I should confess up front that I have never read The Berlin Stories, nor have I even seen Cabaret. Blasphemer! The ultimate bad gay!
...but I do like I should confess up front that I have never read The Berlin Stories, nor have I even seen Cabaret. Blasphemer! The ultimate bad gay!
...but I do like Isherwood? Or at any rate I loved A Single Man (novel & film!). I was a bit baffled to see so many reviews here note that reading about the writing of The Berlin Stories was tedious, because I actually found Isherwood's reflective, sometimes nostalgic relationship to his own earlier writing endlessly fascinating, particularly in the sense of his comments about self-censoring and the ways in which he felt his sight about the situations he was narrating appears so limited in hindsight. More interesting was Isherwood's hazy delineation between the writing-I and "Christopher," as he frequently referred to his past self/selves. Recently I read Edmund White's "City Boy," where he has no interest in a kind of metatextual consideration of identity--memoir writing should be founded on fact and authenticity to White's mind; on the other hand, Isherwood/"I"/"Christopher" seems almost to eroticize his relationship with his past, and clearly believes that there can't be an objective relationship between the self and the world that the self experiences, because we are not transparent to ourselves, and our understanding of our social being necessitates far too many subjective filters. Despite White's protestations, I found Isherwood's notion of memoir writing far more truthful and nuanced.
All that said, the memoir is also incredibly fun to read. It covers his major Berlin years--basically, from when he went there at the end of the 20s until he decided to sail for America at the end of the 30s. We see his love affairs, his novel-writing, his "slumming," his experience with the Hirschfield Institute. There's a great deal of his passionate friendship with Auden, and Stephen Spender and the Woolfs and Thomas Mann and his daughter all wriggle in and out of the narrative here. Obvs the rise of European fascism (well, mainly Hitler) casts a broad shadow over Isherwood's time in Germany. There's a terror to this tale that recalls V Woolf's journals and letters--also, Between the Acts, her final novel and the one most anxious about the oncoming War. Isherwood is a quite exciting prose writer, too: even in mundane sections, nothing seems to drag, as he's constantly tossing a witticism or a strange anecdote or a viciously honest comment on himself in. This was my first of a journey into the "gay memoir" (well, gay male memoir--for whatever reason, I have, like, a pretty solid history with lesbian fiction, but almost none with the tradition of My People??), and I couldn't be more glad to have it as the initial touchstone, though I imagine using it as my yardstick may be a bit overreaching. We shall see......more
A short, sorrowful read. You know the story by now, whether from innumerable other GR reviews or from the Tom Ford adaptation: British academic loses A short, sorrowful read. You know the story by now, whether from innumerable other GR reviews or from the Tom Ford adaptation: British academic loses his long-time lover; is lonely; has a fiesty drunk friend; crushes on one of his students; &co&co. Like Ulysses or Mrs. Dalloway, the narrative occurs over the span of a day, but unlike those novels, this is a much more straightforward sort of text, and one more invested (I think) in a kind of sentimentalism related to the experience of the mundane. That is, it seems that this uses the life-in-a-day technique to mourn the brevity of life, rather than to elevate the everyday to some sort of grandiose plane. (And don't let me ramble on how Woolf does it differently-and I think better-to Joyce.)
Point being. Isherwood's a beautiful prose stylist, though the of-its-time dialogue at times sounds silly to the modern ear: American slang filtered through a British narrator, rather than that same slang as perceived by someone inexperienced with it. Then again, there are turns of phrase so heartbreaking that I had to pause for a moment before moving on, particularly near the end of the novel. Admittedly, my vulnerable emotional state probably wasn't helped by the fact that I was stranded at a train station and exhausted after a bittersweet weekend reunion with old friends as I finished this novel, but...
Quite a bit different from the film, I think, perhaps because George's sadness isn't much tamed by the sophisticated visual appeal of Ford's aesthetic and Colin Firth's still-way-hot-self. The novel can be a bit pathetic, where the film refuses to move beyond the melancholic - but each of those things has its benefits. The film's emphasis on the visual is quite a bit different, I think, to the novel's, though there are moments where they seem very much in sync on that front (particularly when George cruises the tennis players and when he and Kenny go to the beach). The novel hurts a bit more, but is well worth the read. Looking forward, now, to more Isherwood!
