Month: April 2016

Blindness by José Saramago
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Do yourself a favor and set aside a weekend to read Blindness. Or a long day, or get a lot of rest and buy some good coffee so that you can read Blindness from a dusk to a dawn. This book is written in a style that simply does not allow for many interruptions. You could try and treat the commas like periods and create your own paragraph breaks, but I think you’d be better off simply reading the novel straight through.

And when you’re done you’ll be exhausted. You’ll have been to hell and back. You’ll feel as if you’ve been brutalized, made filthy, and only at the end given an opportunity to be clean again. You’ll have witnessed a primordial evil without terror, and a deep humanity without pathos. You’ll know what it’s like to be an animal and will be satisfied that you’re more than one: for all your base urges and needs, all the pains you suffer, sweetness and light are their own reward.

Blindness is probably an extended metaphor, and the various, unnamed characters are probably archetypes for something—and that’s all well and good when the reading is done, and you’re ready for analysis. Memory, afterall, is something that serves one better if re-arranged, constructed, and made to fit one’s philosophies. But in the book itself, when you’re mired and coated with it, Saramago’s language and tone defy any other thinking than the experience itself. You will get lost in this book. You will be unable to talk about it, much, when you’re in the middle of it.

This novel is not for everyone, but then no novel is. Nor will Blindness suit you if you’re not ready for it. And yet, there is no way to test for suitability and readiness. One can never, truly, know how one will change when tragedy strikes. But one can prepare. Find that open weekend, that long day, that over-night time that you can set –aside. If Blindness does not suit you, read something else. But if does, prepare to be changed.

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Vernon God Little by D.B.C. Pierre
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I’ve just finished Vernon God Little, or should I say, polished off. Some people toss leftovers into any old bucket and throw them into the refrigerator; other people lovingly arrange half-eaten slabs of meatloaf and why-bother-smears of mashed potatoes on a plate and wrap it all with cellophane. I’m not sure which more deserves the term “polish-off” when I’me sitting there at the kitchen table having eaten the half-lava /half antarctic mess, and no thanks to my fickle microwave.

Here’s a novel that won the Booker prize in 2003. I’m going to make some assumptions: it was written by someone who not born or raised in Texas. It’s possible I’m wrong, but my understanding is that the Booker prize goes to British Commonwealth writers. Maybe D.B.C. Pierre was born in London and was moved to Central Texas at age three months, lived there until his writing years came upon him, and moved back to England to pen a tour de force. Maybe I’ll make meatloaf for dinner again tonight, so good where those leftovers.

I can tell you that the first third of the novel felt like a non-Texan trying to write what a Texan would sound like. A non-teenager trying to write what a teenager would sound like. I can think of no other novel that used the word “panties” this often. And the phrase “a learning.” This read like someone who was neither Texan nor teenaged, writing for people who are neither Texan nor teenaged, in a voice that they would expect to be Texan and teenaged.

Except that I’m neither Texan nor teenaged, and I was unconvinced. By the second third I was, at least, inured to the voice. Also caught up enough to follow the cavalcade of characters and distracted enough from my own confusion at the in medias res beginning. So I had enough momentum for the final; third, thank goodness.

Because that’s where Vernon God Little shifted from a stylistic barrage and a bit of fun to an outlandish fantasy version of the American Media Justice System ™. There’s willing suspension of disbelief when it comes to a style that cops a tone (Texan teenager written by non Texan teenager). But that suspension was stretched to the breaking point and snapped. I was no longer in the novel. I was outside, just reading it.

Which is why I had to polish it off. I stuffed my gullet. I’m not the only man in America who is the family garbage can, eating leftovers so they won’t go to waste, eating them so we can wash the dishes needed for something else. I needed my e-reader and brain back so I could read a different book.

Which I plan on doing after some Pepto and a few good belches.

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Defending Jacob by William Landay
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I was in Maui. I was on vacation. I had already read three novels. They were, each of them, kind of heavy. Not hard to read, not over-long, just, you know. I wanted something a little more pulpy. So someone recommended Defending Jacob. I’ve read my fair-share of lawyer novels, and police procedurals, and family dramas. They’re not my first go-to, but the person who recommended this one said “I think about that book a lot.” Compelling! So I gave it a try.

And now that I’m done, lawyer novels and police procedurals and family dramas are still not going to be my first go-to. I’m not saying William Landay should have stuck to just the one theme, I’m just saying that none of those themes made this novel any better.

