Devin
Fantastic. I think these might be my new favorite Ito stories, particularly Slumber and The Spirit Flow of Aokigahara. There's the mildly cheesy Stephen King short story feel that I've always loved and which Ito makes into his own kind of monster, and since these stories are a little longer than his other it feels like he takes the time to breathe in the vibe and go crazy with the twists of the story. Occasionally I'd find myself questioning character's actions, but it didn't affect my enjoyment of the story. Ito said in the afterword that these weren't new story ideas but ones he'd pulled from old notebooks, and I like that they didn't get a proper form until now. It feels like they aged well before being sent out into the world.
This is my first time reading Woolf's nonfiction. I mean this word literally: she is a wonderful writer. She makes me think of something Rilke once wrote about being affected “by every creaking of the floorboards.” Reading Virginia Woolf makes the world feel as wondrous and colorful and witty and dangerous as a Studio Ghibli film. Reading Virginia Woolf feels like watching Spirited Away.
This may or may not be a perfect book; I'm not well-versed enough in modern feminism to judge Woolf's attitudes. But I read some of the predictions she makes, the kind of women writers she envisions in the future, and I feel like I've been watching them come true in the lives of the women writing today that I'm privileged enough to know.
My god, just read it. It's short and it's magic.
A coworker once told me “you can't find out everything about life by reading books.” He was absolutely right, but he missed something. You can't find out everything about life without reading books either. Life must be read and lived in conjunction. Kathryn Schulz has done both, and it shows. This is a wonderful story, an engaging and lovely piece of writing, and more importantly, it is wisdom. Schulz references ancient authors more than once, and the wisdom she lives and imparts through her words is the same wisdom they taught when they lived. I don't have any more words except just read it.
This book broke my heart, though more for Charlotte than for Werther. I don't like the idea of Werther as a tragic hero, but his “voice” is absolutely gorgeous, and the book itself is short enough that I didn't feel overwhelmed by Werther's point of view (and even Goethe acknowledges that Werther is “unstable”). With that in mind, the ending was so horrifying yet so well done that the cliche of comparing it to Greek tragedy is all I'm left with. I would definitely read this again if I wanted a moody/Mary Shelley vibe to my day
I wrote a long, heartfelt review. I didn't mean to because I'm doing this on my phone, but I got too excited. I was just about to write a tl/dr, when the app crashed. I'm too sleepy to try and repeat all of it from memory, so here's the tl/dr:
This book has changed my life. As a book, it's well-written, interesting, crazy, and surprisingly funny. But my main thing is that I have never felt more seen by an author in my whole life except for Rilke. I have never felt more understood. I feel myself getting carried away again so I'll stop.
Book is really good. If you don't like, that's perfectly fine, but I am a different person after reading it and it's really good.
If you only ever read one thousand-page, experimental, existential-crisis-inducing book, make it this one. Belongs in the same company as “Mrs. Dalloway” and “Ulysses.” I absolutely mean that. Maybe I'll come back and write a longer, more comprehensive review, but I've just finished this book and I am reeling and I just need to make sure it's clear that when I say this book is five stars, I mean every bit of it.
Okay, I'm going to go collapse in bed and feel the universe spinning around me for the rest of the night.
This was odd. Everything that every other review mentions is true, from the constantly switching perspective, to the lack of anything happening, yadda yadda. And for the first half of this book I was constantly ready to quit reading. I was sure it was going to be a three star read if I did finish it, because the setup is interesting and the writing, while occasionally insufferable, was actually fun to read. By the time I'd hit the halfway point, I was used to the switching perspectives and the tension and fear in the characters was starting to crank up.
I think the biggest problem with this book is a lack of proper editing. The worst parts for me are the ones where someone should have told Alam: “Listen, I love this, but it is not as effective when it goes on for a paragraph rather than a couple of sentences.” I think of the moments where this happens as Alam spinning off into the air. Like yes, it would be interesting to have a character think about how his flip flops will someday be cut up by people of color in another country to be made into something new and sold to white people again. Having him think this while he is desperately searching for his daughter feels like I was running and then someone took a baseball bat with the word “Digression” burned onto it and hit me in the head.
I loved the ending, because the journey in this book is not about the apocalypse, but rather how people act when the world is falling apart and they don't know what to do. In other words, most people's daily lives right now. I did not care about learning what was going on by the last third of the book, because I was wrapped up in the characters and how they each dealt with their panic and confusion differently. I don't want to know why people's teeth started falling out or what those planes were going to do or even what was happening with the world outside. That's not the point. The point is that all we can do is keep going, no matter how bad things get. That's why I'm giving it four stars. It should not have spent so much time in digressions, especially in the beginning before the tension has even started, because that was a slog to get through. Once the tension starts, Alam has a restraint put on the wild word wanderings of his brain, and it becomes much more focused. I blazed through the last hundred pages of this and almost cried twice.
tl;dr A lot of work should have been done before this was published, but the final third was so good that it gets an extra star from me.
