Herta Müller is the latest to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. That in itself does not ensure that her books are great. This book was a dud... it jHerta Müller is the latest to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. That in itself does not ensure that her books are great. This book was a dud... it just sucked. A bunch of Germans live in Romania under Ceausescu's dictatorship and they want to move to Germany but can't get passports... well they can, it's just not easy. Whoring your daughter though is good for passports and it helps if your daughter was already a whore. Mother was too. And there's an owl that flies around informing the village of death. And a bunch of bleak, depressing images. And flour. And a church with it's door locked. And Windisch and his bicycle.
She writes this book kind of like a Dick and Jane book. Short sentences. To the point... for instance... There were grey cracks between the blinds. Amalie had a temperature. Windisch couldn't sleep. He was thinking about her chewed nipples.
It's a short book. Time wasted was short. It bored me. Bleakness is bleak. I hope her other books are better. I'll give her another chance. Herta looks cool. I credit her with coolness. I now end this review....more
1. A man is escorted into a building. The security camera captures him entering. He is questioned over some sort of alleged corruption in the governme1. A man is escorted into a building. The security camera captures him entering. He is questioned over some sort of alleged corruption in the government. Questioning is a physical process. Early the next morning he is found dead. The security camera did not capture his death.
2. A blogger writes about the government's wrong doing and backs it up with documentation. In the early morning hours the secret police enter his house and he is thrown in jail. No trial. No questions.
3. A young man, son of a prominent businessman, is frustrated with his life. He feels trapped in a police state. He wants to change things. The secret police believe that there is an impending atrocity. Everyone is guilty but not everyone can be questioned. They hone in on the young man and his father. One thing leads to another. One can only move forward. It's destiny, and destiny is the leader of the secret police.
The first two situations are real. They happened recently on the planet I live on. The third situation takes place in Imre Kertész's Detective Story. This is a book that is probably more relevant today than when it was first published in Budapest in 1977. The current situations in the world have made everyone a little paranoid. We've all become a little neurotic, some severely psychotic. Unfortunately, it is the latter that generally rule our domains.
Detective Story is part horrific and part heartwarming. It is a comedy of errors. It is also a more enjoyable read than Liquidation. Plus, Kertész uses the word 'thingy' often. You just have to love a Nobel Prize winner that uses the word 'thingy'. I highly recommend this book to anyone who hasn't read any Kertész.
I'll be quiet now. I've probably talked too much......more
So this guy really likes bread because during or right after WWII he was poor and hungry. And he really hates his job. He fixes washing machines. And So this guy really likes bread because during or right after WWII he was poor and hungry. And he really hates his job. He fixes washing machines. And he likes the boss' daughter. Then he meets a girl he used to know when he was younger and he goes crazy with love. He really likes bread. He really hates his job. He doesn't like his boss' daughter anymore. And he remembers things. I think he should die. The dying part is how I ended the book.
Böll does interesting things with weaving color throughout his description. Green is a good color. And he kept the book short. And he made me want to eat bread. That's 3 things... so three stars....more
3 short stories though the titled story was a little long. A Japanese Beckett. That's what Kawabata felt like. An old man sleeps with drugged out slee3 short stories though the titled story was a little long. A Japanese Beckett. That's what Kawabata felt like. An old man sleeps with drugged out sleeping beauties and their smell, touch, beauty remind him of days past.
One story, 'The Arm', was twisted, surreal, and sad. A girl removes her arm and let's a man take it home. They have a pretty nice relationship until he removes his arm and attaches hers.
The other story.... birds die and a man frets. Unlike Beckett, no one shit their pants. That was disappointing. Thus 4 stars only....more
A book of short stories that offers a sampling of two great writers, Yasunari Kawabata and Yasushi Inoue.
The title story, The Izu Dancer is by KawabatA book of short stories that offers a sampling of two great writers, Yasunari Kawabata and Yasushi Inoue.
The title story, The Izu Dancer is by Kawabata and is about a small troupe of traveling performers and a student infatuated with their young drummer girl. A beautiful little piece.