ETA (2013 read): Decided quite randomly to teach this in my Queer Fictions class this term, and, though my students didn't seem much to like it, adored it on this re-read! Before I enjoyed it; now I see it as an astounding achievement, and my favorite Isherwood thus far. It also feels more expansive to me now than it did previously, when I imagined it largely as a kind of inward-looking exploration of the aging and melancholic identity. How had I missed the references to Cuba? The interest in a repudiation of "democracy"? The disparagement of 50s & 60s suburbia (which, in point of fact, George sees as more mechanistic and assimilationist than the WWII era in American culture - the true bohemia)? & yet of course it's also that exploration of the self - one which seems both compartmentalized & working desperately to shore up against the onslaught of modernity's "rubble," as George sees it.
But yet, stunning. Much more so on re-reading....more
This one's been sitting on my shelf for a couple of months now (which means it's one of the lucky ones-so many books have been sitting on my various bThis one's been sitting on my shelf for a couple of months now (which means it's one of the lucky ones-so many books have been sitting on my various bookshelves for years), and I randomly grabbed it for a long train ride over the weekend because it was slim and I'd heard it was funny. It was, for one thing, easily completed on the train with time to spare, and it was about the most plainly enjoyable thing I've read in some time. Brisk, bright prose with a large dose of hilarity and sinisterly tender moments (the comment about Mary's fate in the first several pages was somehow amusingly fitting at the same time as it was horribly tragic, for instance). Miss Brodie handpicks young girls from her class to become the 'creme de la creme,' and one of the most wonderful things about the novel is how deeply you're drawn in by Miss B even as you're completely repulsed--much as the Brodie set is. Her dabble with fascism is of course a fabulous parallel for Miss Brodie's relationships with the girls; though they're intended to become the very best, the price they would have to pay is by becoming clones of Miss Brodie. As avant-garde as she strikes us on first glance, Miss Brodie is in fact a profoundly conservative figure, as she wishes only to replicate what she already knows or has experienced upon others without thought to how they may think or feel about it.
Nonetheless, you so want to love Miss Brodie that frequently you just do. The girls, in fact, are the vaguely horrible figures of the novel, though of course they're rightfully the heroines. A fascinating way of creating what is largely a character study here. In any case, I feel that I'm only going to spoil things if I go on, so all I can say at this point is that the book is short, sweet, and should be enjoyed by all--in that way, perhaps I'd impose it like Miss Brodie might. A real pleasure, while still managing to be provocative--often without your noticing it. Highly recommended, in short....more
Robinson's prose is just...astonishing. I savored every page of this book, and found myself often unable to put the book down; it came with me on the Robinson's prose is just...astonishing. I savored every page of this book, and found myself often unable to put the book down; it came with me on the subway; it came to drinks-with-friends; even to a concert last night, after which I voraciously finished the novel in bed post-concert, bleary-eyed and muscle-ache-y. I haven't been so 'into' a book in maybe six months, being a burned-out English graduate student that always craves reading, but doesn't always have the attention span of late.
This is the tale of two sisters, Ruthie (the narrator) and Lucille, passed from family member to family member in an incredibly tiny town called Fingerbone. There's just something about stories set in secluded communities and driven, seemingly by accident, entirely by female characters that gets me (see also Morrison's Sula). The back cover of the book calls this a tale of "transience," which I found quite apt (something I rarely believe about dust jacket synopses); though the act of being a transient is a somewhat fringe-plotline, the shadows of impermanence, mobility, and a kind of disaggregation of traditional life stories lurk around each tight-knit phrase of this beautiful novel. (Sylvie's knack for telling the bizarre stories of strangers becomes a kind of condensation of this theme.)
Unsure why I put reading this one off for so long - highly highly recommended to, well, everyone. Sadly, I've heard Robinson's other novels hardly live up to this one, but at least I can add one more to the favorites pile....more
So confession. I "read" this behemoth in 10th grade, because my English teacher thought my precociousness likOh, jeez, I never freaking reviewed this?
