "normal,"--he has delusions, for cryin' out loud! I don't deny that they aren't true--just that maybe the things he tells us are twisted to fit his perceptions. He also uses empirical evidence and details--clues that don't need thoughts or feelings--to coney the meaning of the scene, to give us readers a bone and say, pay attention to these.
Throughout reading it, I felt McMurphy come alive, really jump off the page, and I became envious of the way Kesey characterized him. Everything from his dialogue to the way he hooks his thumbs around his belt loops and rocks back--it was so brilliantly done. I can only aspire to one day write a character as vivid and real as McMurphy.
I personally have an interest in the subject matter of this book. I once took an abnormal psychology class, and all my life I can remember being fascinated by the human mind. I find this text to be monumental for what it means for the mentally ill and for the hospitals that control them. I don't believe the mental institutions are the same now than they were back when this novel was published, but I do believe the culture significance of this book did perhaps start the talk of the mistreatment and the controversies of ESTs and lobotomies. I believe this is part of what has propelled it to classic status.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma...
The Grapes of Wrath
by John Steinbeck
Quick synopsis: Due to the economic hardships of the Depression and the environmental terror of the Dust Bowl era, thousands of families were forced off their farms and headed out west to California, looking for jobs. This account follows particularly the Joad family, their particular times and travels.
After reading The Grapes of Wrath, I feel more American.
It's strange to think, feeling more American after reading a book about one of the most trying times in America, a book that is rife with segregation and bigotry, a narrative where being American means the land you own, and the land you own gets taken from you. But I do, because I've never read something more honest. Honest about American life, about the American family, about the American Dream, whatever that may be. And it's not pretty. It doesn't end well. What these people go through, what they are called, how they are treated and what they must do to survive--none of it's pretty.
But it's John Steinbeck, perhaps one of the greatest American writers of all time. So he takes humanity, as ugly and dirty and rundown as it was, and turns it into something beautiful, something marvelous.
Literarily (a word now!), this book succeeds because of its structure and technique. Steinbeck alternates each chapter using the "lyric mode," chapters mostly of exposition, where the main focus is either the land itself, the weather, or a collective "they," a group of people that are not particular nor distinct, but represent the overall condition typical of that time and those people. The action does not progress in these chapters; they are solely to take a respite, see it from up above. It's interesting that, although he makes these lyrical chapters anonymous, it still seems so applicable and personal.
I was most impressed with the use of 3rd person plural because I did something to that effect in one of my writing projects for last semester. I didn't do nearly as good of a job as Steinbeck, but this book proves it can be done (and what always gets me is that, I think doing something like that is so "new"--yet this was published in 1939!).
Another thing that Steinbeck does that I have not yet really attempted is the 3rd person omniscient point of view. He doesn't just limit the POV to one character, and he doesn't tell this story from the first person, but this story seems so personal. At times, I forgot it was from an omniscient, distant, disembodied narrator, how intimate it sounded. Of course, because this is Steinbeck, he has complete control over the scenes, so much so that it never felt heavy or weighed down by the many thoughts and feelings we are privy to; I never once was confused about who was thinking or doing what.
I questioned throughout reading this book why Steinbeck chose to do it in 3rd person omniscient, especially with the amount of characters that are on stage. It occurred to me that, had he written it limited to one person or from the first person account, so much would be missed; the bigger picture of the novel would be something completely left out due to the boundaries and restrictions of other POVs. Throughout the book, I felt Tom was the main character, but there are parts where he's not even physically present--how would those scenes be rendered if the POV was limited just to him?
Then the question remains: who is the protagonist in this book? Noah and Connie can be counted out. My sympathies lie most with Tom and with Ma (Ma being so feisty and fierce and crazy and loving and tender and strong, I love it). So does that make her the protagonist? Could the protagonist be the Joad family, as one entity? What about the 'Oakies,' collectively, all the thousands in the same boat as the Joads? Again: does it really matter?
I love this book for many reasons. One, I am fascinated by Route 66, and it is mine and my husband's dream to one day travel it from Chicago to Los Angeles. The chapters about Route 66 specifically made me giddy and excited for our future endeavor (and reading the very phrase "the Mother Road" in its original context was quite special, too). I also love the characterization of the many characters that come into play, how distinct they are just by what they say. And perhaps most of all, I love the honest humanity, the people and the life they lived, the tribute this book pays to the real families who made the trek westward, whose stories were probably never told.
