The last (almost) two months have positively flown by! And once again, I've managed to forget about posting to this blog during that time.
So what have I been up to?
Well, after the post on Umberto Eco's book, Colleen and I went to Jamaica for a nice vacation--our very first real vacation. Sure, we've been to Cape Cod, Maine, New Hampshire, and the like, but we had never left the country or gone somewhere on our own.
So we thought it was about time that we do so :)
Vacation was wonderful! We got a great rate at an all-inclusive resort, Breezes Montego Bay, and the weather there was fantastic! It rained for a total of 5 minutes while we were there. The rest of the time, it was about 80 degrees and sunny. The remarkable thing is that even though it was rather warm, it wasn't particularly humid. On some days, the humidity peaked, but for the most part, while we were outside, the humidity was very tolerable. Especially when you were out on the beach by the ocean.
While we were down there, we did a few excursions off-site; a 4x4 safari, an outing to Negril, a catamaran cruise at sunset, and an encounter with dolphins at Dolphin Cove. All told, the trip was $4,000--no small fare, but it included airfare, lodging, and unlimited food and drink at the resort for two people.
Also while we were down there, I proposed to Colleen on the beach, under the moonlight. She said, "Yes!"
Since then, we've been doing a lot of research for planning the wedding, which has consumed a great deal of time for both of us. And while all this was going on, Colleen was still working on her Master's, I was designing two courses to run this summer (Tolkien: Master of Fantasy, and Return from Avalon: Modern Arthurian Legend), and both of us were trying to pick up as many hours at our part-time jobs as we could.
Needless to say, it has been an incredibly busy time. But I am happy to say that I am back, and I am looking forward to sharing more books with you.
Cheers,
Steve
Monday, May 18, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
Medieval Murder Mystery
The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco. Reviewed by Steve on March 16th, 2009.
William of Baskerville, a Franciscan friar, journeys to an abbey in Italy with his assistant, Adso of Melk, as emissaries from the Holy Roman emperor to debate with the papal legation concerning the poverty of Christ and the Franciscan order. After arriving, William and Adso are summoned by the abbot to investigate the mysterious death of one of the monks. The abbey boasts one of the largest and most comprehensive libraries of the 14th century, but the library itself is shrouded in mystery--no one but the librarian and his assistant may enter the library.
As William investigates the death of Adelmo, the illuminator, other mysterious deaths occur under apocalyptic circumstances, apparently foretelling the second coming of Christ. One monk is found dead in a vat of pig's blood, another is found dead in a tub of water, another is found bludgeoned to death, and another keels over during prayers and dies. Rumors about the apocalyptic nature of the murders fly about the compound, whipping all the monks into a fearful religious frenzy.
When William comes close to solving the murders, the abbot asks him to cease his investigation, for one of the monks, Remigio, confessed to all the murders while inquisitioned by Bernard of Gui, the leader of the papal legation and an experienced inquisitor. Despite the abbot's request, William and Adso return to their investigation, seeking to discover the truth about the murders and the mysterious library, but what they discover could cost them their lives.
Umberto Eco's novel combines semiotics, reader response theory, hermeneutics, and postmodernism into this richly complex narrative. It is historical fiction at its essence, but the author has weaved historical fact, fiction, and conjecture so masterfully that it is nearly impossible to separate them. Indeed, part of its success rests on the fact that while not everything is true, the entire novel is historically accurate; meaning that the topics and themes raised throughout the narrative not only fit into the time period, but they were also among the most controvercial and hotly debated issues of the day.
Admittedly, the novel does start off rather slow and it takes some time to work up to an enjoyable pace, but it is well worth the wait. When the pacing does pick up speed, it rapidly escalates to a sprint, and you will find yourself wanting to read faster and faster. I found this to be a pleasant experience, but I did have to force myself to slow down so that I could fully absorb what I was reading.
Additionally, while this is a compelling novel, you do have to have a keen interest in the Middle Ages (or a willingness to learn about the period and develop one) to fully enjoy the story, as there are many allusions and references to other literary works, famous Medieval personalities, historical milestones, quotations in latin, and the like. These can become a burden if you are not familiar with them, since they hold no meaning for you. But if you do have an interest in the Middle Ages, or you are willing to look up the references you are not familiar with, you will be wonderfully delighted by this novel.
