Making up for Monday: Character Fun

This is a weekly meme held by Tiffany over at An Avid Reader. She asks: If you could be any character in any book, who would be and what would you do as them in their book? 

Oh, that's an easy one: Gully Foyle from The Stars My Destination. The ability to 'jaunt' or teleport across time and space would be a godly super-power to have. So much of outer-space has been unexplored and I would spend my days trying to unravel the mysteries of the universe, hopping around from one galaxy to another, having a front row seat at the magnificent beauty of astrological phenomena such as supernovas or enjoying an afternoon tea party on distant planets. Yeah, that's the life me.

The Waves by Virginia Woolf

“How much better is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.”

I wrote an extensive review but blogspot failed to save it properly and now its gone. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

Anyways, here's a shorter review instead: 

Considering that To the Lighthouse and Mrs. Dalloway are two of my favorite novels of all time, my expectations were set extremely high for The Waves, which, unfortunately, left me with mixed emotions. This work is definitely not recommended for Virginia Woolf initiates since it will likely discourage one from reading anything by her ever again. It requires a great deal of patience from the reader and encourages deep reflection. Her experimental stream-of-consciousness style of writing is sublime as much as it is dense and overwhelming. Woolf takes a sledge hammer to the traditional narrative form leaving scattered fragments of memory bursting with poetic language. The primary focus here is on exploring human consciousness and inner experience. The novel follows the lives of six friends from childhood as they mature into adulthood but only presents their individual inner monologues. Life, death and everything in between is contemplated and analyzed by these characters to form a gestalt of human thought patterns. 

This is poetry in novel form. One does not simply read The Waves like any ordinary novel-- it must be experienced. I found it more rewarding to pick out a random page and slowly submerse myself into the text, letting the majestic beauty of Woolf's prose wash over me, carrying me along in a current of ebbing and flowing thoughts towards transcendence or life-altering epiphanies. Many critics and people whose opinions I trust on the subject of literature declare The Waves to be Virginia Woolf's crowning achievement. Perhaps they are correct in this assessment because it is the quintessential novel that fully immerses itself in the innovative stream-of-consciousness style that made her famous as a writer. Nonetheless, I did not find it nearly as accessible as To the Lighthouse or Mrs. Dalloway and often struggled to establish a connection with the material. She is operating on a much higher intellectual level that proved very difficult to comprehend at times, often leaving me cold and distant. However, Woolf's ability to capture moments of truth and profound insight of what it means to be human is uncanny. Her prose is absolutely mesmerizing in its beauty and innovative use of language. There is a great novel buried somewhere within this perplexing work but it is going to take me a life-time to even begin a thorough understanding of its many layers.

This novel is part of the Classics Club Challenge.

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

“Stuff your eyes with wonder, he said, live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories.”

"It was a pleasure to burn." Wow, what a great opening sentence that immediately hooks the reader; or at least that was the effect on me and I was unable to put the novel down for very long before the nagging compulsion to start reading again became almost too much to bear. I sneaked in some reading during work hours, took several "washroom breaks" and even missed my stop on the subway line home. A testament to the power of great literature--the capability to capture the reader's imagination, inspire, inform and enlighten. Ironically, the plot of this novel involves an oppressive state that is intent on the total destruction of the written word for some of those very reasons. It is easier to control a society if free-will and independent thought is marginalized.

Ray Bradbury was a true visionary. Here is another novel that has been on my radar for many years but never got around to picking up. I am ashamed to admit that it took so long to finally read this brilliant literary work. I have often praised his talents as a short-story writer but after finishing Fahrenheit 451, I can proudly declare him to be one of my favorite authors that I have had the distinguished pleasure of ever reading. He possesses such a wild imagination, overflowing with so many fascinating story-ideas and cannot be pigeon-holed into writing in the same genre or becoming anachronistic. Despite how bizarre the story may be, his works remain distinctively human--that is to say, there often exists an underlying subtext regarding various aspects of humanity and social order that keeps his ideas relevant. He always remains fresh even though some of his novels were written more than half a century ago. He is fully capable of writing some of the creepiest horror stories or can spin frightening dystopias such as this novel, which takes place in a world where firefighters no longer put out fires; rather, they are responsible for starting them with their main prerogative being to burn books. With increased dependence on technology and brain-washing by the media, most individuals are living in a fog of illusion. Doesn't this sound eerily familiar in today's technologically obsessed world?