Inoue's contributions include The Counterfeiter, Obasute, and The Full Moon. All three stories deal with separation, loneliness, and alienation. Inoue takes the isolation, the loneliness of the character... a minor chord... and strokes it into the beautiful riff of nature. If he were a musician, he'd be singing the blues... with a smile as he looked out in his mind's eye over the mountains in the early autumn.
Kawabata is no stranger to me and I love his work. Inoue is fast becoming my newest friend in reading....more
A married man goes to the mountains during spring deep in the snow country, the north western mountain region of Japan. He is an idler. Wealthy. A citA married man goes to the mountains during spring deep in the snow country, the north western mountain region of Japan. He is an idler. Wealthy. A city man from Tokyo. Coming down from the mountains and into a inn he meets a geisha and his soul is stirred. And though he revisits the inn during the years that follow, both he and the geisha know that the relationship is but a wasted effort.
Kawabata takes a simple relationship between a man and a woman and melds it into their natural environment and seasonal setting. They become the snow that falls, the turning maple leaf, the isolated village, the shadowy mountains, and in the end... the milky way. Reading Kawabata is reading poetry in prose. He is not about complicated plot lines. His books are not, and should not, be 'page turners'. They should be read slowly, each line savored... only then might you feel what it's like for the entire Milky Way to roar into your being.
I was in Kyoto last week and visited Takayama and the mountains surrounding that area. I brought with me Blood Meridian for the brutal contrast of time and place. Back home, Kawabata came to mind and I picked this book up and scenes from the book echoed some of the places I saw and experienced. When travels and fiction meet, a sort of magic occurs.
[image]
From behind the rock, the cedars threw up their trunks in perfectly straight lines, so high that he could see the tops only by arching his back. The dark needles blocked out the sky, and the stillness seemed to be singing quietly.
[image]
The air in the earthen-floored hallway was still and cold. Shimamura was led up a ladder before his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. It was a ladder in the truest sense of the word, and the room at the top was an attic... although there was but one low window, opening to the south...
[image]
"Listen! The crows. That frightening way they sometimes have. Where are they, I wonder? And isn't it cold!" Komako hugged herself as she looked up at the sky.
[image]
Following a stream, the train came out on the plain....more
Loss of honor, loss of virtue, loss of innocence, loss of life, loss of the facts... much was lost in this little book.
Bayardo marries Angela. BayardoLoss of honor, loss of virtue, loss of innocence, loss of life, loss of the facts... much was lost in this little book.
Bayardo marries Angela. Bayardo on his honeymoon night realizes that Angela is no Angel, pure and simple, pun intended. Angela names her violator, poor Santiago. And poor Santiago gets butchered.
And don't worry, these are not spoilers. You learn all of this in the first few pages.
Told by an old friend years after the event took place, this is the chronicle of a death foretold... as the title of the book might suggest.
Seems everyone in town knew who, where, why, when, and how Santiago was going to get it... except for poor Santiago.
An excellent little book by an excellent writer. Read it....more
'I read a book one day and my whole life was changed. Even on the first page I was so affected by the book's intensity I felt my body sever itself and'I read a book one day and my whole life was changed. Even on the first page I was so affected by the book's intensity I felt my body sever itself and pull away from the chair where I sat reading the book that lay before me on the table.' Light surging from its pages illumines his face: 'Its incandescence dazzled my intellect but also endowed it with brilliant lucidity.' The book seems to be about him, so that 'my point of view was transformed by the book, and the book was transformed by my point of view.'
Pamuk is a writer that helps me understand why I like reading; for the discovery of ideas, cultures, language, worlds, and most importantly, self. When reading his novels, the space and things around me just disappear. His plot lines are at times tenuous, something seen peripherally, weaving in and out of focus. I don't read Pamuk for the pleasure of a well-crafted story-line (though I do find the story-lines well-crafted). I read him for his style. He continually pulls me into his writing. I can't leave his books alone once started and when finished, cannot easily forget them.
