It is difficult to leave this book. More specifically the book’s tone which permeates and resonates through the elegant sentences of its literature. T It is difficult to leave this book. More specifically the book’s tone which permeates and resonates through the elegant sentences of its literature. The words need to be spoken aloud or echoed within ones mind. Yet, after writing a number of successful non fiction books on history this is Spofford’s first novel. An historical fiction lingering on the edge of suspense, planted in the colony of New York in the 1740’s. Neither of these called my attention to them I being so enrapt in the unfolding of the prose. Attending this wedding of literature and suspense.
I understood what happened near the end and it still lingers but I was disappointed. Angry that my romance with the prose was severed. The next day thinking about it, it made sense. An important character looking back over the years. A history, yes? But then the lever thrown they tapped me on the shoulder and let me know that they who had been there, embellished and fictionalized in parts all that I read. Fictionalizing the fiction of this character who was fictionalized by Spofford has been fictionalized by me the reader. My gloss, my interpretation, insights and confusions. And now you too reading this dizzying attempt at a review?...more
Words in their connections of letters are once -removed from what it is they try to describe. Perhaps music comes the closest in their notes evoking eWords in their connections of letters are once -removed from what it is they try to describe. Perhaps music comes the closest in their notes evoking emotions ringing true. However, Jacobsen, in his novel, Neils Lyhne, removes that distance between that which curls off the end of his pen and what is.
Not just the expression of emotion from the realist fold, nor the unconscious expression but the evolution of unconscious emotion and the tone(s) left upon life and the world. In all that poetic nuance.
This is a book of tender passion. A rare occurrence in my reading life.
Though I wrote the above earlier it remains true. At first it stunned me not thinking this was a possibility. Then I realized that the book held in my hands was shaking my reading world. It all made sense that the author influenced and/or was endorsed by; Rilke, Mann, Freud, Ibsen, Hesse, Strindberg, Joyce, Zweig. Especially Rilke who he mentored and in Rilke’s, Letters to a Young Poet, he mentions Jacobsen and his work a number of times.
This coming so close to the sun; the glaring heat, its searing penetration was even heightened more by the acuity of psychological events unfolding. His knowledge is breathtaking but the banner never risen as it is woven into the unwinding fabric; blended.
What happened near the end of this book written in 1880, is that; and I hate to even say it…but it sought a… plot. Holding the book upside down I shook it as best I can hoping the words trying to build some kind of plot would fall out and away. They remained in and left major events not supported but slipped in to create an urgent feel of surprise? A rushing to leave me gazing at this, up to now beautifully structured tale, bulging and stuffed at points; a disheveled sack. Fortunately Jacobsen realized what he had done, how he forced themes to unnecessarily arise against their will. Resettling his papers, inking his pen, he wrote an ending, for me a wise and breathtaking ending, that tied the book together.
So, then I thought in terms of a GR war of acrobatics. This heralded book slipped below the 5 star rating into some fractionalized algebraic equation tottering between a 4 and 5 star rating. Getting out my slide-rule; not that I know what to do with it and the last time I tried I injured myself, realized the sum total of historic success minus the craven need for a plot and emphasis on bleating out the essential themes, still left the sum total over 5. I rechecked all equations and measurements to find that the actual rating was a 5.2/5. This confirms that this is essential reading. Also part of the extra .2 is that it is an entertaining and enjoyable read....more
What happens if you are abandoned at an early age, then again, then again. Never provided the opportunity of having that parent within guiding you to, What happens if you are abandoned at an early age, then again, then again. Never provided the opportunity of having that parent within guiding you to, finding who you are, then to separate-individuate becoming the person who you are meant to be; leaving it just beyond your reach?
A self which does not adhere, existing in particles to someday be gathered into a whole. The scars and stillness of abandonment where writing her novel is the only place where she feels, ‘home’. This 31 year old woman has been working on it for the past six years, living in a room off a garage, buried under thousands of dollars of debt mostly from college loans, while working as a waitress. Having moved many times she has been in a number of passing relationships.