So confession. I "read" this behemoth in 10th grade, because my English teacher thought my precociousness likewise equipped me to not only understand but enjoy Henry James, neither of which was, in fact, the case. Hell, reading "What Maisie Knew" at 21, I still just couldn't deal. Where most people I knew liked to disparage Wharton as the lesser James, I thought-having "read" three of his novels-believed him to be the unfunny, overrated, bloated Wharton.
An unexpected return to "Portrait of a Lady" v fortunately proved that my continued precociousness also disables me at times from respecting a thing for what it is, rather than what I thought I thought about what it was, is, or could be in some weird mind chronology of my own invention. This book remains the most astonishing thing I've read in maybe the past three years, and that includes other life-changers, like "Swann's Way" and "Almanac of the Dead" (not to mention the best re-read ever, of "The Golden Notebook").
Isabel Archer is the most perfect, crystalline example of being trapped between having the means to do what one wants, and having the experience and knowledge to use those means as best as one can--and the consequences, thereafter. This is no novel thing for me to say. It simply bears repeating, as I couldn't have possible recognized this when I was 16 & had no means & no knowledge--still little means, but more experience--and a lot of intellectual arrogance that, thankfully or not, the past couple of years have stripped me of. I couldn't see how perfectly James had captured such a simple conflict, reframed it, awarded it to an incredibly complicated character, and given the whole thing the greatest element of tragedy without elevating the narrative beyond familiarity.
I've rarely felt more close to a fictional character. Again, Anna Wulf comes to mind, Esther Greenwood (oh, my choices do not speak to my stability), and perhaps some in Lorrie Moore's work, or Alice Munro's. Not that this matters, because who gives a rat's ass whether Isabel rings a chord with me? The important thing is that I've rarely encountered a character who operates on so many different registers of feeling and thought that it seemed like she could truly be a real human that I knew, in whatever limited sense of "knowing" someone that we are capable of.
Read it in the summer--the Italian vistas feel textured then; I read 90% of the novel lying on my slanted, kind of dangerous apt roof with cigs and vodka tonics. Be sure, specifically, not to read the famous chapter--where Isabel contemplates her decisions and her life and her limitations, sitting silently in front of a fireplace--in a place where people can see you. You will cry. And not because it's "sad" but because it's emotionally vibrant and full of wisdom and beauty, and yes, a great deal of melancholy. It's one of the single best chapters of fiction I've ever encountered--perhaps the best. I don't want to make these outlandish sorts of statements again with this novel, though, and regret them later....more
A childhood favorite that I decided to re-read recently (after impulse buying the whole series on ebay!), and it wasn't the sort of experience where yA childhood favorite that I decided to re-read recently (after impulse buying the whole series on ebay!), and it wasn't the sort of experience where you return to your childhood idealisms and find them sadly deflated. Anne Shirley and company were all as vibrant and life-affirming as I remember. There's something that sets this series apart in my memory that's somehow indescribable now; perhaps it's the sort of thing you *do* lose the ability to articulate once you've had to face adult issues and responsibilities, but Montgomery manages to capture that magic beautifully with Anne and the Avonlea folk. Even though the characters aren't fleshed out in the way an adult novel might draw them, and the conflicts seem almost trivial to me now, after having read the 'great' novels dealing with 'big person' trials like adultery, death, suicide, rape, & co., somehow I was just as emotionally invested with everything as I was upon first reading--and now with the added benefit of appreciating the more adult facets running through the novel. Indeed, this seems exactly the sort of series that warrants readings from both sides of the lifetime spectrum--through the eyes of innocence and age--because each reading has its own reward. The novel proved a welcome escape many times over the past week or so that I've been casually enjoying it, whether as a quick respite from the drudgery of waiting tables, or as a 'just one more chapter' sort of enjoyment before bed. I don't maintain the naivete required to believe that there's some magical Avonlea out there where everyone is good at heart, and hard work will inevitably generate success and happiness, but it's nice to put a little faith into Montgomery's world as a relief from our own. I'm looking forward to going back to the rest of the series this summer and fall--I'm hoping to be through all of them again by Christmas. If you've missed out on the series this long, go out and pick it up--even a bitchy Grinch like me couldn't help but find my heart growing a few sizes larger....more