5 Stars
William of Baskerville, a Franciscan friar, journeys to an abbey in Italy with his assistant, Adso of Melk, as emissaries from the Holy Roman emperor to debate with the papal legation concerning the poverty of Christ and the Franciscan order. After arriving, William and Adso are summoned by the abbot to investigate the mysterious death of one of the monks. The abbey boasts one of the largest and most comprehensive libraries of the 14th century, but the library itself is shrouded in mystery--no one but the librarian and his assistant may enter the library.
As William investigates the death of Adelmo, the illuminator, other mysterious deaths occur under apocalyptic circumstances, apparently foretelling the second coming of Christ. One monk is found dead in a vat of pig's blood, another is found dead in a tub of water, another is found bludgeoned to death, and another keels over during prayers and dies. Rumors about the apocalyptic nature of the murders fly about the compound, whipping all the monks into a fearful religious frenzy.
When William comes close to solving the murders, the abbot asks him to cease his investigation, for one of the monks, Remigio, confessed to all the murders while inquisitioned by Bernard of Gui, the leader of the papal legation and an experienced inquisitor. Despite the abbot's request, William and Adso return to their investigation, seeking to discover the truth about the murders and the mysterious library, but what they discover could cost them their lives.
Umberto Eco's novel combines semiotics, reader response theory, hermeneutics, and postmodernism into this richly complex narrative. It is historical fiction at its essence, but the author has weaved historical fact, fiction, and conjecture so masterfully that it is nearly impossible to separate them. Indeed, part of its success rests on the fact that while not everything is true, the entire novel is historically accurate; meaning that the topics and themes raised throughout the narrative not only fit into the time period, but they were also among the most controvercial and hotly debated issues of the day.
Admittedly, the novel does start off rather slow and it takes some time to work up to an enjoyable pace, but it is well worth the wait. When the pacing does pick up speed, it rapidly escalates to a sprint, and you will find yourself wanting to read faster and faster. I found this to be a pleasant experience, but I did have to force myself to slow down so that I could fully absorb what I was reading.
Additionally, while this is a compelling novel, you do have to have a keen interest in the Middle Ages (or a willingness to learn about the period and develop one) to fully enjoy the story, as there are many allusions and references to other literary works, famous Medieval personalities, historical milestones, quotations in latin, and the like. These can become a burden if you are not familiar with them, since they hold no meaning for you. But if you do have an interest in the Middle Ages, or you are willing to look up the references you are not familiar with, you will be wonderfully delighted by this novel.
5 Stars
MIA
Hello Everyone,
Sorry I have been missing in action for the past two weeks or so. I was briefly incapacitated by a cold; one that I got from nursing my girlfriend back to health from her cold.
On another note, I am pleased to see N. Vivian back in action after a short absence. Hopefully, we'll be able to continue our semi-regular postings, as I know you all yearn for more insights from these two Reading Enthusiasts.
Cheers!
Steve
Sorry I have been missing in action for the past two weeks or so. I was briefly incapacitated by a cold; one that I got from nursing my girlfriend back to health from her cold.
On another note, I am pleased to see N. Vivian back in action after a short absence. Hopefully, we'll be able to continue our semi-regular postings, as I know you all yearn for more insights from these two Reading Enthusiasts.
Cheers!
Steve
Monday, March 9, 2009
More make-up reviews!
The Winter's Tale by William Shakespeare, reviewed by N. Vivian on March 9,2009
The Winter's Tale is one of Shakespeare's lesser-known plays; though still popular, it isn't one the Big Comedies, Tragedies, or Histories. The Winter's Tale is one of his romances, a genre that appeared much later in his career. The most famous of these is The Tempest (which, y'know, I'm just not really all that fond of), but it also includes Pericles, Prince of Tyre; Cymbeline, and occasionally The Two Noble Kinsmen. While romance does have a role in these plays (most of them ending in engagement or a wedding, as proper comedies ought), they focus more around familial relationships that romantic ones. Prevalent are themes of reunion and redemption/forgiveness, brought about, oddly enough, by the existence of a daughter (Miranda in The Tempest, Perdita in The Winter's Tale, Marina in Pericles, Prince of Tyre). These were all written around the time Shakespeare married off his elder daughter Susanna, so there may be a bit of sentimentality in there for being absent so often during his children's childhoods. For the record, this is me speculating wildly--though if there's any relevent scholarship out there, feel free to point me to it.