I have more to say, but I don't even think I could conceptualize it all right now. I am glad I read it and finished it--throughout reading it, I was constantly reminded that I was in the presence of a masterpiece, and that alone made me want to keep reading.
John Steinbeck, this won't be the last book of yours I read.
by John Steinbeck
Quick synopsis: Due to the economic hardships of the Depression and the environmental terror of the Dust Bowl era, thousands of families were forced off their farms and headed out west to California, looking for jobs. This account follows particularly the Joad family, their particular times and travels.
After reading The Grapes of Wrath, I feel more American.
It's strange to think, feeling more American after reading a book about one of the most trying times in America, a book that is rife with segregation and bigotry, a narrative where being American means the land you own, and the land you own gets taken from you. But I do, because I've never read something more honest. Honest about American life, about the American family, about the American Dream, whatever that may be. And it's not pretty. It doesn't end well. What these people go through, what they are called, how they are treated and what they must do to survive--none of it's pretty.
But it's John Steinbeck, perhaps one of the greatest American writers of all time. So he takes humanity, as ugly and dirty and rundown as it was, and turns it into something beautiful, something marvelous.
Literarily (a word now!), this book succeeds because of its structure and technique. Steinbeck alternates each chapter using the "lyric mode," chapters mostly of exposition, where the main focus is either the land itself, the weather, or a collective "they," a group of people that are not particular nor distinct, but represent the overall condition typical of that time and those people. The action does not progress in these chapters; they are solely to take a respite, see it from up above. It's interesting that, although he makes these lyrical chapters anonymous, it still seems so applicable and personal.
I was most impressed with the use of 3rd person plural because I did something to that effect in one of my writing projects for last semester. I didn't do nearly as good of a job as Steinbeck, but this book proves it can be done (and what always gets me is that, I think doing something like that is so "new"--yet this was published in 1939!).
Another thing that Steinbeck does that I have not yet really attempted is the 3rd person omniscient point of view. He doesn't just limit the POV to one character, and he doesn't tell this story from the first person, but this story seems so personal. At times, I forgot it was from an omniscient, distant, disembodied narrator, how intimate it sounded. Of course, because this is Steinbeck, he has complete control over the scenes, so much so that it never felt heavy or weighed down by the many thoughts and feelings we are privy to; I never once was confused about who was thinking or doing what.
I questioned throughout reading this book why Steinbeck chose to do it in 3rd person omniscient, especially with the amount of characters that are on stage. It occurred to me that, had he written it limited to one person or from the first person account, so much would be missed; the bigger picture of the novel would be something completely left out due to the boundaries and restrictions of other POVs. Throughout the book, I felt Tom was the main character, but there are parts where he's not even physically present--how would those scenes be rendered if the POV was limited just to him?
Then the question remains: who is the protagonist in this book? Noah and Connie can be counted out. My sympathies lie most with Tom and with Ma (Ma being so feisty and fierce and crazy and loving and tender and strong, I love it). So does that make her the protagonist? Could the protagonist be the Joad family, as one entity? What about the 'Oakies,' collectively, all the thousands in the same boat as the Joads? Again: does it really matter?
I love this book for many reasons. One, I am fascinated by Route 66, and it is mine and my husband's dream to one day travel it from Chicago to Los Angeles. The chapters about Route 66 specifically made me giddy and excited for our future endeavor (and reading the very phrase "the Mother Road" in its original context was quite special, too). I also love the characterization of the many characters that come into play, how distinct they are just by what they say. And perhaps most of all, I love the honest humanity, the people and the life they lived, the tribute this book pays to the real families who made the trek westward, whose stories were probably never told.
I have more to say, but I don't even think I could conceptualize it all right now. I am glad I read it and finished it--throughout reading it, I was constantly reminded that I was in the presence of a masterpiece, and that alone made me want to keep reading.
John Steinbeck, this won't be the last book of yours I read.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins
I chose Lolita as my first book of this project for a reason: it was the one I perhaps resisted the most, it was the one I knew least about, and it was the one that, in a sense, I was scared to conquer. Would it make me feel uncomfortable? Would I have to stop reading it because of its "pornographic" nature? Would I even be able to look at it from an artist's point of view? But I was excited to start this project, and I knew the first book I read had to be something challenging, had to be something that was just as arresting as it was monumental. After finishing it, I am glad I saved it for first, because it was exactly what I needed.