'A good book is something that reminds us of the whole world - Perhaps that’s how every book is, or what each and every book ought to be.'
In The New Life, Osman (maybe that's his name), reads a book (also called The New Life) that completely changes his life and propels him on a quest to find the meaning of the book, and life. Along the way he falls in love, aimlessly travels on buses, visits bus crashes to walk among the dead and dying, hunts down spies code-named after watch brands, and he speaks to the Angel for guidance and absolution.
'Some went into solitude with the book, but at the threshold of a serious breakdown they were able to open up to the world and shake off their affliction. There were also those who had crises and tantrums upon reading the book, accusing their friends and lovers of being oblivious to the world in the book, of not knowing or desiring the book, and thereby criticising them mercilessly for not being anything like the persons in the book’s universe.' . . .
DAMN! I wrote the above with 50 pages left to go. Well, I just had lunch unknowingly eating a chicken pie as I pored through the final pages. When I closed the book I found myself fighting back tears, not tears for the characters in the book, tears for myself. It's more than puzzling to me. Magical words these were. And although I immersed myself in the first 250 pages enjoying every single word I was not fully aware what the story was about. I had a hint. I imagined. I guessed. And then the last 50 pages. And then the last 2 pages. Nothing is black and white. I still can't tell you the secret to the mystery of The New Life. I only know that this book hit a nerve with me and I can only now appreciate Osman's (if that's his name) opening line... 'I read a book one day and my whole life was changed' and understand what it feels like to have 'my body sever itself and pull away from the chair where I sat reading the book that lay before me on the table'. I'm still shaking... . . .
The book is a labyrinth. There are hidden traps. The words deceive. The words tease. Pamuk plays games with text from other books by Jules Verne, Dante, Rilke, Ib'n Arabi... Comparing Pamuk to Borges? I can understand. This is not a book that I think many would appreciate or enjoy. It is filled with thoughts on Westernization, Islamic fundamentalism, Turkish nationalism... Ultimately, 'what is important [of a book:] is your own perception, what you read into it...'...more
This was my second Le Clézio book. Terra Amata, the Beloved Earth, is daunting. I would not recommend this as a starting point to reading Le Clézio's This was my second Le Clézio book. Terra Amata, the Beloved Earth, is daunting. I would not recommend this as a starting point to reading Le Clézio's works. It deeply troubled me, depressed me, made me close my eyes for a while and try not to think.
The beginning had an interesting scene when the young protagonist, Chancelade, plays with a bunch of potato bugs. It was a riveting scene that ended in tragedy.
The book follows Chancelade throughout his entire life as the headings of the chapters may indicate:
On the earth by chance I was born a living man I grew up inside the drawing the days went by and the nights I played all those games loved happy I spoke all those languages gesticulating saying incomprehensible words or asking indiscreet questions in a region that resembled hell I peopled the earth to conquer the silence to tell the whole truth I lived in the immensity of consciousness I ran away then I grew old I died and was buried
This is an experimental novel reminding me a little of Italo Calvino. There was a section written in morse code, a section in sign language, C: Open hand profile little finger down. Closed hand thumb crosswise. Closed hand thumb up. Hand profile index pointing up. Closed hand thumb and little finger up. This scene went on for 5 pages. And of course in the section called 'saying incomprehensible words' the dialog was something like this, "Woolikanok mana bori ocklakokok. Zane prestil zani wang don bang."
But even with it's quirky (yet effective) 'tricks', I found the book deeply depressing. The section 'I died' ripped me. I felt it was I breathing that last death rattle. And when I was finally buried, only then did I sigh with a bit of relief... at finishing this book.
Le Corbusier said that God was in the details. We are in the details. We are that pebble on the beach, the heart that was pierced on the battle field in 1812, the potato bug walking aimlessly around the sidewalk, we are the words of this book, the sun, the stars, the mole under the girls left breast, and that layer of rock between the granite and flint. This book is full of details.
