Literary Round-up
Rapid-fire! Are these reviews? Are these just disparate thoughts? They are whatever you want them to be.
This is very much not a book to be read in that fashion, because what Sjón is writing is a coherent narrative, yes, but one punctuated by historical allusion, and which pauses occasionally to make room for passages of creation myth and encyclopedic description of flora and fauna. It's a slew of parts which are at first disparate, but given time, will stew together and subconsciously combine after the actual reading of a chapter or more...
It takes place in 17th century Iceland, and follows this sort of physician/poet/scientist figure. Though I don't think he is ever called an alchemist, that is probably an apt comparison. Here is a man, intelligent and visionary, obsessed with the pursuit of truth and enlightenment, but one who does so in an age where religion and science are indistinguishable. And the two are indistinguishable for the reader as well—we witness the man chase a revived corpse across a swamp, for example. So it's historical fiction, sure, but a historical fiction which incorporates historical belief as real.
Anyways, the man is treated as a heretic, and exiled to a distant island. Here it becomes hard to describe what exactly Sjón is doing, because the book, as erudite as it is, is fundamentally emotional. It is about a tragic figure, a noble figure, about the brutality and unfairness of humanity (I won't go into detail, but we witness a massacre and its aftermath in the book. Its cause is senseless and the description of it effective, and those involved internalize it in a very human, sad way.), about truth and personal truth.
So it's a very human book, and I guess one that is just "about life," but it never descends into two-page philosophy monologue or obnoxious journey metaphor. It's here to communicate a personal vision, not to instruct on a mode of conduct.
Wow, I had more to say about it than I thought I would. I guess it's worth a reread.
This collection of short stories has the subtitle of "Fictional Nonfiction," which is actually pretty accurate. We might be inclined to call these stories pessimistic, but Klosterman doesn't seem to care about making the reader feel in any specific way. Instead, we are left with a shrug, a "that's just the way things are" that is held up by the stories' internal logic. It is truth, it is undeniable, and we can either read and confront it, or we can ignore it.
One of my favorite stories in here is "Toxic Actuality." It's only 5 pages, in which two professors talk about the current social conditions of higher education. A bleak picture is painted, but one that is hard to contest because, though Klosterman is criticizing student mindsets and expectations, he does so without politicizing, without invoking any sort of anti-SJW reactionary bullshit or trying to convince us. Instead, the story ends with:
"'Yes,' said Geoffrey. 'That's how it works now, and that's how it has always worked. You need to get over this.' And that was the end of the walk."
There are visions of the horror and the weird in here, black magic ritual butting up next to the realism of social rivalry within a prestigious MFA program. Somehow, it doesn't quite work for me. The surreal arrives often enough that I am unwilling to accept it as is. It is not just a narrative device employed to create a shift in the relations between characters, so I expect some sort of internal logic to it. Awad says "woah, wasn't that weird and creepy and funny?," and I say, "yes, I suppose so," but I am wanting to see more, I am wanting to see the consequences of the supernatural butting heads with the real, and instead it conveniently disappears into smoke.
Another thing: Awad situates this story at a prestigious university in a poverty-ridden city. She describes opulent architecture giving way to boarded-in houses and wandering homeless people. As someone going to school in Baltimore, that... hits close to home. But Awad's portrayal rubs me the wrong way. Her way of describing the contrast is one of fear. There is talk of beheadings in the campus area. At one point, she mentions a crackhead walking by our main character, and he has—gasp—a cobweb tattoo! And he looks scary! This imagery is strikingly juvenile, and undermines the idea that, oh, these are real people suffering in a fucked-up class division. Now, I'm not a saint. I understand the fear that Awad communicates. But she brings up issues of class way too often in the novel to default to such tepid statements.
Anyways. Awad is decently funny, there's a couple evocative images of horror in here, and there are elements that ring true. But in the end, I do not fucks w/ it.
From the Mouth of the Whale by Sjón
This book is...what? Less than 300 pages? Anyways, I started reading this book at the same time I started college. Long story short, my sleep schedule got fucked, and what would normally take a couple weeks to read took 4 months to read.This is very much not a book to be read in that fashion, because what Sjón is writing is a coherent narrative, yes, but one punctuated by historical allusion, and which pauses occasionally to make room for passages of creation myth and encyclopedic description of flora and fauna. It's a slew of parts which are at first disparate, but given time, will stew together and subconsciously combine after the actual reading of a chapter or more...