P.S. Reading the sex scenes in this book felt like I snuck into the pages of the Necronomicon. I'm glad I got to read it, but a part of my mind and soul has been forever damaged.
Though this still has the roots of modern poetry that so many find vapid and unnecessarily pretentious, there are two things that separate this book from so many best-selling (and poorly crafted) modern poetry books. First, erudition. Warren knows who and what she is referencing and why, and creates out of it a mishmash of mythology and vibes. Second, and this one feeds the first, passion. This was not something lazily churned out for money, and it shows. Even in the poems where Warren is at her most vague and abstract, she still makes sure to make the words on the page beautiful, something neglected by many poets (looking at you Atticus).
I must also admit my own bias. Between her videos and this book, Warren's example of living life with as much sacred beauty as can be found in every moment has had a lasting impact on me. It has been an aid to me as someone trying to live as a poet and a person with severe depression. Maybe I would be less partial to this book if it had not meant so much to me in the year or so since it came out. Maybe I would feel the same or even love it more.
Regardless, I want to give my honest feelings. This is not a perfect book. I know that and I think Warren does too. It is a beautiful book. It is a book that has had an effect on my soul. And that is more than enough for me.
Gorgeous, full of pain and joy and the smell of flowers and trees. George should never be forgotten. A beautiful example of queer literature from a time when that was a word full of malice, a time when this man lost his family because of who he was. I can either go on for paragraphs saying the same thing over and over, or I can stop here. Get a copy, if you are able. Any of George's work. I hope it changes your life as it has changed mine.
Exceptionally beautiful, expertly twined together. A gorgeous story that I was hesitant to read, foolishly fearing that it would be yet another case of an uncomfortable domestic situation poorly rendered. It was not. Everyone in this book meant something, and Ng treats them like that, allowing us to understand every single person in this book, to hear their thoughts and motivations, and to treat them like people.
Brilliant plot, brilliant characters, painful and powerful, oh my god.
One of my favorite kinds of writers, the kind that can make anything both beautiful and ugly at the same time, and has no qualms about doing so. I did not see a lot of the humor that other reviews have mentioned when reading this (though the comical absurdity of many of the situations was apparent), but this detracted from nothing. A writer that is not afraid to string you along, knowing that the pivotal moment will be well worth the worldbuilding, character development, the beautiful time spend in the world... that is an incredible thing, and available in spades here. Absolutely gorgeous.
Mesmerizing, upsetting, paranoia-inducing, moving from trains of broken logic to scenes from a shattered kaleidoscope, and ending in a last-act burst of madness and clarity that rivaled the films of Gaspar Noe. When I saw the number for the final chapter, I let out a burst of air that was half-fearful laugh, half-relieved sigh. My mind has been warped and my heart rinsed clean. I am so happy I read this.
Absolutely gorgeous. This was my first time reading The Odyssey and at first I was disappointed by how seemingly plain the poetry was. I have always fallen so easily for poetry that fans out its peacock feathers, delights in its elegance, and dances along the wind. Not to say that I am not a fan of simpler writing like Bukowski, Hemingway, and so on, but going into this book with the preconception that it would be an epic tale from thousands of years past, from one of the most famous poets of history, I had the assumption that the writing would fit my preconceived notions of grandeur. When this didn't pan out, I was sad and even considered not finishing it. I am so glad that I did. Once I had become accustomed to Fagles' and Homer's simple but fierce style of speaking, delighting in emotions and wonders and twists and turns, I fell in love. Though there is a lot of old-school sexism and masculinity baked into this story (along with their grossly casual acceptance of slave labor; yes, I know this is “how things were back then.” It does not make it less disturbing), this is not the sort of nonsense machismo with which we are inundated today. Men cry in this book, frequently. Goddesses rally men to battle while also serving as voices of reason. The bard, the song, the dance, are all placed in equal importance to the farmer, the laborer, the warrior. When the family is whole again at the end of the novel, I found myself tearing up along with all of the heroes of the story.
In terms of dealing with the gross stuff, I would compare reading this to reading John Milton. There is a lot of lip service paid to the backwards attitudes of the time, but more often than not the characterization contradicts this. Characters will talk about the inconstant hearts of women or such other misogynistic things, yet the characters thrown into the spotlight (such as Penelope and Eurycleia) not only debunk these ideas, they make the consideration of them a folly. Much like real life, characters will try and predict the actions of a person based on a group they belong to, only to be proven wrong because every character in this poem feels like a truly individual human.
tl;dr A wonderful translation of a wonderful story. Some parts are more upsetting to us today than they would have been when this poem was once performed, but the majority of the story is still incredible. I cried happy tears at the end.