It took me quite a long time to read this book, and now it's been quite some time since I finished it, so I feel almost hesitant to review it. I noticIt took me quite a long time to read this book, and now it's been quite some time since I finished it, so I feel almost hesitant to review it. I noticed many reviewers complaining about the 'history-heavy' quality of the book, as well as about the 'flat' characters, but I have to say that I disagree with these comments. The historical Neo-Victorian epic quality of the novel is inescapable, but for me, that was to the book's benefit--then, I love feeling like I'm learning as I read. It may not be to your taste in that sense, admittedly, but I loved feeling as if I were actually immersed in a particular literary period and milieu--J.M. Barrie cameos, for example, as did a number of other artist figures, which I thought was really well-done rather than kitschy. As for 'flat' characters, I didn't find this to be the case at all--there are innumerable characters, and they're certainly difficult to keep track of for a while (I actually made a little family tree chart), but I found myself deeply invested in them. I won't spoil with a name (as happened to me while I was reading), but one of the character's deaths came as a huge shock to me, and I ended up spending a little time away from the novel to recover. Maybe I'm just a freak, but I thought the characters were spectacularly done in a very specifically Victorian style; they represent things, but they are also uniquely themselves, which seems almost a Trollopian approach to examining people.
Of course Byatt's writing is stunning--she never ceases to amaze me with her prose, and that was a true joy to see in action again here. Actually, I think in terms of style, this may have been my favorite Byatt yet. The fairytale inserts were seamless and were some of my favorite portions of the book (much in the way the tales of Possession really struck my fancy). You get a wonderful sense of historical transition, which is handily divided by the portions of the book (Gold, Silver, Lead, if I recall correctly), and the foreboding presence of the war hits quite hard. I love novels that incorporate the war, but also enmesh themselves in the prior history--it feels, then, as though the war (which of course I couldn't have experienced) happens not to cardboard soldiers, but to families and fully-fleshed out human beings. I thought Byatt did that particularly well.
All in all, I thought this was a tremendous novel in almost every way--I really didn't want it to end, which may have been why I took so long savoring it. Byatt's novels simply aren't for everyone--many of my friends have been able to enjoy her short fiction but can't stand the long works. This makes sense to me, but if you do want to tackle her novels, or already like them, this is a great work to pick up. ...more
A very quick read for my Lesbian Lit course this semester, and one of the very best things I had the opportunity to study this spring. Bechdel managesA very quick read for my Lesbian Lit course this semester, and one of the very best things I had the opportunity to study this spring. Bechdel manages to capture the almost overwhelming complexities of the parent/child dynamic when queerness enters the equation--and here, doubly so, as she recounts her discovery that her father was also gay. Her descriptions of the very antiquarian house and family from which she sprung may not ring particularly intimate for many of us, but the ways in which she illustrates her understanding of this 'strangeness' as her own personal 'normalcy' extends the experience outwards, to basically anyone who has lived in some kind of family setting. The "Fun Home" of the title is in fact a funeral home, which manages to capture, much as Six Feet Under did, the atmosphere of family life that leaves the narrator often paralyzed, awkward, and with a wealth of rich experience at hand.
The illustrations are not ornate, though detailed, and not glamorous or showy, even though there's so much to look for in each frame. There's something almost indescribable about the ways in which the images of this graphic novel complement the content; somehow, she manages to create layers upon layers upon layers of meaning with seemingly very little at hand. But, for instance, in a lovemaking scene, when the image is the sex, and the caption is-not dialogue-but narration of another piece of literature, we've got to draw from our understanding of Bechdel's text, of the text that's being described, of our own sexual experiences, and pull everything together to understand the very simple image that's being presented. It makes these sorts of moments incredibly memorable, poignant particularly for those of us who have experience, not necessarily gayness or lesbian existence, but perhaps simply hardships in discovering our identities, or even just had awkward comprehensions of our sexual beingness, and our parents' influence on that.
