Tagged: fiction
Ready Player One
Ready Player One: A Novel by Ernest Cline, 3/5
A dystopian setting in Planet Earth’s near future provides an interesting contrast to the steady stream of 1980s trivia in this homage to geek culture. It is, perhaps, unreasonable to complain about the preponderance of cliches and stereotypes in this novel, since Cline uses them effectively to create an exciting, page-turner story. However, the complete lack of character development, increasingly contrived plot, clumsy foreshadowing, excruciatingly poorly-written “love” angle, and lightweight ending complete with deus ex machina ultimately kind of killed it for me.
[Why I read it: I waited so long for this book to come in at the library that I’ve completely forgotten how I heard about it. Perhaps a friend told me about it?]
Personal Injuries
Personal Injuries: A Novel by Scott Turow, 2/5
This book has all the right components–characters with strong personalities and motivations, an exciting, page-turner plot about an undercover FBI agent working with a corrupt-lawyer-turned-informant to bring down a bevy of crooked judges, and expertise on the part of the author, who is himself a practicing attorney. However, the whole thing just didn’t work for me. The characters felt cliched and unreal, the plot melodramatically contrived and a bit gimmicky, and the writing style strained. The technical parts were a little dry, but infinitely preferable to the sexed up sub plot. I feel that the book should have been enjoyable, but I’m left just wishing I could get back the time I spent reading it.
[Why I read it: An acquaintance who is an attorney mentioned a different book, Burden of Proof, by this author, but the library didn’t have it.]
The Last Chronicle of Barset
The Last Chronicle of Barset by Anthony Trollope, 5/5
This sixth book in the Barchester Chronicles provides a satisfying, yet bittersweet, ending to the series. The main plot focuses on the unfortunate Reverend Josiah Crawley, an impoverished man of unbending integrity and crippling pride who is, to everyone’s shock, accused of stealing a cheque. Familiar faces abound in the subplots, which include the courtship of disgraced Grace Crawley by Archdeacon Grantly’s widowed son, the romantic tribulations of Johnny Eames and Lily Dale (main characters from the previous book, The Small House at Allington), hen-pecked Bishop Proudie and his dreadful wife’s involvement in the Crawley affair, and the latter years of dear old Septimus Harding, protagonist of the first book in the series, The Warden. Overall, the tone of the book is more serious and less witty than the reader might expect and the stories are somewhat less engaging than could be hoped, but any author that can bring tears to my eyes twice in one book must be doing something right.
A note for readers new to the series: Those with the time and inclination to read the whole series and the patience to endure its lower-quality third and fourth books will be well rewarded. However, for less perfectionist readers, I feel that it is entirely reasonable to skip the third and fourth books altogether. And for readers even less ambitious, the first two books would suffice (the second book, Barchester Towers, is actually my favourite of the entire series). Readers new to Trollope and hesitant to invest time and energy will be glad to learn that the first book, The Warden, is not only the shortest in the series, but gives a very good indication of what they are in for if they continue.
[Why I read it: it concludes the Barchester Chronicles series, which I started six months ago.]
The Small House at Allington
The Small House at Allington by Anthony Trollope, 4/5
With good humour, skill, and psychological insight, Trollope tells a twisted tale of love and loss that centers around passionate Lily Dale and her more sensible sister, Bell; social climber Adolphus Crosbie; John Eames, the quintessential boy-man; and a collection of other characters who inspire love, disgust and pity by turns. Though the preceding two books in the series were disappointing, I feel that in this fifth novel Trollope captures once again the unique voice and perspective that made me fall in love with the Barchester Chronicles. Fingers crossed that the sixth and final book in the series will be similarly inspired.
[Why I read it: I am reading my way through the Chronicles of Barsetshire, having started with The Warden a few months ago. Strangely, my library contained all the books in the series except for this one, which they kindly purchased at my request. They are the best!]
Of Mice and Men
Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck, 3/5
It is embarrassing to admit, but I really don’t understand why this novella is so famous and respected. Is it merely because of the shocking ending? The fact that it was censored by many schools? Besides the linguistic value of the dialogue, which can be presumed to accurately represent the spoken English of a certain time and social class, I found little else to recommend this simple story. Yes, it is competently written, has some nice imagery and a few touching scenes, but by the end the main sensation it inspired was the question “Why?” As in, “Why was this even written? Why would anyone want to read it?” Now there are many works of literature for which I could not answer those same questions, but the big difference is that those works of literature don’t really inspire me to ask those questions in the first place.