I think having a beer with Le Clézio back in 1963 may have been a downer. But then, I am beer also, and I am the belch of relief after having one too many.
I gave it 4 stars for successfully messing with me....more
Once in a while I read a book that sparks my interest in the history and culture of the writer's country... well, more often than not that is the caseOnce in a while I read a book that sparks my interest in the history and culture of the writer's country... well, more often than not that is the case. And it is definitely the case with Naguib Mahfouz's books.
Written soon after the the June War of 1967, this book explores the post-1967 era of Egypt's history, an era of profound dismay, of reflection, of recrimination, of "looking back in anger". It is a short novel that takes place in a small Café. The Café is frequented by 3 young people and several older people. The young people periodically disappear and reappear. And their story of imprisonment, brutal interrogations, and betrayals is pieced together by the narrator.
This is a book that is still relevant today....more
If you really want to know, I’d rather not have been born at all. I find life very tiring. The thing’s done now, of course, and I can’t alter it. But If you really want to know, I’d rather not have been born at all. I find life very tiring. The thing’s done now, of course, and I can’t alter it. But there will always be this regret at the back of my mind, I shall never quite be able to get rid of it, and it will spoil everything. The thing to do now is to grow old quickly, to eat up the years as fast as possible, looking neither right nor left.
When a book begins with the above lines in the introduction written by the author you should immediately know that this will not be a book about hope, about the little wonders of life that make you smile and dance around happily while rejoicing about being alive on this planet, or about cuddly little bunnies that go hopping in fields of wildflowers. This is Le Clézio’s second novel and I am amazed he stuck around long enough to write more and ultimately win the Nobel instead of walking to the sea, submerging his little French head in the surf, and drowning himself.
Nine short stories of people who are tired of life, dead within, or just plain dying.
Like the two Le Clézio books I read earlier, this is a book that just goes on and on and on about the earth’s decay, about time and death, about hermetically sealed compartments, and about the overbearing sun...
The sun struck down vertically on his skull and on the ground. One seemed to hear the sound of its shafts, and they drove into the soil and stuck there, upright, making patches of tall, stiff grass. Paoli advanced through them, without parting them, without feeling them; but he heard them fall, the great rays of light, he heard them bursting round his feet with tiny, violent explosions, heavy drops possessed of fantastic speed, machine-gun bullets that had travelled about 150,000,000 kilometres.
The above is from the short story called The Walking Man and it begins by describing water dripping from a rag in the desolate apartment that Paoli lived in; 3 pages devoted to water dripping from a rag. When Paoli gets the rhythm of the dripping water embedded into his head, he leaves the apartment and starts walking to the beat of the drip. He walks for about the remaining 24 pages. That’s what you can expect from Le Clézio’s earlier work; hundreds upon hundreds of words describing the mundane, hundreds upon hundreds of words elevating the simplest scene into a universe where we are but a speck of dust baking in the heat of the sun.
My favorite story was called The Day Beaumont Became Acquainted with His Pain. Poor Beaumont had a toothache and it tormented him. He seeks ways to disown the pain but he soon becomes obsessed with the abscess and becomes the pain. This was a stressful little read. You felt the urgency of Beaumont to end his pain. I nearly put a gun to my head but then realized it was just my index finger pointing at my temple... and then the sun shot spears of scorching stainless-steel through my windows and I went and had a cold beer.
In A Day of Old Age, Joseph closely watches an old lady die. He wants to understand the pain she’s going through, to see what images death is projecting in her head, to breathe in her death rattle.
From A Day of Old Age... In forty years, or perhaps sooner, these will be words written by a dead man. And in two hundred years, in any case, nothing exists today, nothing of this second, will still be alive. When You’ve read this line, you must turn your eyes away from the mean little scrawl. Breathe, take a strong, deep breath, be alive to the point of ecstasy. Because soon, there won’t be much left of you.
And on that positive note I would just add that the writer of this uplifting piece exceeded his forty years and went on to win the 2008 Nobel Prize. It is a wonder, not his winning, but his living. ...more
Loading...
