Book Fourteen - Breakfast of Champions

'

So I had started this book, gotten almost through with it, and then it apparently fell under my bed and got covered in dust bunnies for about two months. So I picked it up, dusted it off, and finished it on this quiet Sunday night. If you've been reading my previous posts, you know my deep and abiding love for Kurt Vonnegut is as great as my deep and abiding love for Haruki Murakami, and this book just makes me ache for him. He is one of those authors that infuse themselves into their books, and it's impossible to untangle the fictitious story and the reality Vonnegut was grappling with. In my opinion, this is his saddest book, his most personal book, a book written in a crisis. I don't think there's another modern author who can draw back the curtain on modern life and make you feel it's loneliness and absurdity more keenly. After all, who hasn't felt like Lancer, the wretched greyhound, who, "had a very small brain, but...must have suspected from time to time, just as Wayne Hoobler did, that some kind of terrible mistake had been made."

I don't really want to say much more about this book. It would kind of feel wrong to dissect it apart, and like Vonnegut says, it's not your normal kind of book, with plots and story arcs and personal triumphs. It's hilarious and terrible and bizarre: no one else, no one would think to describe the word schizophrenia as being like a human sneezing in a blizzard of soapflakes, and it DOES sound like that. How does he come up with this stuff? But Vonnegut was the master of dark humor, and this book got an extra shot of darkness.

'"This is a very bad book you're writing," I said to myself behind my leaks.
"I know," I said.
"You're afraid you'll kill yourself the way your mother did," I said.
"I know," I said.'

That's all I got, folks.

In summary: This book is like a kick to the chest, but when you put it down you realize some hope managed to sneak in along with the pain. Resquiat in pace, KV.

Book Thirteen - Brave New World

Apocalyptic fiction has got to be one of my favorite genres of literature. It allows for such creativity and the imagining of entirely different worlds, radically different societies, but is somehow much more powerful (for me, anyway) than simple scientific fiction. Apocalyptic fiction, after all, is not set on a distant alien planet, but on our own, in our own futures. And so, as much as we marvel and even mock the strangeness of these future societies, you can't help but ask yourself, "Could we ever get there?"

If I had to pick out the most likely apocalyptic landscape, I would turn to Oryx and Crake, by Maragret Atwood. The fact that it is not on THE LIST is a crime against literature; this book is brilliant, and I cannot stress reading it enough, especially if you work in any scientific field. If I had to hedge my bets, I'd say the world was going to end just in the way Atwood described. In the few years since she published it, we're already moving further into the crazy GMO, science, and virus obsessed 'utopia' she imagined. But I'm not here to talk about Oryx and Crake, I'm here to talk about Brave New World, which is another apocalyptic fiction that I could see coming true all too easily. While 1984 is terrifying and plausible, I cannot imagine our society transforming into a society like that unless a major global catastrophe happened which would circumvent our love of personal liberty and replace it with a desire for security. Brave New World is a much more plausible scenario- it seems only logical that a society of endless distraction and pleasure would be more stable than a society based on repression and secret killing. There are three pillars of the society in Brave New World that I think would ensure its longevity- soma, which eliminates not only bad feelings but also the capacity to treat them as something serious, conditioning, which the book proves to be an almost unshakable force, and the deportation of all who resist the first two measures to Islands, where they will be isolated and have their intellectual curiosities met, effectively neutralizing them as a threat to society. No random midnight killings, no bombings, no torture - this society of weird electric golf and pornography seems rather tame in comparison your normal post-apocalyptic wasteland. But you can see how this sort of thing can sneak up on you- and we can already see it somewhat in our society, with our excessive pursuit of leisure, material goods, and artificial happiness (i.e drugs, alcohol, American Idol). Slippery slope?

Anyway, I could talk about the brilliance of this book forever and ever, but I think the most mind-blowing scene is by far the conversation of between the Savage and Mustapha Mond. It's not dissimilar to the scene between Winston and O'Brien in 1984, the old tried and true "villain explains to his helpless victim the Great Evil Scheme," but this conversation is different. Mustpha Mond clearly treats the Savage as an equal, despite their vastly different situations, and overall it reads like a pleasant chat between two friends on the finer points of philosophy. But of course, it's not. It's nothing less than the fundamental argument between two vastly different ways of life: the sentimental past (argued by the Savage) and the rational future (argued by the Commander). And you're supposed to hate Mond, he's the Bad Guy, but you can't help but see that he's perfectly right, in everything he's saying. It's just such a brilliant exchange, I wish I could quote it all, but I particularly loved the bits about religion, so here...