This is all told from the first person. From her. She is not a character in a book but has let me into her life in all its particulars and written in a sparse but lyrical prose which fits perfectly with what she had to say; what she was telling me. Who she was and who she was becoming. It flowed effortlessly at just the right pace.
Her hopes-attempts to live the literary life, to continue her persistence to volley through the trials of writing, her life at the restaurant, but most of all her unending willful endurance; makes this book such a quality piece of literature and an exceptional reading experience.
I have never cried reading a book. Twice I cried tears of joy for her. What happened to her, to her life, meant so much to me without any shred of sentimentality.
An astonishing reading experience highly recommended to all....more
The stars move toward an infinity not to be counted. Yet so accessible. They shift over making a space for me around the campfire as we listen to CervThe stars move toward an infinity not to be counted. Yet so accessible. They shift over making a space for me around the campfire as we listen to Cervantes’ narrator tell us tales nested within tales. The emergence of modern tropes. I follow the Don who will not cease to follow his life source; his imagination; his seeing the actual reality agreed upon lacking. Robed in humor there is a biting edge of honing books as the source of life. The inner life over the outer life? Breeding laughter while breeding thought.
What a reading experience! I am so glad that I now have this volume as a part of me. What I am perplexed about is that Volume 2 was written without permission by someone else and therefore a decade later Cervantes writes his; a reaction or a creative urge. Does anyone know the answer. It would help me greatly in deciding whether to go onto Volume 2. ...more
A perfect set up. So how could I be disappointed in one of my favorite authors?
Hustvedt provides us a writer in 2017 coming upon her notebooks, journaA perfect set up. So how could I be disappointed in one of my favorite authors?
Hustvedt provides us a writer in 2017 coming upon her notebooks, journals, and novel from 1978-79, the year she left the plains of Minnesota to live in New York. How phenomenal to be able to read about herself through that expanse of time. Watching that incredibly well read young woman entering the big city in order to write a detective novel about two youngsters playing Sherlock Holmes where there is always an answer. This is the main theme not just of the 17 y/o’s novel but she herself so well versed in the cascading volumes of literature, the sciences, philosophy, poetry. Reading is life. It is a comfort for the wounded, the frightened and scared.
This theme, while not time-worn is often written about here in GR. But no fears Siri. You have that writers magic that helped you compose novels that soared. Here your imagination flows with a next door neighbor suffering from a Psychotic illness. A coven of witches. A heroin addict. A….a…It does expand but it’s okay Siri, you have made it clear that the narrator has so much in common with you that whether this is fiction or autobiography is blurred. I am willing to believe these things happened to you during your younger journey. What they all add is that they have different beliefs in how life is to be approached and will unfold. She is introduced to them like a smorgasbord. Fortunately she does have her group of friends for some stability. Fortunately I kept the paper that slipped out of the book and dropped to the floor; a list of characters. This was especially helpful since the characters were so thin and static yet so bountiful. On the other side I found what looked like a map legend. But so far Siri you’ve got it. Your elegiac prose, your erudition still keeps me entranced, as always.
So now the older Siri…I mean narrator, is riffling through her younger journals, inviting us to read over her shoulder at the first person entries in the journal, log, her novel in progress, interwoven with the grown narrators memories. We see many different things from many different people through time and space. Ah, this is what that map legend thing was all about and all its intertwining, bisecting, multicolored lines. It only made me dyspeptic and I didn’t even know what dyspeptic was. I had to google it. Also it tried to tie together the different themes; what is knowledge, truth, time passing, identity, reality or realities, the historic discrimination against women by white males.
I decided on an easier way to approach the book Siri since it was obvious that I was lagging. So, I set up a bulletin board where I could tack up pictures and ideas, as a police detective trying to solve a crime. This way I could move things around, connect them and reconnect them.
In the end Siri, I don’t even know how to say this, but there is just too much. At least half of my precious papers fell from the bulletin board or possibly leaped in a swan like suicide. It felt like your finding of post modern writing in this book was convoluted. At some point, and I know you could not have meant it, it seemed that the chicanery of style out-trum…ed the depth of character and story.