Let’s start with the lawyer theme, the court-room stuff. Its all a little too realistic. Verisimilitude is supposed to be a good thing, right? Yes, if you need to be authentic—but authentic does not equal interesting. Landay tries, by giving the judge an interesting character, for example, and providing background on some of the other courtroom personalities—but none of it is put to any use. It’s just a trial. We only get to see theatrics in the book’s “frame,” where the narrator himself has been called to testify before a grand jury for a different case altogether. But it’s not enough.

Then there’s the police procedural, which kind of melts into the family drama sections. It gets started when the main character, an ADA, assigns himself to a homicide- but then he’s taken off the case, and the procedural sort of fizzles.

And then there’s the family drama, which is mainly driven by two contradictory ideas. The main character says, several times, that he knows his son, knows him well, knows him well enough to know that he is innocent. He also points out that his son is a teenager, and teenagers are mysterious, withdrawn, and live in a world all their own, impenetrable and unknowable by adults.

So I found myself shrugging through the entire read. I’m fine with an unreliable narrator, but not an unreliable writer. And then there’s two convenient moments of deus-ex-machina to, first, tie things up, and then, throw a curve ball so that the writer can tie things up again. In a slapdash, overly dramatic, sensationalistic (and let’s face it predictable) manner. The novel went from interesting to pedestrian to boring to cheesy.

I have no idea why the person who recommended this to me “thinks about it a lot.” I’ll have to ask.

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The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This is a terrible novel. It’s very well written and compelling and immersive. And just awful. It won the Booker Prize in 1997 and deserved it. It’s Arundhati Roy’s only novel to date and we can only hope she’ll write more exquisite prose like this. And it’s a horrible book.

I don’t mean it’s bad. I mean I felt miserable the entire time I was reading it. Vivid, lurid descriptions of a small village in southwestern India, the people who live there, the sharp lines drawn between the classes, young and old, men and women. I was dazzled by the colors. I could almost smell the rot. I could feel the filth dripping from every branch, from every grimy soul.

There are no good people in this book. Ostensibly, the main characters are good. And their best friend. But they’re not even real people, just foils for cruel injustice. To call the caste system inhumane, to call adults abusive, to call the men sexist, is all so much understatement. This is a squalid, depressing, odious, nauseating little book.

I suppose there are a few scenes of beauty and grace, but they’re too meager to make up for everything else. Too last-minute, too seemingly-tossed in. They do not balance with otherwise overwhelming sense of despair that the rest of the book offers.

By all means, go ahead and read The God of Small Things. Arundhati Roy has a way with words that is unique, fascinating, brilliant. I wish she would write more. As much as this novel made me feel bad, I still want to read other books by her. I think that’s the only good thing I can say about this read.

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The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A friend of mine told me he’s read this book fifty or more times, often while on vacation. To quote him:

I always take it with me on every trip. …it makes travel all the more bearable….travel to me is a way of life and exciting and something that’s been a part of me since I was born, but it still scares the hell out of me, it’s still uncomfortable and difficult, and The Sun Also Rises is my antidote. I love reading it in foreign cities, countries. When your credit card is declined in Tangier and you have $10 to your name, you can buy a cup of sweet tea and read it and you’re back in Spain. When you’re sleeping on the floor of a flophouse in Mexico after a 12-hr bus ride among people who don’t speak your language and you’re hungry and it’s 1am, you can read it and be eating in Paris. And every character you’ve met before, both in the novel and in real life. In yourself.

Now how could I hope to offer a review better than that? I can’t, so what follows is not an attempt. To be fair, you’ve either read this book or have not, and if you have not, I don’t see how a recommendation from a stranger is going to get you to read it now.

Maybe that’s what you should do, you should seek out a friend who’s already read The Sun Also Rises, and get him or her to talk about it. Because this is not a one-off novel that you just pick-up, read, put down, and move on. It bears discussion and debate, comparison to other books you’ve read, good and bad, other experiences you’ve had, good and bad.

So the novel’s got depth, and at the same time, it’s damned readable. Again, you either know Hemingway, or you don’t. For those who don’t, his style is well-known to be simple, straightforward, the opposite of flowery, the opposite of purple. (The opposite of this ham-handed “review.”) But it’s also compelling. As my friend points out, when reading The Sun Also Rises, you find yourself sitting in a smoky bar in post-WWI Paris, or watching the bulls on parade in Pamplona, the sun on your neck, sweat trickling down your back.