I find that what places him far and above other writers (regardless of genre) is that he is a master story-teller and has the literary talent to back it up. Anyone can write a story but to tell a good story with purpose, style and conviction that leaves the reader shaken up and wanting more is rare. He is the type of writer that I aspire to be one day. It still saddens me to reflect on his passing, but much like in this novel, the preservation of his memory through the many literary works he has left behind will hopefully not be forgotten.

This novel is part of the Classics Club Challenge.

Brideshead Revisted by Evelyn Waugh

“Sometimes, I feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there's no room for the present at all.”

Please forgive me if I don't put on my black-and-white evening tail coat and join the dinner party gathered in the 'Tapestry Hall' to raise a glass of vintage 1906 Montrachet wine in admiration of Evelyn Waugh's much beloved novel Brideshead Revisited. Don't get me wrong, the novel is very disappointing in many aspects (especially in regards to the weak story and banal characters) but it does still contain some substantial merit. I do not mean to come across as impertinent towards Mr. Waugh. Indeed, I would actually be glad to make a toast to his elegant writing style that can be most clever and delectable to read when he does not fall into the habit of going overboard with the flowery prose. For example, the way Waugh has the narrator Charles Ryder describe one of his sexual experiences is most ingenious: "It was as though a deed of conveyance of her narrow loins had been drawn and sealed. I was making my first entry as the freeholder of a properly I would enjoy and develop at leisure" (248). Who would have thought a blue-print construction metaphor could be both funny and titillating? Nonetheless, I cannot fully praise Evelyn Waugh's virtues as being one of the 'great novelists' of the 20th century--at least not on the basis of this particular work or Vile Bodies which I read last year and happened to enjoyed a great deal more for its brevity, biting satirical humor, snappy dialogue and twisted revelations. In contrast, Brideshead Revisited is the more ambitious novel but at 350 pages, the narrative is a tedious chore to get through that revels in superfluous detail and leaves much to be desired. Although the story deals with several important issues such as religion, class, marriage, alcoholism and most importantly the changing social structures at the beginning of the 20th century, Waugh only seems to gloss the surface. Or, perhaps his attempt at subtlety were lost on me. He is successful in wrapping up the novel with splendid irony but takes far too long to get there. Furthermore, as much as I enjoy his writing style, I can only seem to handle it in small doses before losing patience. 

Divided into three sections, the novel is narrated by Charles Ryder, a middle-aged British officer who recollects on his early years as a young Oxford student where he meets the flamboyant and eccentric Sebastian Flyte--an important figure who has a major influence on his life's trajectory--and continues to reminisce all the way up until the present time when he is deployed to fight in WWII. It is worth noting that the secondary title of the novel is called "The sacred and profane memories of Charles Ryder." Once again, Waugh displays his clever use of irony, with particular emphasis on the novel's central focus: religion. Charles is sharing some of his most personal and harrowing experiences, which in effect can be perceived as sacred to him; that is to say, his memories are regarded with much nostalgia and reverence as one might bestow upon a deity. Here is a striking passage that illustrates the novel's focus on memories and sentimentalism: "I should like to bury something precious in every place where I've been happy and then, when I was old and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember" (26). If only Waugh could have included more profund moments such as this one to give the story a much needed boost in emotional resonance. For Charles, the past serves as a time of bliss containing youthful dalliance, drinking and wistful languor but it also serves as a painful reminder of loss. His life's story is 'profane' because Charles is a self-proclaimed agnostic and his decision to live a secular life has dire consequences, especially when it comes to love. Ironically, Waugh seems to be making the argument that love serves as a precursor to faith, religious belief system (in this case, Catholicism) and ultimately, salvation.