I could gush on and on, but I suppose I should say just simply--everyone should read this. It's quick, it's fun, and it manages to capture the search for identity and home that *everyone* has to undergo, even if they aren't lesbians, or their dads aren't gay, or they weren't raised in a funeral home. It's wonderful....more
I was hesitant to give this one 5-stars because there were a number of times where I found myself so furious with Nick Guest, the tryingly snobbish aeI was hesitant to give this one 5-stars because there were a number of times where I found myself so furious with Nick Guest, the tryingly snobbish aesthete of the novel, that I needed to take a step back from the book and recognize that I don't *have* to be as awfully distanced from people as he is, simply because I'm more or less an American analog to him. I had to remind myself that having trouble identifying with the protagonist does not a bad book make, and of course, this is actually a quite astoundingly-written, immaculately imagined novel of the implosions of the gay 80s in Thatcherite England.
Haunted by the specters of HIV/AIDS, the political shifts of the period, the sometimes overwhelming perspectival scent of Henry James, and indeed, Thatcher herself, the novel reads often as an elegy--a nostalgic yearning for a kind of innocent past that seems, to my mind, more a castle in the sky for Nick than an actuality suggested by Hollinghurst. But that sense of looking back--particularly to the kind of literary ancestors that resonate with this novel (James, of course, but I certainly hear profound echoes from Forster's Maurice and Waugh's Brideshead)--still spawns an intensely sad desire for a time before the great griefs that eventually subsume the narrative here.
It's not a perfect novel, but damn, it sure is a helluva story with a great writer at the helm. Highly recommended. ...more
I don't even know where to begin with this, so I'll likely keep it brief. Basically all I can say is that Jeanette Winterson is officially my next obsI don't even know where to begin with this, so I'll likely keep it brief. Basically all I can say is that Jeanette Winterson is officially my next obsession, that I'm absolutely thrilled that my adviser recommended her to me, and that this is one of the most invigorating novels I've read in a long time. Winterson reminds me a bit of Angela Carter here-not that they write in the same way, but in that they use magic and intertextuality in similar ways, and that each have a very blunt aesthetic that hits the reader's gut with a great deal of force.
I had to restrain myself and make sure I wasn't highlighting every last word-for they're all powerful, and I often found myself reading passages aloud to anyone close enough to listen. Henri and Villanelle are close enough to touch, the language is startling, the inquiries are brilliant, and the landscapes grab hold of you and don't let go. I'm not coherent writing of this, so the best I can say is that EVERYONE should read this. It's in-fucking-credible....more
I've read this book now upwards of a half a dozen times. What could I possibly say that hasn't been said, or express my absolute adoration of Bronte'sI've read this book now upwards of a half a dozen times. What could I possibly say that hasn't been said, or express my absolute adoration of Bronte's vision in "Wuthering Heights" without sounding like a blubbering idiot? ...more
I finished this one months ago and have put off reviewing it simply by virtue of my astonishment with it. Oddly enough, the first hundred pages were tI finished this one months ago and have put off reviewing it simply by virtue of my astonishment with it. Oddly enough, the first hundred pages were torture; I was about to give it up, but happened to be trapped on a 6-hour busride and had only this novel and a volume of a poet's letters with me at the time. Needless to say, the letters kept me amused for an hour or so, but I ended up pushing through my frustration with the novel, and from that afternoon on, could not put it down. I stayed up late; I got up early; I read it on the subway, on the commuter rail; in any sort of waiting area; I would be irritated with friends for interrupting my submersion in The Golden Notebook, and came out feeling more or less like Anna Wulf by the end--isolated, a bit uneasy & nerve-wrecked, jittery, perhaps obsessed with pasting the pages of the novel all over my bedroom walls.