For those who haven't read it, I should set you up with some context: our narrator, Humbert Humbert, goes to live with a widow and her only daughter in Ramsdale, a small New England town, where he falls in love (lust?) with the young girl, Lolita (a "nymphet"). He marries the widow in order to be near Lolita, and continues to be obsessed with her throughout her girl-childhood.
To reiterate, this is not a book-club for one; this is not a forum where I cast judgements on the book and say whether I liked it or not. This is where I study it, this is where I see what the author was up to, this is where I answer my question of why it's become the status it has become.
First things first: the style of this book is ingenious. Not only does it have a fictional foreword (much like Lauren Slater's Lying, which certainly must have been inspired by this), but it becomes this metaphysical novel, a "memoir," as it is so often referred throughout the book, even though it is labeled as "fiction/literature." I found myself falling in love with that style, and Nabokov did it successfully because he took it further than the manuscript's end--he penned a foreword by a fictional character, even dating it, totally setting up the reader.
Humbert also makes mention of making things up, which, in a weird way, is proving his reliability by admitting his unreliability. When he says that he was so handsome that every single woman his age would flock to him, marvel and drool over him, should I believe it when, in the same voice, he says that he's making up something somebody says? And, most importantly--does it really matter if he's telling the truth or not? In this case, I don't think it really matters.
Oftentimes I found myself completely mystified by Humbert Humbert. I was aware early on how incredibly unreliable he was, yet I could not doubt his feelings, his thought processes, his never-ending obsessions. He knew he was grotesque, often referring to himself as a monster, and I knew he was grotesque. I knew that what he was doing to and with Lolita was morally wrong, and he knew it, to some extent, but--and this is where this book succeeds so fantastically--I at times felt compassion for such a lewd man. Now that, my friends, is an artist at work.
Another thing that compelled me about this book was the language, the sentence-level beauty that makes all writers tingle in jealously because we did not think of it first. Here are a few of my favorite, for simply talking about them will not do them justice: "...like pain in a fatal disease that comes back as the drug and hope wear off, there it was again behind us, that glossy red beast." "We had been everywhere. We had really seen nothing. And I catch myself thinking today that our long journey had only defiled with a sinuous trail of slime the lovely, trustful, dreamy, enormous country that by then, in retrospect, was no more to us than a collection of dog-eared maps, ruined tour books, old tires, and her sobs in the night--every night, every night--the moment I feigned sleep." "The Park was as black as the sins it concealed."
This book is a classic not only because of the subject matter it tackled (and no, it is not pornographic in any way, I'd argue--people who have said that just didn't read it) at a time when this subject was completely taboo for publishers, but because of its innovative style and voice, because of the very fact that Nabokov was playing with us this whole time, being constantly one step ahead of the reader. I don't understand every aspect of this book--there are some parts where I'm confused and would like some explanation, and some parts where I admittedly skimmed--but I do know that this book has gone places other books have not, and it has allowed its successors to go there as well. People haven't forgotten this book 56 years later because it uses its masterful prose style to transcend generations, leaving each reader with something, something that they've connected with, no matter what age or era they read it.
For those who haven't read it, I should set you up with some context: our narrator, Humbert Humbert, goes to live with a widow and her only daughter in Ramsdale, a small New England town, where he falls in love (lust?) with the young girl, Lolita (a "nymphet"). He marries the widow in order to be near Lolita, and continues to be obsessed with her throughout her girl-childhood.
To reiterate, this is not a book-club for one; this is not a forum where I cast judgements on the book and say whether I liked it or not. This is where I study it, this is where I see what the author was up to, this is where I answer my question of why it's become the status it has become.
First things first: the style of this book is ingenious. Not only does it have a fictional foreword (much like Lauren Slater's Lying, which certainly must have been inspired by this), but it becomes this metaphysical novel, a "memoir," as it is so often referred throughout the book, even though it is labeled as "fiction/literature." I found myself falling in love with that style, and Nabokov did it successfully because he took it further than the manuscript's end--he penned a foreword by a fictional character, even dating it, totally setting up the reader.
Humbert also makes mention of making things up, which, in a weird way, is proving his reliability by admitting his unreliability. When he says that he was so handsome that every single woman his age would flock to him, marvel and drool over him, should I believe it when, in the same voice, he says that he's making up something somebody says? And, most importantly--does it really matter if he's telling the truth or not? In this case, I don't think it really matters.