Despite my criticisms towards this novel, I am not giving up on Evelyn Waugh just yet. There are still plenty of other works in his oeuvre such as A Handful of Dust and Scoop which might help to redeem his stature in my eyes but he will likely take a seat on the back-burner before I get around to reading anything else by him.

This is the first novel I have read for 2014 and part of my Classics Club Challenge.

V. by Thomas Pynchon

“Life's single lesson: that there is more accident to it than a man can ever admit to in a lifetime and stay sane.”

The question remains: Who or what exactly is the mysterious "V"? Even after 600+ pages, there is no clear answer and to be honest, I really don't care to wrack my brain over it. Is she an actual person or a metaphor? Perhaps both. Or maybe she is simply a MacGuffin--like the brief-case in "Pulp Fiction"--an abstract concept with no real value other than functioning as a plot device to move the narrative forward. Unfortunately, there is no pay-off at the end and much of the novel is a sprawling mess. As one of the main characters named Stencil (almost every single character possesses some kind of figurative appellation), later states, "events seem to be ordered in an ominous logic" (449). Indeed. Thomas Pynchon's novels are notorious for being challenging and after struggling through V, which often left me baffled, producing the urge to pull my hair from its roots, I can certainly attest to this fact. It's not so much that the story is difficult to follow exactly but rather, his abstruse style of writing often engulfs the actual narrative: he employs sophisticated diction (be sure to have a dictionary handy) with an oblique, protracted and playful aesthetic, overflowing with latent metaphors, information and references that can be overwhelming to the new initiate. Go ahead, call me a dolt for not being able to fully comprehend the literary genius of Thomas Pynchon but if this debut novel shares certain characteristics with his other works, consider me extremely apprehensive to seek out anything else written by him--his esoteric style is just not my cup of earl-grey.

I wish Pynchon had focused more on the character of Benny Profane--the self proclaimed "schlemiel" who drifts around New York, working odd jobs (ex: alligator hunting in the sewers), adopting a bohemian lifestyle--or on the other eccentric members of the "Sick Crew" such as Pig Bodine and Slab (an artist who only paints cheese danishes). These sections are often very amusing in a bizarre way. However, the novel becomes increasingly frustrating when it switches to the character of Stencil who is searching for "V" in the hopes of discovering her true identity. He comes across various clues and then provides a "Stencilized" version of the evidence, which in turn, provides Pynchon the opportunity to write some of the most self-indulgent, convoluted and pedantic prose that I have ever encountered. His vocabulary and encyclopedic knowledge is impressively vast (even more astounding is that he wrote this novel at the age of 26!) but these Stencil chapters come across like stylistic masturbation.

If I disliked the novel so much then why give it 2 stars? Again, Benny Profane is a wonderful character and his chapters along with other members of the "Sick Crew" (of course, excluding Stencil) were the most rewarding aspects. Also, there is a "great" novel buried deep somewhere in this ambitious monstrosity but it will require a great deal of effort on the part of the reader to dig for it: a thorough analysis of each chapter would be a start. Good luck.

It's Monday! What are you Reading?

Happy Civic holiday fellow Canadians! It's not a statutory holiday but I'm celebrating it as one because I finally get a day off, which means, it's time to catch up on some reading. Thanks again Sheila from Book Journey for hosting this weekly meme. 

Last week I finished Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky but have been too intimidated to write a review for it yet. It's a huge multifaceted novel and it is difficult not to write something about it and come across as redundant. 

Right now I am slowly making my way through Thomas Pynchon's V.  