It’s been called a Roman a Clef, so there’s that, if historical criticism is your thing. It’s not mine, but it bears mentioning if only because they characters in the novel have fairly complicated relationships. My point is, for a book written 90 years ago, it’s modern. My understanding is that when it was written, it was considered, maybe, too modern—so Hemingway was ahead of his time. Or something. This is not an “old” book. You’ll find something to relate to in there, I promise.

I’m trying to say, are you doing any travelling soon? Need something to keep you company? The Sun Also Rises is an excellent choice. And when you’re done, you’ll have found something for your next trip too. And the ones after that.

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Wise Blood by Flannery O’Connor
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Not sure if there’s any point to writing a review about a book that’s been out since before I was born, but what the hell. My so-called reviews are basically just blog entries anyway. Have you read Wise Blood? Maybe you should. If you’re a writer, anyway. It’s the kind of book that locks down a style and does not let go. Doesn’t compromise because it doesn’t have to. If you want to know what a “voice” is and what it can do, read Wise Blood.

And if you’re a reader, the kind of person who likes to open a book and plant his or her eyes on the first word and get pulled along and then look up eventually and realize half the day is gone. And this without much of a plot to speak of. Flannery O’Connor manages, somehow to plop you down in the post-war South without too much flowery language. You’ll get a few mosquito bites and tend to mop at your brown with a damn handkerchief and you won’t even realize it until you think about it.

I came to Wise Blood because a friend of mine was reading it, and he’s going through a rough patch, and O’Connor’s a go-to for him when he needs some perspective. But I’d read some of the short stories it’s based on before, which made parts familiar. I think you’ll find that multiple readings just make this book better. Being familiar with Flannery O’Connor in general, and this book in particular, will show off its depth, which can be glossed over, since it’s so easy to read otherwise.

Of course a novel set in the American South in the 40s is going to have some racist language in it. But to her credit, O’Connor doesn’t accept or promote racist ideas- they’re just part of the background. The distinction is necessary, otherwise every novel set in America would either be a racist screed or a pamphlet for social-justice. The former is to be abhorred, and the latter applauded, but not every book has to be about race. Nevertheless, the language can be uncomfortable. Some people don’t read Mark Twain for this reason. I’m not going to blame them- there are too many books in the world to have endure something you don’t want to endure if you’re just looking for a good read.

On the other hand, rest assured that in Wise Blood, at least, there’s not much of it. Same can’t be said for other works by O’Conner, but this one’s more about religion than anything else. Or a lack of religion. Or what happens when a fellow tries to get rid of something he hasn’t got in the first place.

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Quarantine by Jim Crace
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I read Jim Crace’s Harvest and said of it: “I’m looking forward to going back and reading his other award-winning writing.” And now I have done so, although I am embarrassed to say this is the third book I’ve read by him, not the second. When I went to look up his other novels, I realized I had already read Being Dead. I say I’m “embarrassed” because, apparently, I’m not very good at remembering authors.

But I’ll say this, that reading someone you “know” is different from reading someone you don’t. I read Harvest with no expectations. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for Quarantine. I admit, I went in, expecting to be as moved, and I was not. Which may have been the fault of having expectations.

And here is a story with Jesus in it—virtually no one would be able to read a novel with Jesus in it and not have a picture in their head already. This, too, could lead to disappointment. Crace’s Jesus is not holy enough. Or he is too holy. Or too human. Not human enough. Too historically authentic. Lacking in reverence. Too reverential. Take your pick. It is a testimony to Crace’s creativity that this Jesus will be nothing like anyone’s expectations.

This is a novel that uses all the language and imagery and sensibility of religion, but is not in the least religious. Here is hard-scrabble account, the harsh reality of spending 40 days in the desert, that somehow evokes a calmness and a peace.

But for all that, Jesus is not the main character in this novel. The main character is the devil that tempts him, but not a biblical devil. An evil, but the kind that’s as familiar as any jerk that cuts you off in traffic. As ubiquitous as the lies that eat away your soul—the ones that you are told, and the ones you accept.

It would be too easy to liken one’s dropping oneself into a book to a quarantine, a fast, a spiritual journey begging questions of a god, the author. That’s maybe glib, and certainly not the point of this novel. But whenever I go into these books, either wide-eyed or jaded, I always come out of them either plump or emaciated, dirtier or cleaner—but never the same as when I started. That’s all one can really ask of a good read. I expected something else, was not satisfied in that expectation, and yet I’m not left wanting.

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