Extremely valuable for a look beneath the surface. Price watching Reagan on the television and asking how someone can be involved in the horrible things that he did and act so nonchalant, not realizing that he could be describing anyone at the table but especially Patrick. To me, that was an explicit connection of the book's exploration... I cannot put a precise name to the group. Conservative is not the right word, nor liberal, democrat, republican, libertarian, cis, straight, white, male, though there is a lot that the book has to say about masculinity and what it condones in our society. I guess the best way to put it is that this book is for the sort of people who might say “I'm not racist, but...”
It shows us where that line of thinking will inevitably lead. It shows us where our fears and prejudices can lead, and will lead if they are not properly accounted for.
There is a scene where Patrick is talking to Jean and he begins to feel the thunderous cloud of his hatred and misanthropy and violent nihilism begin to lift, almost, wondering if he can “accept, though not return, her love” (379). I didn't mean for this to become an essay, but that entire chapter, especially the monologue that begins at the bottom of page 378 and ends at the top of 379, feels like Ellis showing us an out from the horribly bleak world he has shown us for the rest of the novel. And yes, Patrick dips right back into his old view, with the only sign of hope being that he still takes Jean out on dates and allows her to at least be near, if not in, his life. It's during that monologue that he realizes he does not know how to control her, how to own her as he does so many other women, and recognizes that she not only wants to, but potentially could, change him, control him. He could not only give up controlling her, he could relinquish that control to her. There is a reason this monologue is so near the end of the book, and I think that reason is so that Ellis could beat us over the head with Patrick's dull, annoying nature, his racism, xenophobia, misogyny, his incredibly graphic (to the point of being cartoonish; according to him, this man ripped open a woman's stomach with his bare hands) acts of violence... all of it. I've read this book before, and both times I have been utterly exhausted by the time I get to that one tiny spot of hope. The first time I read it, I didn't want Patrick to be saved, and was glad he was cursed to his pathetic existence. The second time, I realize that it is not Patrick that the novel is trying to rescue. Maybe I'm only thinking this way because the world has been so incredibly depressing for years now, but it felt like that monologue was my own. That somewhere in the bleakness, there is still room to find love.
Having written all of this, I know that I am just giving my own personal interpretation. You could read this book, for the first time or the tenth time, and get nothing from it but a vile collection of disgusting scenes. That's fine. It is a vile collection of disgusting scenes. But this time I got more out of it, and I guess I just wanted to tell you that.
Beautiful, wonderful, no criticisms, aaaaaaaaaa.
I know people like to tease this book by saying that it's like reading the Bible or something like that, but in my opinion that's one of its strengths. This tale is gorgeous and sweeping and it elevates your state of mind so high into the clouds that you feel like a divine being, watching these events transpire and the years roll on. Absolutely brilliant.
I think I have become spoiled by Stephen Mitchell's translation, as I've read the sonnets that he translated for “Selected Poems” and they had more of the magic that I fell in love with, as opposed to this Norton Translation. This was still beautiful, but it did not touch my heart the same way. I'll hold off on a full review until I do some more reading
I think this may have been my third time reading this book cover to cover. Honestly, I read it in spots constantly. I carry it with me everywhere, like Linus with his blanket. Whether it gives good luck or simply makes me feel safe, I'm not sure.
Rainer Maria Rilke is one of the few people that I can say is my favorite artist. You will never get my favorite movie, or book, or painting, or song, because they change constantly and I am never able to think of any single one as more meaningful than another. I love them all.
But Rilke holds this special place as my “favorite” poet. In the words of Marina Tsvetaeva, writing to Rilke on his deathbed in 1926: “You are not the poet I love most. ‘Most' already implies comparison. You are poetry itself.” I am inclined towards those sentiments. Rilke is the poet that spoke to the lost, confused, endlessly yearning child within me that was drawn towards beauty and the infinite without the slightest hint as to why. He helped me find where to step when I started down a hidden path that no one among my family or friends knew. He taught me that writing could be precisely what it wanted to be, and all that I had to do was listen. Listen and gather the world inside of myself and transform every Thing that I could carry. Do that, and perhaps there will be a few lines to show for it. Even if there aren't, life will become incredibly beautiful, and that was reason enough for me. Rilke taught me how to love myself, even though the wiring of my brain places me on the autism spectrum and has caused me more than a little trouble and alienation throughout my life. Rilke spoke to me as someone who understood, and could teach me to understand. This man's work is my life, not in the sense of obsession or possession, but in the sense that it is a part of me just as the hair on my head, or the shape of my nose.