By now the details are failing me--what color was the notebook of newspaper clippings? And I know the red one was her Communist journal, but I can't even recall the other colors at all now. What was the crazed American boyfriend's name? And her daughter? Does any of this even matter? Lessing's is a brilliant experiment; it may be one of the only truly fantastic psychoanalytic explorations of a character's mind that I've read. Certainly Lessing seems immersed in 60s/70s psychoanalysis, & I'm not even certain that she's resistant to it, particularly in the way Anna seems to believe a good orgasm might 'fix' some of her central issues. The notebooks so vividly perform the fracturing of her experience and her psyche; some are more compelling than others (I was very pulled in by the African diaries and the Commie ones, others, less so), but all are necessary.
Lessing's prose can be off-putting. It's often monotone, and frequently far too invested in minutiae (which is why I was so uninterested in the first hundred pages--the mini-events that precede the notebooks in each section of the novel make for awful page-turners, though even they make sense, I think, once you're through the first hurdle), but it's worth the effort. It really really, truly is; I wish I hadn't waited so long to write this review, because I feel I'm giving the novel short-shrift in hindsight, but it may have been the best novel I read this year. I'll probably pick it up again during my next break, and will re-review at that point with a defter hand.
2012 Update Two years later, I've re-read this one at nearly the same season as before, in the inescapable nightsweats of late July and August in Boston's air-conditioning-less heat bubble. I think this must be the only proper time of year to read The Golden Notebook, even though in point of fact, the novel doesn't pay much mind to heat in the present events of its narrative. But I always associate the novel with the scene of young Anna and her compatriots at the Mashopi shooting pigeons and encountering millions of insects fucking. The collision of the animal grotesqueries with the awful cruelty of the characters with the waves of dry heat glimmering in their South African vacation-idyll - this is how I recall the novel, despite the fact that these notebooks take up not a great deal of the massive 700 pages.
The novel has both times taken me a great deal longer to work through than expected, I think in large part because of the absolute wretchedness of the Saul affair in the final 100 pages. Not because it's a bad read, but because Lessing's vision of the relationship is so horrific and abusive and seemingly inevitable or inescapable that it can only be taken in short gasps. So I sped through the first 500 or 600 pages in a few days and then spent nearly two weeks on the last 100.
I am still uncertain how to locate Lessing's understanding of personhood, as she seems to reject both the postmodern dismantling of ontology and the ideological trifles of the mid-century period that are invested in solidifying the subject through one manner (psychanalysis and its privileging of a kind of core ego that emerges in childhood and then bashes up against the dangerous world) or another (the communist understanding of the proletarian cog in the machine, who must retain a level of political and intellectual stasis or standardization in order to "be" what it truly is or should be). It's actually in the Saul affair that Anna and Saul each seem to be more in line with a sort of Joycean postmodernism ("I, I, I, I" rather than "I. I. I.") than with Anna's earlier mockery of such an idea. That's a tangent though, since I'd re-read the novel for my upcoming Lit Field Exams.
At any rate, I just want to spend years with this book. I'm sad it took two years for me to return to it, because it's not only an incredibly complicated and detailed portrait of a broken figure at the center of the 20th century's central conflicts but an absolute delight to read. Having read a few other Lessing novels, I've come to develop a very ardent appreciation for her prose style (which I'd said in my first review was "monotone" or at some level tedious), and this go-round savored every page. I was chilled by innumerable moments and very often moved to tears by Anna's sense of anxiety and desperation - but more importantly, her refusal to let these things irrevocably destroy her.
Required, not recommended, reading. It's tough, but it's well worth the effort. And as I've told friends, if you can get through the first 100 pages, which feel a bit like a chore on the first read, you'll be swept away by all the wonderful rest....more
Happened to accidentally re-read this one, having been stuck at a coffeeshop for a few hours with a friend who only had this book Update, 2011 reading
Happened to accidentally re-read this one, having been stuck at a coffeeshop for a few hours with a friend who only had this book to spare me. Consumed it incredibly swiftly, much like I had upon my first reading, and remembered why I found this collection of tales (six total) so intriguing, shimmering, and powerful. Each story is organized loosely around extremes of heat and cold; in some cases this is an atmospheric or environmental theme ("Lamia" and "Crocodile Tears"), in others it's temperamental or visual ("Baglady," "Christ in the House" and "Jael"), and in one, it's a fairytale or fable-esque literalization ("Cold").