What did I mean by, you couldn’t have meant it? Here’s what I think. You, as I, are in your latter stage of life as we turn 70. Will you be able to write another novel? Will I be able to read another? Who knows? As you say in this book there is a horizon line in sight. Therefore I believe this book took a decidedly turn into the advantages and disadvantages of autobiography. You want to tell your life. You want to see it and understand it. The potential of any autobiographical work is the lure to say too much, include too much, to create havoc though so well intentioned. I question if this would have happened if you wrote this book as straight autobiography. Mixing in from your pallet your fictional skills lofted the book beyond not the borders of writing but of understanding.
In the end it is so difficult to capture time, space, in ones hand. Grasp it for a precious moment. It is constantly moving, inventing and reinventing. Even looking back it is marred by faulty memory and our desperate need to maneuver the past so that it makes sense; so that our patchwork identities stand up to the necessary threaded illusions we count on. Wait a second. I get it. No, I mean I got it all along. It was right there. Kind of obvious. You sneaky devil Siri. This is what it was about all the time; the different planes and angles of post-post-modern writing, the multitude of characters, the swarm of themes. I knew it; I mean it was the only way it could be told. You built the entire edifice, this piece of architecture to portray The Theme, to explicate it in its full form. That Siri is absolutely remarkable, closing in on the impossible. Here. Please. Take the three stars I was going to give you and the two I was hiding deep in my pocket. As a matter of fact before you get to your car take all of them, as many as you need. Yes, I will get rid of the bulletin board and pins.
I was going 5 stars all along you just didn’t see the two buried in my pocket....more
The reader, caught in the mist of elegant yet sparse writing as time, space, gender, swirls around; sometimes within paragraphs, sentences. Done so quThe reader, caught in the mist of elegant yet sparse writing as time, space, gender, swirls around; sometimes within paragraphs, sentences. Done so quietly that the reader is experiencing what is only described, extolled upon, mentioned, in other books. Asking a writer to place all these elements together and have the blend return something aesthetically blissful and profoundly meaningful, is asking too much. Yet, here it is accomplished. Therefore a read which everyone should be entitled to, and meet a new world on the written page....more
Discrete poetic whispers of moments. The means by which they connect or disconnect.
I cannot write a review now just finishing reading but possibly…no Discrete poetic whispers of moments. The means by which they connect or disconnect.
I cannot write a review now just finishing reading but possibly…no there is no future, only now and all there is to see, to know, to feel; to read and reread this book over and again. To live in this world. The moment of this world.
Without realizing I mouth the words as I read, chanting a somnambulistic prayer, a murmured choir, a pulse on its tremble of its next beat. Consciousness spreading, sharpening, honed to a cabalistic point. Is it possible for one to continue living the life one knew. The sealed casing of Kafka”s axe broken open wide.
Then the awe of the knitting needles twirling in blurred images, somehow holding it all together and with infinite care delicately purls the minute threading into its barely seen connecting pattern and a harsh gasp at the end.
So tempting to sweep up the scattered remains of an existence I once called my own and spend the afternoon resettling things back into place. The alternative is to move without packing. What looks like now an empty endless road with no markings to gain bearings. But what of the flutter of ghosts? Remarkable things happen; happen all the time, are happening right now; and now to live newly within them; guideless....more
Acimen’s, Call Me By Your Name, comes with the rapid breeze and drift of writing as though penned in an attempt to keep up with tA book of awakenings.
Acimen’s, Call Me By Your Name, comes with the rapid breeze and drift of writing as though penned in an attempt to keep up with the flow of the words arriving. There is no plodding. We are taken beneath and beyond words, through words, through the consciousness of the young Elio.
Oliver has come to visit his Professor at the family estate while he writes his book on Heraclitus. The 17 y/o Elio and the 24y/o Oliver are awakening to their physical sensual needs characterized by hesitations, fear, shame, as the slippage of time hangs over them.
At first Elio seems desperate to have an attachment; his parents in the past warned he had too few (He needed to get out of the house more instead of reading in his room) and the observation that their son was not sufficiently formed? He needed to be someone else rather than establishing his own identity? As the relationship with Oliver progresses the hope is held out to the reader that their relationship will be the security that allows both to become themselves? This, narrated to us 20 years later by Elio, feels like a shrine for, Where It Happened.