Yikes, this is proving to be one of the most challenging reads in recently memory. Not only is it disorienting stylistically, but it is also downright baffling at times. There are times when I seem to grasp what is going on but then the wacky narrative shifts to more abstruseness or Pynchon loses me with historical references, cryptic passages, the multitude of characters or jarring points of reference. Despite my endless frustrations, there is something strangely alluring about Pynchon's esoteric writing. He's obviously a very smart man with an expansive vocabulary and an encyclopedic mind but it can be very overwhelming at times. As his first novel, I fear that it might turn out to be an exercise in style; a young author attempting to push the boundaries of post-modernism. I find that the novel is more enjoyable if I stop wracking my brain over all of the incomprehensible details and just let the prose wash over me. Oddly enough, the more I read, the more it begins to makes sense. Sorta. I am still uncertain whether he can sustain a 600 page novel and I constantly waver between abandoning it or continuing on to the end. Hmmmm...

Has anyone else read this (or anything else by Pynchon for that matter) and can provide me with reassurance that it is worth the effort?

Dangling Man by Saul Bellow

"Life is hard. Vae victis! The wretched must suffer."

This is Saul Bellow's first novel and there is the pervasive sense that he was still in the process of developing his craft. It lacks the author's usual fluid prose, charm, wit and pathos. Instead, the writing is cold, stagnant and purposefully self-indulgent. The novel does have its brief moments of inspiration and philosophical insight but even at 140 pages, the prose is very slow to read through. Nothing of real significance happens in the story, although that is the author's intention--the protagonist named Joseph (no last name is ever given) finds himself stuck in perpetual limbo; his unstable and disenchanted mind is influenced by prolonged idleness as he waits to be drafted into the army. 

At the beginning of the novel,  Joseph feels the need to defend the art of journal writing to himself and by association, the reader as well: 

There was a time when people were in the habit of addressing themselves frequently and felt no shame at making a record of their inward transactions. But to keep a journal nowadays is considered a kind of self-indulgence, a weakness, and in poor taste. For this is an era of hardboiled-dom. (1)

Keeping a diary or a journal has often been perceived as a feminine activity (writing about one's 'feelings' is not considered manly) and Joseph attempts to subvert this gender stereotype by advocating its value as an effective means of self-reflection; a way to make sense of the external world. After being rejected from being inducted into the army, he ironically perceives that the journal entries will be a way to reassert his masculinity--in essence, great men don't have to commit heroic deeds on the battlefield; they can also be recognized as 'great thinkers.' Joseph finds himself conflicted over choosing the contemplative or active life although it becomes explicitly clear which path he decides to take by the end of the novel. Thus, the entire novel consists mostly of Joseph's introspective musings and inner dialogue--the perfect literary platform for Saul Bellow who enjoys exploring human consciousness and grappling with complex philosophical ideas. Unfortunately, the narrative's deliberate torpidity is  aggravating; the self-reflective, metaphysical concerns far too excessive. Dangling Man seems like a precursor to Herzog in aesthetic approach (the latter engages in letters) but obviously not as polished or self-contained.

With the outbreak of WWII, Joseph is living in an age of "hardboiled-dom" filled with violence, destruction and chaos. Men are supposed to enlist in the army and join the fight overseas instead of being like Joseph--staying indoors, scribbling in their diaries, acting indolent or wandering around aimlessly. Then again, Joseph is not entirely to blame since it is not that he does not want to join the army to fight for the freedom of his country--they made a mistake assessing his application form and there was some kind mix-up so now he has all this extra time before re-enlisting. He loses track of time and soon cannot distinguish between the different days of the week. He becomes isolated, wholly preoccupied with his own thoughts where suffering from estrangement eventual leads to bizarre behavior, psychological break-downs and even outbursts of violence.

The novel covers a wide variety of subjects including morality, death, reason, imagination, ideal construction vs. the real world, the power of art but it strongly emphasizes the universal human struggle for freedom. Or as Joseph calls it,  "pure freedom" which is the penultimate human quest: 

We are all drawn toward the same craters of the spirit--to know what we are and what we are for, to know our purpose, to seek grace. And, if the quest is the same, the differences in our personal histories, which hiterto meant so much to us, become of minor importance. (114)

Whether it is a a type of self-imprisonment as experienced by Joseph or the structural functionalism of society, I am inclined to agree with this eloquent and profound statement. As individuals, we are constantly struggling to free ourselves (both internally and externally), desperately trying to find purpose to this incomprehensible concept called 'life.' Perhaps it is love, a career or religion that gives life meaning but it is all subjective. For Joseph, it seems that art and the imagination might be the answer but the novel remains ambiguous on this issue.