Anyway, the romances have a few other themes in common. First of all, they all involve magic and fantastic elements which results in a big old deus ex machina at the end. Second, they also introduce the idea of tragicomedy. These aren't bright, happy romances where everything is wonderful, unicorns shoot rainbows from their horns, and the only strife is who beat who in the hugging contest (though, for the record, not even the happiest of Shakespeare's comedies are like that). Even when bad things happen in comedies, you know that it's all going to work out in the end. You don't ever forget you're reading a comedy. In the beginning of these plays, it's really easy to assume that you're reading a tragedy. These romances feature deaths, injustices, and have plotlines that even the happy marriages at the end cannot entirely wipe away. He raises some dark and profound issues--in the end of The Winter's Tale, for example, sure everyone's happy and reunited, but you can't forget that sixteen long years of separation have gone by, that Mamillius and Antigonus are still dead and Hermione's too old to bear children again.
The Winter's Tale does have the best stage direction EVAR: 'Exit, pursued by a bear'
The play starts in Sicilia, at the court of King Leontes and Queen Hermione. King Polixenes, childhood friend of Leontes, has been visiting for the past nine months. Missing his son and his kingdom, Polixenes plans to leave Sicilia the next day. Leontes isn't able to convince him to stay, so he sends Hermione to try instead. She's successful, and suddenly Leontes is struck by this horrible, jealous, insane certainty that Polixenes and Hermione are sleeping together and the child Hermione's carrying is actually Polixenes's bastard. He sends Camillo to poison Polixenes, but Camillo confesses to Polixenes instead, and he and Polixenes flee Sicilia.
His insanity increasing, Leontes assumes that there's actually a plot against his life, and arrests Hermione, since he cannot get his hands on Polixenes or Camillo. He throws her into the dungeons with a few of her ladies, and refuses to let their older son, Mamillius, anywhere near her. He's fairly certain that Mamillius is his, and he doesn't want his son contamintaed by Hermione's perfidity. All of his councilors tell him he's wrong, that Hermione's never been anything but good and virtuous, but Leontes remains convinced, even though he has no real, solid proof. Hermione gives birth to a daughter, and Leontes orders Antigonus to dispose of the infant, after Antigonus's wife, Paulina, tries to use the baby as evidence of Hermione's faithfulness. Soon after the birth, he drags Hermione to trial, and the Oracle at Delphos pronounces her innocent. Even that's not enough for Leontes; he announces that even the gods in heaven are liars. He no sooner says that then he is shown what happens when mortals sass the gods: he immediately receives word that Mamillius is dead, Hermione swoons, is rushed offstaged, and pronounced dead as well, and he is told that he'll have no other heirs until the lost baby girl is found. Surrounded by the death of everyone he has ever loved, Leontes gecomes sane again, swears that he'll grieve for his dead wife and son every day for the rest of his life.
Antigonus is dropped off on the seacoast of Bohemia (Polixenes's country), where he is to abandon the princess. He leaves gold, some of Hermione's jewels, a note about the baby's identity, and names her Perdita, after Hermione comes to him in a dream. The wrath of the gods fall on him and the ship, too. He's eaten by a bear, the ship he sailed on sinks, and the baby is found by an old shepherd and his son, who assume Perdita's a changeling.