'"Then you think there is no God?"

"No, I think there quite probably is one."

"Then why?..."

Mustapha Mond checkered him. "But he manifests himself in different ways to different men. In premodern times he manifested himself as the being that's described in those books. Now..."

"How does he manifest himself now?" asked the Savage.

"Well, he manifests himself as an absence. As if he wasn't there at all."'

Brilliant. So one last point; whenever I read these kind of books, you feel bad for the poor people in them, like Lenina, who are clearly off their rockers but can't do anything about it because of their conditioning and society and blah blah blah. But today I was reading about modern dictatorships for class and thinking about this book and realizing that we've probably been "conditioned" too, in different ways, so subtlety that we don't even realize it. I'm not saying we were all forced to listen to a thousand repetitions of "Buy McDonalds hamburgers," in our sleep, but in some ways the control modern society has over us probably makes us a lot more like Lenina than we think. Scary thought...

In summary: This book was published in 1932. Unless you are under the age of thirteen or illiterate, you have no excuse for not reading it yet. Get on it.

Book Twelve- Sputnik Sweetheart

So since it was my first week back to work, I decided to choose something short and sweet and farmiliar from THE LIST, which led me straight back to Haruki Murakami. I was thinking, I'm really glad I decided to re-read books from the list that I had already read once, because books like this I can remember reading, but can't remember the plot or anything significant that happened, and rereading it is like...I don't know, almost like when you're having a dream and then you wake up and realize that you've had the dream before? That's a flowery way to put it, I guess, but blame Murakami, he puts me in that mood.


Sputnik Sweetheart is about three people living in Japan and connected by love: The narrator, who goes only by K, falls in love with his best friend Sumiere, an eccentric writer who dreams of becoming a famous novelist. Sumiere, however, meets and falls in loves with the mysterious Miu, a woman much older than her and with a dark secret. When their three lives intersect on a small Greek island, very strange things begin happening, and then, like in all Murakami novels, the confusion begins!


You know I love this book, for all the reasons I love Kafka on the Shore and everything else Murakami has written - it's beautiful, makes you think, and doesn't have to make sense to be evocative. In a way, it's one of his simpler books - the plot centers around only these three characters and doesn't deviate much. In fact, for about the first 3/4 of the book you can even pretend that the plot makes sense, but then of course that's all shot to hell once he really gets going. Parallel universes and snow-white hair and mysterious music and doppelgangers in small French towns? This man is insane and I love it.  And I must admit, one of the few television shows I do keep up with is Fringe (which, if you are a science dork like me, you should start watching IMMEDIATELY) and so I started grinning a little when all the talk started about of doubles from other worlds messing around with our lives.


Okay, and one other thing I've noticed about Murakami- I don't think he's ever painted a loving family relationship. If he has, I can't remember, and I've read most of his books. In most of the stories, the protagonist either gets along fine with his family, but feels like he doesn't belong (they are simple, uncomplicated people and he is in a Murakami novel, so of course he's insane and crazy things are happening to him)  or they are cold and hostile (Kafka on the Shore, for example.) It's an interesting trend, and it doesn't stop with this book.....there's no terrible mistreatment, but parents really don't figure in at all, and K especially feels alienated from his own family and in fact alienated in the world. For Murakami, the biggest thing to know about any of the family members of the main characters is that Sumiere's dad has one hell of a nose. 


In summary: Short, sweet, confusing, 100% Murakami to the core and full of wonderful observations about longing, friendship, "rock hard erections" and the other world. Haruki Murakami strikes again!

Books Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven

Well. My winter break is already drawing to a close and unfortunately that means my life is about to be become crammed to the seams with work and travel and general fatigue again, but at least I feel a little more rested after the last two weeks of lovely, lovely sloth. I finished probably about eight books this break, but only four of them were on the list. C'mon, when you're sitting around with a beer watching the snowstorm, it's sometimes hard to put down the cheap thriller and pick up the dense 18th century novel, am I right? Still, overall pretty productive, so without further ado....