Every story wields it own particular personality, though as I say, the general theme functions to connect them all as a collection. The prose itself is positively spectacular (see esp. "Cold"), and Byatt's ability to briefly outline characterization works here in a way it sometimes doesn't in her other short stories. Though I think in general, Byatt has a kind of very traditional (stereotypical?) British dryness, these stories should pull in almost any sort of reader. This is always my recommendation for the non-initiated, as her novels tend towards slow-pacing and high literary or academic allusions and textures (which admittedly is not for everyone). The settings range from the fantastical to the dystopic or hallucinatory, and Byatt's obsession with art is often on display here.
In short, if "Cold" doesn't absolutely engross you, I'd say you may wish to seek out another author. These stories remain among my very favorites in the form.
**
This was my first experience with Byatt, and what a wonderful ride. I'm so glad to have discovered a new author to obsess over, and in fact, just purchased The Virgin in the Garden, Babel Tower, and Imagining Characters (as well as having Possession on my bookshelf just waiting to be adored) to fuel this new passion.
Her style is fluid, magical, and strangely heart-wrenching at times, though in a way that you don't notice until you're already in the depths of emotion. Every story of this collection had something to set it apart, something to mark it as absolutely lovely, and perhaps the most exciting thing is that while her writing style itself is consistent, the stories crossed many 'genres,' for lack of a better word--which was highly entertaining to read, and felt like picking up a new book each time I went to a new story.
"Baglady" is vaguely futuristic, dystopian, and is perhaps the most ambiguous story of the book inasmuch as you come to what seems a fairly simple conclusion by the end, but as soon as you hit on that, you begin questioning your own understandings in addition to the reliability of the hopeless woman at the center of the short. "Cold" is a fairy tale in the most wonderful of senses, in that it really toys with the childhood you think you've left behind, but then turns around and becomes this amazingly adult story dealing with love and loss, the formation of the self, and compromise when it comes to enjoying meaningful relationships. Plus, it has some of the most beautiful images I think I've read, with fire and ice being quite explicit, but in strikingly unexpected ways--the resolution of the conflict in the story left me breathless. "Lamia in the Cevennes" has the element of the fairy tale/myth in it too, but plays much more to the darker yearnings and possessions of erotic (or other) desire. "Christ in the House of Martha and Mary" plays more explicitly with food, with art, and with class and its markers--how it makes you conceptualize your own positioning as a person in a divided society. "Crocodile Tears" is a lovely story, and seems to be a popular favorite, but I actually think of all the stories here, it was the least engaging for me. Perhaps it went on a bit too long, and seemed to hit you over the heard just a bit with the juxtaposition of violence and emotional detachment. But saying it was the weakest really doesn't discount it, because it was still incredible. I know there's one more, but I can't remember the title or the biblical story is centers on--I loved it, though, enough so to actually look into the biblical myth it was based on (if you knew me, you'd know that's a shocker). The discussion of envy and how far we are able to go when deprived of things we desire--well, let's just say it hits rather hard.
Now I'm just going on too long. In short-READ IT. A wonderful collection, dealing with art and its relation to life; with desire--often thwarted, but sometimes rewarded; with the sort of disconnect that seems to accompany modern culture; with beauty and love and passion and all those other really important things. Drawing on mythology and folklore, her style is wonderfully engaging, it's beautifully and intricately woven, and surprisingly moving by the end of it. I can only offer the highest of praise....more
**spoiler alert** I really hesitated to give Brideshead four stars, because I think the most appropriate rating would be 4.5--it's just barely short o**spoiler alert** I really hesitated to give Brideshead four stars, because I think the most appropriate rating would be 4.5--it's just barely short of five stars for me, and I'm not entirely sure why. I was interested, in looking over other reviews of this novel and of Waugh's other work more generally, to see the kinds of complaints that arose: one that seemed pretty frequent was that the second half of the novel is 'not as good' as the first. I'll address that momentarily. The other is that the novel is a snooze in comparison to his others; I'm not sure if this is true, as this is my first experience with Waugh, but if it is true, then I can't wait to sink my teeth into another of his novels.