I thought this edition’s substantial introduction would perhaps give some insight into the book’s point, but it was full of “troubled interplay,” “concentration on the circumscribed space,” “allegorical potential,” “symbiotic dependency”…all the silly things that scholars love to write about writing and readers hate to read. The most helpful bit was an actual quote from Steinbeck to his disappointed agents: “I probably did not make my subjects and my symbols clear. The microcosm is rather difficult to handle and apparently I did not get it over–the earth longings of a Lennie who was not to represent insanity at all but the inarticulate and powerful yearning of all men.” I would have to agree with the author that this point was not at all communicated by the story, at least to me.
As a side note, I cannot believe that high schoolers are forced to read books like this, The Old Man and the Sea, The Catcher in the Rye, The Great Gatsby, Lord of the Flies and the works of Shakespeare. Whatever their literary value might be according to scholars and those with mature taste, I only know that, if this were the only sort of literature I was exposed to at a young age, I would likely not read at all.
[Why I read it: It is famous, but wasn’t really on my radar until I saw several references to it in the film Man on Fire (1987).]
The Princess Bride
The Princess Bride: S. Morgenstern’s Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure by William Goldman, 5/5
Reading this book was a strange experience because I could not separate it in my mind from the 1987 film, which I had seen many times before I realised it was based on a real book and many, many more times before actually reading the novel for the first time (years ago). I was delighted to experience all the “extras” that didn’t make it into the movie but contribute to a novel that is hilarious and fantastical. Goldman’s editorial asides, biographical anecdotes and surprisingly plausible insistence that he is merely the translator, not the creator, of this tale, create a mind-bending false reality that seems to blur the line between fact and fiction (when actually, it’s all fiction). The book is also a valuable read for those interested in screenwriting and filmmaking. When compared to the movie, it is an education to realise what was left out, what was added in, and what was changed by an author who is also an accomplished screenwriter.
[Why I read it: I was too young to completely understand the book the first time; it might never have ended up back on my reading list if one of my sisters-in-law hadn’t mentioned it and given me a craving.]
Le Morte d’Arthur
Le Morte d’Arthur translated from the French and compiled by Sir Thomas Malory, edited by William Caxton, introduction by Elizabeth J. Bryan, 5/5
Whether this book represents a few weeks of delightful escapism or 938 pages of unrelenting torture will depend a lot on the reader’s background. As my well-worn old copy of King Arthur stories for children can attest, my love affair with knightly tales started at a young age, though I gradually acquired a taste for more and more archaic retellings of the familiar adventures. The tolerance I developed over the years for medieval-style prose, my affection for the characters and stories of Arthurian legend, a hint of nostalgia, and the many fine qualities of Malory’s work all combined to make the experience of reading Le Morte d’Arthur pure delight.
Perhaps the quality that strikes me most when contemplating this literary work is that of contrast. Inhabitants of Arthur’s world are at times inaccessibly mythological, at other times deeply human. Romantic excesses and impossible passions exist in a world that can otherwise be as bleak and heartless as that inhabited by the Norse gods. The wildly fantastical is accompanied by mundane details whose invention seems as unlikely as unnecessary. Stories of bravery and nobility are interspersed with soap opera plots whose participants seem to belong more on the Jeremy Kyle show than in a serious literary work.
Notions such as love, loyalty, hate, respect, and honor are connected in ways foreign to modern man and the outworking of these values and emotions does not fit neatly into currently accepted ideas of morality. The sordid immorality portrayed without judgement in the first couple chapters was the reason that my attempt to read this book as an adolescent was aborted. Thankfully, the whole book does not continue in the vein of lust and murder with which it begins.