Book Eight: Oroomoko, by Aphra Behn

Wow, is this an old book. 1688! This might be the oldest book I've ever forced myself to read, excluding everything I've translated from Latin and that one horrible time I was forced to read the Odyssey. This does make me a bit of a book ageist, I admit, but I have such trouble accessing the story when it's so cleverly hidden behind these stiff fortresses of language. In this book, all the nouns are capitalized. That being said, it was one of the better of the four books, because it was a simple story, short, and very engaging. Oroonoko, a great Prince in his native country, falls in love with the beautiful Imoinda. However, their happiness is soon disturbed by his elderly grandfather, who steals Imoinda away for himself. Various intrigues ensue, including a bedroom break-in and peddling of sexual favors, before both Oroonoko and Imoinda are tricked into slavery and are shipped to the New World.

This book was fascinating to me on several respects: One, it was written by a women. Just skimming THE LIST, I would venture a guess to say that less than 5% of the books overall were written by women. Maybe less. I don't know whether we can blame that on a historical patriarchy or just conclude that women didn't have enough time or education to complete great masterworks, but I did find it fascinating that a book this old and well-recieved could be written by a women, even in those decidedly unprogressive times. Secondly, the attitude towards religion is fascinating. Seventeenth century Europe was nice and progressive compared to the Middle Ages, sure, but if you weren't practicing some form of Christianity chances are life wouldn't end well for you. Not only does Behn assert that Oroonoko is perfectly moral, noble, and good without religion, but through him she attacks the Christian religion and God, saying that if men use His name to perpetuate such evil, he must not be a mighty god at all. Similarly, she speaks of not wanting to teach the natives of the New World Christianity, saying, "Religion wou'd here but destroy the Tranquility which possess," which I think at the time was about as radical as saying that she wanted to ride around everywhere on an ostrich. Yikes. This is not to say the woman was running around waving the Abolitionist flag - in fact, she repeatedly asserts the reason she likes Oroonoko is because of his European-like manners, his European-like appearance, and his European-like sense of duty and honor, which puts him above the rest of the slaves. 

The story itself is pretty simple, but with the themes of racism, intolerance, honor and love driving it, the (quite graphic) ending does pack quite a punch. And although its message is still tainted by the attitudes of colonialism, it does remain one of the first books of its time to treat a non-Caucasian protagonist with such reverence.

In summary: A great glimpse into the past for those who like Romeo and Juliet, excessive talk about honor, and capitalized nouns.

Book Nine: Saturday, by Ian McEwan

Okay, so I was still totally buzzing around on my Atonement high (see slightly hysterical post a few down) and was expecting to be dazzled yet again by McEwan's prose. Which proved ironic, because my main problem with this book was the prose. The vast, vast amount of prose. This book takes place over a single Saturday in a prominent London neurosurgeon's life. He wakes up, sees a plane on fire, has sex with his wife, gets in a minor car crash, plays squash, goes fish shopping, sees his mother, and then meets up with his family for what proves to be a very dramatic dinner. This may seems like a lot of activity, but this book is 290 pages long. And that is all that happens. This is the kind of thing that can be summarized in a few pages in another novel. Here, the majority of the novel can be taken up by Henry thinking about things. Henry loves to think. He just thinks and thinks. At one point, directly after the car crash, Henry thinks about the accident and other things for seven entire pages before even beginning to consider getting out of his car. See, that kind of thing pisses me off in a novel. Atonement had flowery and often exhaustive prose, yes, but the multi-narrative story and the riveting plot drove the reader along. Here, there is no plot to speak of, only a vague sense of uneasiness that is hardly enough to help me plod through another fifteen pages of Henry brooding about his age or the war or his sex life. Also, although the plot was centered around a huge anti-war protest happening in London, I thought the musings on terrorism and Islamic fundamentalism were out of place in a story about the wealthy forty-something doctor living in London. I understood what McEwan was trying to do with it- convey the message that although we may feel safe in our insulated lives, violence lurks at every edge and can suddenly intrude without our consent. It's a theme that works and probably the best take-away from the book, but I thought Henry's excessive focus on the Islamic aspects of this fear were overkill, even with the Iraq war and 9/11 lurking in the background of the book. Unless McEwan meant to imply that we are being taught to fear the wrong things? If that's the case, I concede the point to him. 