Even though Dangling Man is disappointing in many different aspects, it still showcases a young author in the transition of becoming a great writer. Learning from his mistakes and developing his own voice, Saul Bellow will later go on to establish himself as one of the great American writer's of the 20th century. Besides, nobody's perfect.

This novel is part of my Saul Bellow Project. 

It's Monday! What are you Reading?

Thanks again Sheila from Book Journey for hosting this weekly meme! This is a great way to share what you are reading at the moment with other book bloggers, help plan your reading week and perhaps even get recommendations. 

Right now, I am completely immersed in this novel:

I still can't believe it took me so long to finally get around to reading this Russian classic. Perhaps it has something to do with the wonderful translation by Peaver/Volokhonsky because I did attempt to read the Constance Garnett version years ago only to abandon it because something about the prose didn't seem to work for me. This is like an entirely different novel. Even though I am only a 1/4 through, it is safe to claim that it is a masterful and I can already anticipate that it will become one of my favorites.


What is everyone else reading?

A Passage to India by E.M. Forster

“Adventures do occur, but not punctually.”

Sometime in the early 1900's, a young English woman named Adela Quested arrives in India accompanied by the elderly Mrs. Moore with the the prospect of marrying her son, a government official stationed at Chandrapore. Adela has a romanticized idea of the East only to be severely disappointed upon discovering that the British Raj is a painfully dull place without any excitement. She longs to see "the real India" but her circle of European colonizers find her request oddly amusing since they perceive the natives with racist and discriminatory attitudes. They cannot fathom why a rich young woman is at all interested in associating herself with primitives rather than forming relationships with her own people: "Why, the kindest thing one can do to a native is to let him die," said Mrs. Callendar (27). This is just one of the many derogatory remarks aimed at Indians and their culture throughout the novel. The only people other than Miss Quested who are more open minded about British-Indian relations is Mrs. Moore and Mr. Fielding--the latter being one of the more important figures in the story who rejects British imperialism on account of defending his Indian friend, a doctor named Aziz who is convicted of sexually assaulting Adela during an excursion up in the Marabar caves. This causes the racial tensions to escalate even more dramatically. The British are quick to believe that the India man is guilty because of course, he's an uncivilized minority and it is in his nature to act immorally towards women. Aziz is given the due process of law but something unexpected occurs during the trial that radically disrupts British authority in India. 

Certainly, one could do a close-reading and examine the precarious relationship between east and west, social hierarchy, the emergence of nationalism or even gender (especially in relation to the Indian "purdah" where women are not allowed to be seen in the presence of men during social situations) but that seems unnecessary for me to do considering my aversion to this novel.

A Passage to India has so much potential to achieve greatness but fails to deliver an engaging story with convincing characters; the depiction of colonialism is oversimplified; the narrative takes many nonsensical digressions and Forster gets far too carried away with his excessively pompous style of prose. Many claim that his writing is poetic but I find it downright obnoxious and annoying. Enough already with the colorful descriptions of the hot weather and the landscape. Yes, India is known for its sweltering temperatures, we get it. You made that painfully clear the first twenty-seven times, Mr. Forster. Not to mention, a lot of the narrative is confusing or incoherent because he is keen to bombard to reader with an onslaught of extraneous details (sometimes stretching for several pages), which makes the story such an incredible chore to get through. Talk about a snore-fest.

Perhaps this novel created some controversy when it was published in 1924 since Forster is fairly critical of British imperialism but it seems severely dated. Its status as one of the great novels of the 20th century and high praise from many readers is baffling to me. Forster's writing is priggish and dull. Sure, there are brief moments of insight or beauty but not enough to sustain the entire narrative. After being disappointed with Howards End and now this one, I have no intention of reading anything else by E.M. Forster in the near future.

This novel is part of my Classics Club Challenge.