A note about this edition: it is not very scholarly and I had a hard time finding information about the editing methods to which it was subjected (no editor is even mentioned). As stated in its introduction, this version is based off of William Caxton’s 1485 printing of Thomas Malory’s text. With the discovery of the earlier Winchester Manuscript, it seems that Caxton’s is no longer necessarily the most reliable source for Malory’s original work; however, Caxton’s edits have value in themselves and, I feel, do not make this version less legitimate. Caxton’s changes included reorganizing the original work into 21 shorter books (originally eight) and further subdividing into chapters. He also added short summaries of the events of each chapter, which are helpful despite the spoilers they provide (this Random House Modern Library edition also uses the right header space to include a short description of each page’s contents, which is extremely helpful). More worryingly, Caxton reworded and shortened Book 5 which tells the tale of King Arthur’s conquest of Rome. This version is listed on the Le Morte d’Arthur Wikipedia page as containing “modernised spelling” and this, along with modernised punctuation, seem to be the only changes made to Caxton’s printing. I even compared the opening lines with a reprinting of Caxton’s original manuscript and found the words and basic sentence structure to be identical. The end effect is very readable prose which retains that vital medieval flavour.
[Why I read it: The memory of my first attempt to read this has always rankled, but I can’t remember what motivated me to finally get around to a second attempt.]
John Macnab
John Macnab by John Buchan, 5/5
In this charming tale, four eminent English gentlemen combat crippling ennui with a roguish poaching wager that shocks the countryside. Buchan’s writing style is delightful and, though the story flags a bit in the fourth quarter, it ends strong.
[Why I read it: Already a fan of Buchan’s Hannay stories, I jumped at the chance to read an unfamiliar book by him when I saw it at the thrift store.]
Medea
Medea by Euripides, translated by Rex Warner, 5/5
This play has a killer plot: when her husband, Jason, dumps her and upgrades to a more royal model, Medea, [formerly] devoted wife and mother of two sons (unnamed in the play, I call them “Collateral” and “Damage”), manages to take the moral high ground, despite being an accomplished murderess, and plots a terrible vengeance. As you can imagine, tensions run high and there is a lot of deliciously vitriolic dialogue. Warner’s translation is straightforward and unflowery, resulting in an entertaining read that I would love to see performed some day.
[Why I read it: found it at the thrift store and thought it would fit in well with my plan to read more classics.]
Notes from the Underground
Notes from the Underground by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, translated by Constance Garnett, 3/5
Part I of this short work is a thought-provoking but extremely depressing philosophical rant that seems to have two main focuses: 1. the inertia, unhappiness and tendency to wallow in degradation that seems to accompany the “over-acute consciousness” (5) of the too-intelligent and 2. the human need for the freedom to make decisions that are willfully illogical and are not in the maker’s best interest.
Much of Part I resonated with me because it describes a phenomenon I have noticed and experienced: the “stupid” and optimistic are happy and productive, while the “intelligent” and analytical are unhappy and paralysed by their own thought processes.
You know the direct, legitimate fruit of consciousness is inertia, that is, conscious sitting-with-the-hands-folded. […] I repeat, I repeat with emphasis: all “direct” persons and men of action are active just because they are stupid and limited. How explain that? I will tell you: in consequence of their limitation they take immediate and secondary causes for primary ones, and in that way persuade themselves more quickly and easily than other people do that they have found an infallible foundation for their activity, and their minds are at ease and you know that is the chief thing. To begin to act, you know, you must first have your mind completely at ease and no trace of doubt left in it. Why, how am I, for example to set my mind at rest? Where are the primary causes on which I am to build? Where are my foundations? Where am I to get them from? I exercise myself in reflection, and consequently with me every primary cause at once draws after itself another still more primary, and so on to infinity. […] Oh, gentlemen, do you know, perhaps I consider myself an intelligent man, only because all my life I have been able neither to begin nor to finish anything (11).
Unfortunately, the limit of Dostoyevsky’s insight is to describe the psychological horror experienced by an unlikeable, miserable narrator, not to offer anything of help or comfort.
Part II reads like the ravings of someone who is mentally-ill and, besides providing insight into the mental processes that could possibly motivate the actions of a social misfit, I could find little connection to Part I and little of interest or value. The tone is very dark and unusual in that the narrator seems to be a despicable person, not a character at all calculated to engage the audience’s sympathy or respect. Notes from the Underground is strangely modern (it does not feel like a book from the 1860s) but overall, I am really not sure what the point of Part II is and am now off to read the book’s Wikipedia article in hope of enlightenment.
[Why I read it: I recognized the title while browsing books at the thrift store.]
OmniRambles 