This profound, moving, novel will take a second reading to begin to understand how it delivers knowledge about desire, the varied difference between obsession and love, lives of escape, pain, fear, hope and meaning.
The bare fact is that after reading it I do not fully understand it. How can one, fully? Enough? Acimen in the full sweep of this novel seeks and in the end leaves us to continue the search but now a little more aware and hungering to read it again for the thrill of its enjoyment and to follow further the tendrils of its questing knowledge.
A tale intimately unfolding from the past into the present. It is told directly to me. Colloquial. Fending off any distance created from the third perA tale intimately unfolding from the past into the present. It is told directly to me. Colloquial. Fending off any distance created from the third person rendering. Compact with no promise of revealing a meaning. Yet. Yet. The short tale records the passing of time. Our restorer of the painting hidden by dust and grime in the small town’s church, has moved from the past, the war he fought and was disfigured by, his broken marriage, into the present. Here is held the splendor of a near perfect summer; the weather of this small town and its its people. Then, the work on the medieval painting as it appears beneath his hands in its restoration, as he is being uncovered in part by the inspiration of the painting and the artist. This is a time he is never to come upon again, he understands as he is telling me now looking back upon it. There are treasures to be had, moments to be relished or desperately not taken.
While reading I enjoyed its quaintness and again its intimate style but was not prepared to give it much thought or much of a rating. But now by the end, writing this review, I’m feeling haunted. Rightfully so. There cannot be a more important message better told, I think. I can’t believe it, it is seeping into me; to stay.
Needless to say I highly recommend it and it will ascend as time goes by and as it continues filling me.
* I think of my next book to read, (no that is not right, it arrives) when I am about three quarters done with the book I am reading. No such thought or feeling while reading this book or now that I am finished.
** Wow. What do I read after reading a book like this? ...more
Ava expands the form of the novel’s future while living within it. The verse supplemented and interwoven into new configurations by a poetry so Reread
Ava expands the form of the novel’s future while living within it. The verse supplemented and interwoven into new configurations by a poetry so sensitive it draws the reader into experiencing Ava’s experiences but to now also carry a wider net of perceptiveness and consciousness through ones life. This could only be carried out by Maso’ non- linear experimental style progressing a narrative through its fragments.
But only 39 years old she lays in a hospital bed traversing the labyrinth of her memories, her desires met and missed, what love has meant and its erotic portrayals, while dying of a rare blood cancer. In no way written sentimentally by the end I realized it will take the surgeons years to collect the pieces of my heart before even planning how to put it back together.
One of the great reasons to read and one of the great writers to be read.
Review of First Reading Below
Each time I brought pen to paper the pen was empty of ink. Different makes, colors, styles made no difference. I always liked pens and thought they liked me. It took me a while. Ava was not a story, a text, a narrative; it is a work beyond words; much closer to music in circling closer to the unnameable, to that which is just beyond our outstretched reach.
Maso brings this about by traversing us through time and space; living what occurred in the past, recalling from her hospital bed where she, Ava Klein, is dying from a rare blood disorder, a cancer, at the age of thirty nine. The pages unfold with sentences spaced apart from each other running down the page. Sometimes a short paragraph. Linearity is absent. These spare poetic sentences spaced apart are not connected with one another. Yet an open mind is opened further as the writing unfolds into meaning, message(s) through the faith of accumulation.
A rare journey and Maso lets us in on this experimental art better than anyone I have thus read. An opportunity to join the notes of music in circling closer to what cannot be reached, glimpsed, but gives the artful attempts meaning enough to fill a life....more
Epigraph: “Most of the great battles are fought in the creases of topographical maps.”
A world of abandonment; a young boy and his slightly older sisteEpigraph: “Most of the great battles are fought in the creases of topographical maps.”
A world of abandonment; a young boy and his slightly older sister are left by their parents in their family home in the care of someone who they name, The Moth.