It takes place in 17th century Iceland, and follows this sort of physician/poet/scientist figure. Though I don't think he is ever called an alchemist, that is probably an apt comparison. Here is a man, intelligent and visionary, obsessed with the pursuit of truth and enlightenment, but one who does so in an age where religion and science are indistinguishable. And the two are indistinguishable for the reader as well—we witness the man chase a revived corpse across a swamp, for example. So it's historical fiction, sure, but a historical fiction which incorporates historical belief as real.
Anyways, the man is treated as a heretic, and exiled to a distant island. Here it becomes hard to describe what exactly Sjón is doing, because the book, as erudite as it is, is fundamentally emotional. It is about a tragic figure, a noble figure, about the brutality and unfairness of humanity (I won't go into detail, but we witness a massacre and its aftermath in the book. Its cause is senseless and the description of it effective, and those involved internalize it in a very human, sad way.), about truth and personal truth.
So it's a very human book, and I guess one that is just "about life," but it never descends into two-page philosophy monologue or obnoxious journey metaphor. It's here to communicate a personal vision, not to instruct on a mode of conduct.
Wow, I had more to say about it than I thought I would. I guess it's worth a reread.
Raised in Captivity by Chuck Klosterman
Since I'm basic, I am reminded of a distinctly American Kafka or Buzzati: it's got that type of conversational, understated tone; characters are not especially lovable or interesting, but they are there, they talk, they push the point of the story forward in spite of their plain insignificance in the face of greater currents; and of course, there is an overarching absurdism.This collection of short stories has the subtitle of "Fictional Nonfiction," which is actually pretty accurate. We might be inclined to call these stories pessimistic, but Klosterman doesn't seem to care about making the reader feel in any specific way. Instead, we are left with a shrug, a "that's just the way things are" that is held up by the stories' internal logic. It is truth, it is undeniable, and we can either read and confront it, or we can ignore it.
One of my favorite stories in here is "Toxic Actuality." It's only 5 pages, in which two professors talk about the current social conditions of higher education. A bleak picture is painted, but one that is hard to contest because, though Klosterman is criticizing student mindsets and expectations, he does so without politicizing, without invoking any sort of anti-SJW reactionary bullshit or trying to convince us. Instead, the story ends with:
"'Yes,' said Geoffrey. 'That's how it works now, and that's how it has always worked. You need to get over this.' And that was the end of the walk."
Bunny by Mona Awad
The writing style of this is very YA. Chapters are arranged as cliffhangers, we follow one character in first-person with a coming-of age bent, there's little references to pop culture thrown in... it's well done, just not my cup of tea. So, my bad, but I have a bias against this from the start.There are visions of the horror and the weird in here, black magic ritual butting up next to the realism of social rivalry within a prestigious MFA program. Somehow, it doesn't quite work for me. The surreal arrives often enough that I am unwilling to accept it as is. It is not just a narrative device employed to create a shift in the relations between characters, so I expect some sort of internal logic to it. Awad says "woah, wasn't that weird and creepy and funny?," and I say, "yes, I suppose so," but I am wanting to see more, I am wanting to see the consequences of the supernatural butting heads with the real, and instead it conveniently disappears into smoke.
Another thing: Awad situates this story at a prestigious university in a poverty-ridden city. She describes opulent architecture giving way to boarded-in houses and wandering homeless people. As someone going to school in Baltimore, that... hits close to home. But Awad's portrayal rubs me the wrong way. Her way of describing the contrast is one of fear. There is talk of beheadings in the campus area. At one point, she mentions a crackhead walking by our main character, and he has—gasp—a cobweb tattoo! And he looks scary! This imagery is strikingly juvenile, and undermines the idea that, oh, these are real people suffering in a fucked-up class division. Now, I'm not a saint. I understand the fear that Awad communicates. But she brings up issues of class way too often in the novel to default to such tepid statements.
Anyways. Awad is decently funny, there's a couple evocative images of horror in here, and there are elements that ring true. But in the end, I do not fucks w/ it.
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