Brideshead Revisited has that peculiar quality, not unlike Jane Austen's world or Bronte's Wuthering Heights or Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, where a realist novel is capable of taking the reader into an entirely other world, without the crutch of fantasy and speculation. Somehow, the world is within reach, it's imaginable, but nonetheless, it feels as though you're someplace else. He invokes that incredibly frightening and emotionally moving precipice between the 'old way of life' and the new, brought about by the interruption of the war (again, much in the way that Woolf does this in novels like Mrs. Dalloway, Jacob's Room, To the Lighthouse, and so forth). This loss, and its accompanying nostalgia, pervade the novel and its world and its characters to such great effect. And one of the things that comes about from this is one of the novel's central tensions, which seems to bother some readers, but really resonated for me: the conflict between yearning for the past, all the while knowing its flaws and understanding that that yearning is so problematic and stifling.
This brings us to the earlier 'issue' readers have taken with the novel--that the first half is better than the second (which I presume to mean the Sebastian part against the Julia section). I'll concede a few things; namely, that the first half was assuredly more funny and 'enjoyable' to read. Sebastian, I've decided, is one of the most fascinating male characters I've read recently, and of course Aloysius is a very welcome addition to the Marchmain clan. I literally laughed aloud on so many occasions--whenever Aloysius came up, often at the blase ways in which people managed one another and social situations, and then Cordelia, who was such a pleasure to watch grow up in the novel. And there's the sense of joy and newness to the first part of the novel that I think tugs at our more naive instincts--again, it evokes in us that same longing for the past that Charles Ryder so frequently grapples with. The first part of the novel, moreover, leads the reader on a journey to 'decode the mystery' of the Marchmains, so to speak. Why is Sebastian so deeply hurt by his family? Why do others see them as these malevolent forces, despite the illusion of charm? What are all the dirty secrets of the family? And so on. Once we find these out, that anticipation is fulfilled. In turn, Sebastian begins to spiral out of control (and rightfully so, in my opinion--or at least logically so, since we're already accustomed to his delusions)--and is subsequently expelled from the narrative. We've already lost Aloysius at this point, and now with Sebastian more or less gone, Anthony Blanche missing, and Cordelia growing up, we're left without comic relief--except for those moments when the tension between social nicety and inner cruelty come to the surface.
And of course, once this comic relief has vanished, all we're left to see and/or laugh at are the instances of human cruelty that are so central to the novel. It's difficult to read--either because we don't want to think of people committing these acts against one another, or we don't wish to recognize the propensity for cruelty within ourselves. And so we move into the second half of the novel--as I said, I concede that it's a less 'enjoyable' read, that it's less humorous, and more difficult to read. But isn't this exactly what Waugh is trying to communicate? We have a sort of fall from grace; the loss of innocence has taken place, and now the sense of loss dominates. Ryder's affair with Julia feels superficial and half-hearted precisely because it is! As Ryder himself remarks "Sebastian was the frontrunner"; Julia becomes the socially acceptable and hand-me-down substitute, after Sebastian has ruined himself. And as in reality, we often settle for things because we feel we have no choice, we feel powerless, or simply because we wish to keep some sort of facade of respectability. The homoerotic subtext of the novel was of course one of the main lures for my reading it, and so perhaps watching Ryder and Julia's affair unfold and eventually unravel seemed perfectly in line with the atmosphere of the novel and the themes that resonated for me.
I think it's only natural to feel letdown as the novel progresses and, finally, concludes, but I think (at least for a cynic like me) this is one of Waugh's greatest accomplishments in the novel. Disappointment, longing, nostalgia, and loss--these emotions the novel lingers on feel the closest to life, for me, and ultimately reflect the reality of experience that works so powerfully in translating the novel to my own experience. And likewise, they seem perhaps to invoke the world and society in which Waugh was writing--the same fears and letdowns the world faced on the edge of war. Besides all this, he's an absolute master of prose. Every sentence is beautifully turned, the dialogue feels natural, keeps pace, and is often hilarious. I was incredibly impressed, and know this novel will haunt me for quite some time; I'm really looking forward to reading more of his work!...more
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