I first read Letters to a Young Poet, over and over. That was how I found out about Rilke. When I decided I wanted to read his poetry, not just read him writing about poetry, I found this book. It changed my life, and I keep it with me wherever I go now.
It was a bizarre journey to read this directly after finishing “Man's Search for Meaning” by Viktor Frankl. To move from a book that was ultimately so positive and hopeful into one that is so broken and pained is a sobering experience. The more one reads about the Holocaust, the more it refuses classification, organization, or any attempt to simplify or understand it. Viktor Frankl found that a person can survive anything so long as they have a meaning in their life, and spent the rest of this life spreading that message. Borowski survived, married his fiancé who had also survived, and then committed suicide three days after she gave birth to their daughter. I will not claim to know everything he was thinking and feeling at the time; I can't even begin to imagine.
This book does not revel in the horrors it presents, and that is what makes it harder to read than most books. If it dangled its horrors in your face, then it would feel exploitative, and that is something that is more familiar to people. You would have people outraged on one side, and enjoying it on the other. But these stories do not do that. By opening it, you have walked through a door into a place where you may see all the things that humans are capable of doing to each other. Most of the time, we think we have seen this before, but we're never aware of how other artists cover up the worst things, or hide them behind implication, have them happen offscreen in the movie. Borowski chooses to hide nothing. You have come into this place, you wanted to learn about this, so Borowski does the cruelest and wisest thing, and allows you to see it.
I am haunted by this book. I am also motivated to do all I can to make the world a better place, in whatever way I am able. I rarely encounter a book that I believe “everyone should read,” but this may be an exception.
My heart is heavy. In a good way, but still...
This is actually my third time reading this book. I've never read the 1831 version that used to be so popular (should really do that sometime), because this was the edition my professor specified in the first class for which I ever had to read this book. I read it again for a different class a couple of years later, and finally I picked it up yesterday to read it again, this time simply for myself.
It is such an ugly story, told with such a beautiful voice. This is a tragedy and a horror related to us by a voice that has not inured itself to tragedy and horror. Any scene of happiness that comes along in the narrative is given to us with such joy and wonder and sincerity that it is obvious that this is the state that the narrator would always stay in, given the opportunity. It is like reading the thoughts of an elf, so at home in beauty and yet never bored of it, always struck with delight at the sights, sounds, feelings that surround it.
That is what makes this different from any other horror/science fiction novel I have ever read. It feels so violating, so impure, because the voice describing these monstrosities feels more suited for poetry, the kind of poetry that makes someone happy to be alive and moving about in the world. To go with this voice as it is driven deeper and deeper into despair... It made my heart sink, and I finished the book only to stare at the ceiling, trying to collect myself. Yes, you can get the story from watching an adaptation, whether it be for stage or screen, but this, this experience, you can only get by reading the book. Make sure you're emotionally ready, but once you are: I cannot recommend this book enough. Genuinely one of my favorites.
Something that I love about Kafka is that I enjoy and feel spiritual experiences from reading him even if I have no clue what is going on in the story. Examples include “A Judgment” and “A Country Doctor.” These stories feel like the literary equivalent of a David Lynch short, and to try and parse out a meaning from them feels to me almost an injustice (though I could be naive in that respect). Even during stories where I can come up with an idea as to “the meaning of it all,” such as “In the Penal Colony” and “The Metamorphosis,” there still remains an underlying surrealism that carries with it a hint of unidentified menace. I find myself uncertain whether to laugh, cry, or hide. That is the beauty of these stories to me. I need a break from Kafka for the moment, but I am so excited that there is so much more of his writing I have not encountered yet.
While this is definitely a good book, reading it reminded me of the time I read The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. I can see that it is well-written, that it has valuable ideas in it, and that it wants the world to be a better place. It even moves itself in my favor by not trying to sell the idea that the world isn't so bad. If ever there was a concept where the very name drew me in, it would be Frankl's idea of “tragic optimism.” My only issue is that at no point could this book ever connect with me. I don't know why, and I don't know why The Alchemist gave me the same problem. I can tell it's good, and yet I don't care and don't feel any desire to ever read it again. It's almost upsetting because the explanation of logotherapy at the end of the book is fascinating, and the account of Frankl's experiences in the camps is harrowing. I want to be moved by this book. I want to love it more than I do. I just don't, and I'm not sure why.
There's not much that I feel qualified to say, and that doesn't usually stop me from saying a lot anyway but in this case it does. All that I can think of is that at certain parts of the book the question came to my mind: “Is this actually real or are these bits embellishments?” By the time I got to the end I realized it didn't matter. This is not a textbook. It is a memoir about trying to tell the world about humans subjected to dehumanization. It succeeds.