Grown, our narrator is looking back on his life of searching for, knowledge of his mother and the scattered pieces of his life. It traverses the gathering of pieces of one’s dislocated self. The searching and sweeping in of histories, relationships, and events. In this book the difficulty of this prevents an illumination of the entryway into the self. It is the outer, in its least distortion, which leads to the inner. Throughout this book this tension remains, gnawing, as does the story-plot of what does the mother do and how is this related to this band of disparate interesting others filling the house? Why has she left her children and not returned; not communicated. A sense of abandonment and aloneness teems through this novel.
It unfolds intimately in creases of time. The style sublime in a lyricism unique to Ondaatje. A lyricism which plays chords unknown to others. An effect unseen. Yet, it carries the plot slipping through time but moving forward. Tension and suspense pulsing beneath the steady hand of literature.
Ondaatje, one of my very favorites, I believe has matured to fruition in this work. His considerable skills have come together.
“As she stands up now I can see the intricate jigsaw shapes their bodies make to fit together. They will gnaw off an arm if necessary to fit, bleed at “As she stands up now I can see the intricate jigsaw shapes their bodies make to fit together. They will gnaw off an arm if necessary to fit, bleed at a joint, tilt the head, or nod a little too deeply to maintain the vaguely heart-shaped vacuum that must always exist somehow between them.”
The first page expressing the language’s tone, the theme rising in graphic metaphoric prose. Reading a book, this book, according to how it is told can bring about the experience of an experience.
What is it we want when we convey something of excruciating pain in our life to others? Understanding? Comprehension.? Empathy? Compassion? A usable idea for a denial? Consolation-which can be copied from the 24 volume set of cliches, What To Say When You Have No Idea What To Say? This plaited, shard infested, fracked and fractured account relayed in novel form will if read in the way presented, even though made of words; words that compose short at times lyrical sentences, provides a wordless experience which is at the heart of experience, the experience of experience. Maso accomplishes this with seeming ease. Accessibility is one of her fruitful skills.
I’m not sure what this proves but maybe I’ll find out by writing this paragraph. Part of my Book Addiction Personality Disorder is that by the time I reach the last thirty to fifty pages of a book I am reading, no matter how good the book, I’m already thinking ahead to the next. The first beginnings of Book Salivation and listing towards living within the next writers voice, intelligence, didn’t happen here. I think the reason why is that this was not an intellectual experience. It was, to be certain a visceral experience but more so I think it is what happens to us when we receive shattering news, loss, death, before any word has arisen to be spoken. That primeval netherland.
This is an important book by an important writer. I am so grateful to Nathan "N.R.” Gaddis for having brought this to the attention of our GR world where such surprises wait to deepen our lives....more
A Lispector novel in its beaded moments of universality that nourishes both an aesthetic and philosophical search. Economizing to contour itself withi
A Lispector novel in its beaded moments of universality that nourishes both an aesthetic and philosophical search. Economizing to contour itself within its battle with time, "The Hour of the Star" slides us alongside the hollowed cosmopolitan writer, Rodrigo S.M. as he faces the tribulations of writing a novel that comes to him, arrives without his seeking, and a character that haunts beyond his control.
His battle to remove himself by not adding qualifiers to his writing but to let the character have her own way, is a battle which over time he, the writer, is losing as he invades her and she him. Macabea, an undernourished, unattractive young woman moves through the morbidity of her life unaware of its poverty and dull sadness. Bereft of reflection, an awareness of self, desire is absent therefore the future has no existence. She won’t behave for Rodrigo S.M. though he wants more for, from, her than this Zen existence. He wishes to live through her but she against his wishes also is living through him. With his pen, his conscious or unconscious desires, he would like to move her into his world of need and hope, of time flowing just beyond reach, so she as this character in his story may nourish him. A translucence. An epic battle.
Lispector scales the existential crises we live with and through each day, each moment passing, the quadrangle of suffocating time and the nagging needs, hopes, desires, pushing us on. But for Macabea unaware of the despair she should be experiencing, she knows no different. Her existence is as a monk, a Zen meditation of being as she is. Not questioning. Not desiring to be other. Not an act of will this is who and what she is.
How is it structured? Lispector structures it along the form of, existence. An existence that is yet to occur but styles itself according to the contours of hers, ours, searching life....more
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