Okay, above rant aside, I did not hate this book. I was strongly, strongly temped to give up on it halfway when all the stuff above was overwhelming me, but since I had to finish it, I did, and the ending saved this book. I won't give too much away, but when Henry gets out of his head for five minutes and acts, the messages of the book come together wonderfully and I, at least, began to like him for the first time in the book. The finally surgery scene in particular was well done, and I think the book is worth it for that. Just plan on mucking through a lot of words to get there.

In summary: I spent 90% of the book hoping for the death of the main character so he would finally shut up, but in the end the book is an interesting look into the violence lurking at the edges of our comfortable world.

Book Ten: Timbuktu, by Paul Auster

Oh, man, I had high hopes for this book. Really I did. It was a book about a dog, and I am the world's biggest lover of dogs. It is no exaggeration to say that one of the best parts about being home for the holidays was getting tackled by my lovely mutt. On the other hand, I was worried about this book, because for some strange reason I am one of those people who can read about brain surgery and people getting pushed down stairs without a flinch (see above), but if a dog gets kicked in a novel I get all teary-eyed. This is such a problem that I still refuse to see I Am Legend because I heard (spoiler alert) that the dog dies. So I went into this book expecting a strong emotion either way and got....nothing, really.

This is a simple story. Dog has master, dog loves master, master dies, dog goes looking for new master. And Mr. Bones, the dog, really is a loveable character, and it is interesting that the book is told from his point of view. The real strength of this novel, I think, is the palpable feeling of love you can feel from Mr. Bones to his master. Everyone who's every owned a dog knows about the bond  I'm talking about, and Auster paints it beautifully from a dog's perspective. But once the beloved master dies, the storyline dies with it. With only the vaguest sense of plot - Mr. Bone's search for a new home - the book plods along unevenly, with no great revelations or particularly dramatic moments, and then stops suddenly and with no preamble. When I put down the book, I wasn't content or lost in thought, like I usually am when I finish a good book. I was confused as to why I had just read the thing. If there was a point, I couldn't find it.

Not to discredit Mr. Auster, but there is a short story I love told from a dog's perspective by one of my favorite people in the world, Dave Eggers. It was shared to me by a friend and I think it succeeds in bringing us into the world of a dog much more eloquently than this novel does. It is brilliant and heartbreaking. Read it right now.

After I Was Thrown In the River And Before I Drowned, by Dave Eggers

In summary: Yeah, I love dogs, and Mr. Bones loves his master, but what was the point?

Book Eleven: The Nun, Denis Diderot 

At last, close to the end! This is a lot of writing, whew. Alright, The Nun. I was expecting this book to be boring as hell. In parts, it was. What I was not prepared for was the excellent dialogue, drama, and crazy illicit lesbian romance. Jesus, this must have been a controversial book in its day. The plot centers around Suzanne, a young girl coerced into joining a covenant because she is prettier and smarter than all of her sisters and is getting in the way of marrying them off because she is so much better in every way. Oh, and also because she's the illegitimate offspring of her mom's fling with some asshole, and this is her mom's way of "atoning". Go Mom. Once she's in there, she's forced to take the vows of a nun, which she very definitely does not want to be. Forced into the convent, she rebels and begins a long fight to leave, which causes the other nuns to starve her, throw broken glass on her, insinuate that she was raping the young converts, spit on her, and tell everyone she was the devil. For a book written in the 1750's, this is the equivalent of a soap opera. 

For a book written by a man as a joke, this is a book that does deal quite deftly with the issue of a women's freedom - or rather, lack therof. From a modern standpoint, it's crazy that a girl's father could pay someone to lock her up in a nunnery, and despite years and years of protest and struggle, she still couldn't escape. This wasn't a house of God, it was a prison. This is also a really great study of group mentality and the absolutely batshit things people do when they've trapped in close quarters with nothing to do but pray all day long. Although I sometimes wanted to give Suzanne a good shake (the girl is more innocent than some five year olds I know) I had to admire her tenacity and her refusal to bow to her circumstances. 


In Summary: I was excepting to read a terribly dry book about some devout old woman knitting, or something, but instead I get this sharp, thought-provoking and terribly entertaining novel. Might have to rethink that prejudice I have against "old" books...




Whew. 1% DONE!! This is gonna take a long time. Alright. Off to enjoy my last night of freedom. Happy New Year, everyone!