Oftentimes I found myself completely mystified by Humbert Humbert. I was aware early on how incredibly unreliable he was, yet I could not doubt his feelings, his thought processes, his never-ending obsessions. He knew he was grotesque, often referring to himself as a monster, and I knew he was grotesque. I knew that what he was doing to and with Lolita was morally wrong, and he knew it, to some extent, but--and this is where this book succeeds so fantastically--I at times felt compassion for such a lewd man. Now that, my friends, is an artist at work.
Another thing that compelled me about this book was the language, the sentence-level beauty that makes all writers tingle in jealously because we did not think of it first. Here are a few of my favorite, for simply talking about them will not do them justice: "...like pain in a fatal disease that comes back as the drug and hope wear off, there it was again behind us, that glossy red beast." "We had been everywhere. We had really seen nothing. And I catch myself thinking today that our long journey had only defiled with a sinuous trail of slime the lovely, trustful, dreamy, enormous country that by then, in retrospect, was no more to us than a collection of dog-eared maps, ruined tour books, old tires, and her sobs in the night--every night, every night--the moment I feigned sleep." "The Park was as black as the sins it concealed."
This book is a classic not only because of the subject matter it tackled (and no, it is not pornographic in any way, I'd argue--people who have said that just didn't read it) at a time when this subject was completely taboo for publishers, but because of its innovative style and voice, because of the very fact that Nabokov was playing with us this whole time, being constantly one step ahead of the reader. I don't understand every aspect of this book--there are some parts where I'm confused and would like some explanation, and some parts where I admittedly skimmed--but I do know that this book has gone places other books have not, and it has allowed its successors to go there as well. People haven't forgotten this book 56 years later because it uses its masterful prose style to transcend generations, leaving each reader with something, something that they've connected with, no matter what age or era they read it.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Foreword
One of my professors, Gregory Martin, once said that speculation is the engine of all art. And although he was speaking of the craft of art, specifically the memoir, I apply this to my endeavor this summer: speculating the literary art that is considered timeless. My hope is to read fifteen "classics" in fifteen weeks, continuing this same rigorous reading schedule that I've kept up for the last sixteen weeks of the Spring semester. My hope for this blog is to write down my responses to these works, respond to these works in a way that is meaningful and insightful, and preserve my analyzations so that these works will forever stick with me. It would be all in vain if I did not put forth the extra effort to put my thoughts and feelings into words, if all I did was close the book and simply move on to the next. I know many of my readers may not be studying literature or writing, so I hope they read this if only for the act of reading something that is different from what they usually read--which is exactly what I'll be doing.
Actually, if anyone knows me well enough, they will know that I've long since rejected many of these books on my list. I've always thought, how dare someone call something a classic--what about all the other phenomenal books out there that are not labeled so superlatively? In fact, probably my resisting this whole time had less to do with standing up for the underdogs and more to do with the fact that I simply did not want to read what everybody else was reading. Luckily, I've been surrounded by many great writers and students, many incredible creative writing professors who I will be forever indebted to, who have shown me that I can learn a great deal from my literary fathers and mothers, and as a writer myself, that's exactly where I should go. And even though I may not "like" something after I read it, which I expect full well to happen, I will at least know that I came to this innovation* with a mind open and willing to learn and that there is something, something, I'm sure, that I can steal from it.
Wish me luck. I just got The Grapes of Wrath, and it's nearly 500 pages long. I don't normally "do" long books, so this will be a real challenge!
*Another Gregory Martin quote. I predict most of what I say in these blog entries to come straight from him, because he is the one who has helped me develop such and eye and an ear for responding to innovations that both vex and bedazzle me.
Actually, if anyone knows me well enough, they will know that I've long since rejected many of these books on my list. I've always thought, how dare someone call something a classic--what about all the other phenomenal books out there that are not labeled so superlatively? In fact, probably my resisting this whole time had less to do with standing up for the underdogs and more to do with the fact that I simply did not want to read what everybody else was reading. Luckily, I've been surrounded by many great writers and students, many incredible creative writing professors who I will be forever indebted to, who have shown me that I can learn a great deal from my literary fathers and mothers, and as a writer myself, that's exactly where I should go. And even though I may not "like" something after I read it, which I expect full well to happen, I will at least know that I came to this innovation* with a mind open and willing to learn and that there is something, something, I'm sure, that I can steal from it.
Wish me luck. I just got The Grapes of Wrath, and it's nearly 500 pages long. I don't normally "do" long books, so this will be a real challenge!
*Another Gregory Martin quote. I predict most of what I say in these blog entries to come straight from him, because he is the one who has helped me develop such and eye and an ear for responding to innovations that both vex and bedazzle me.
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