In the next Act, Time enters and announces that sixteen years have gone by. Leontes has spent that time mourning his stupid, Perdita has grown up to be a beautiful young girl, and Florizel, prince of Bohemia, has fallen in love with her. Polixenes and Camillo notice Florizel's been acting weird, so they disguise themselves and follow him to see what he's been up to recently. They attend a sheep-shearing festival held by the old Shepherd, ands discover that Florizel's about to marry this little nobody. Since neither the shepherd nor his son could read, no one knows that Perdita is anything other than what she seems. Polixenes threatens to disenherit Flroizel, and threatens to burn Perdita as a witch and then kill shepherd and his son if they go through with the match. Camillo, who is homesick for Sicilia, sends Florizel and Perdita to Sicilia to visit Leontes, and then runs home and tells Polixenes that they've gone to Sicilia, so he can legitimately go home again. The shepherd and his son don't want to be killed, so they rush home, collect the remainder of the gold and jewels and all the paperwork that they found with Perdita, to prove that they aren't actually related to her and should be spared the king's wrath. Unfortunately, they get violently seasick on the way to Sicilia, and are too busy throwing up to prove anything to anyone until after they dock. Eventually, Polixenes catches up with Florizel and Perdita in Leontes's court, Perdita's true identity is revealed and she reunites with her father. Her royal heritage makes everything better, Polixenes is thrilled to marry his son off to the daughter of his bat-shit best friend, and they all troop down to Paulina's house, to see the statue of Hermione, recently carved by some famous sculptor. There, once Leontes talks about how he was a douche and would give anything to get Hermione back and Perdita is presented as their daughter, the statue comes to life and Hermione is returned to the land of the living. The end.
Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of this play is the language. Now, all Shakespeare language is tough if you haven't practiced for awhile. It's close enough to our own where it feels as if it should be obvious, but the slang, the grammar, the spelling...it's just far enough off to make it hard to dive right into. In The Winter's Tale, however, language is even more obtuse and abused. The language in the first two or three Acts is tough, occasionally reading is more akin to slogging. The footnotes in my version are full of explanations like: "We think it means this, these other scholars say it prolly means that, one guy said it means this other thing, but he's wrong..." Rather than taking away from my understanding of the play, I felt as if the language actually heightened it. True, I didn't grasp every meaning, but the first few Acts are all about a mental disorder to the point of insanity. The language reflects that--it's gets more and more twisted as Leontes's mind does the same. I thought it makes for a great illustration of the disorder of his brain. Then, as his court spirals deeper into craziness, their speeches follow the same pattern. Awesome.
As for characters, the only one I really liked was Paulina. She's this crazy old bat of a courtier, and she's the only one really willing to stand up to Leontes and call him a nutjob. She takes him to task for his behavior over and over again, first when he impugns hermione's honor, then when he denies his daughter's paternity, and again when he orders Perdita to be exposed. She also accuses his other courtiers (including her own husband) or cowardice for not standing up to a tyrant. Even later, after he's repented, she still rides him about it, keeping that grief and regret alive and well. She's also the one who brings Hermione back to life once Perdita comes home. I love ballsy and sassy women. Everone else in the play is either insane (Leontes), or ill-defined. We don't meet our heo and heroine till Act Four, and they barely speak in Act Five. The other big character, Autolycus, is named for Odysseus's grandfather (a reknowned thief), and does his best to live up to the reputation. He swindles the shepherd and his son not once, not twice, but three times. He's pretty cool, but also very much a stock character, showing some signs of wit, but not enough to keep him interesting. I kind of viewed him as an interruption to the play--I wanted to see how the main plot would resolve, not watch him steal yokels blind.
So this is the play I intend to turn into a Gothic novel. It's got almost all the requisite elements in there already--which is why it's so entertaining. Even those that it doesn't have will be easy enough to slip in. I'm very much looking forward to writing it. As for the play, it's difficult to read, which is probably why it isn't more popular, but it's funny and interesting. It doesn't develop the same emotional attachment that the Tragedies do, but it easily stands toe-to-toe with any of the Comedies.
4.5 stars
The Winter's Tale is one of Shakespeare's lesser-known plays; though still popular, it isn't one the Big Comedies, Tragedies, or Histories. The Winter's Tale is one of his romances, a genre that appeared much later in his career. The most famous of these is The Tempest (which, y'know, I'm just not really all that fond of), but it also includes Pericles, Prince of Tyre; Cymbeline, and occasionally The Two Noble Kinsmen. While romance does have a role in these plays (most of them ending in engagement or a wedding, as proper comedies ought), they focus more around familial relationships that romantic ones. Prevalent are themes of reunion and redemption/forgiveness, brought about, oddly enough, by the existence of a daughter (Miranda in The Tempest, Perdita in The Winter's Tale, Marina in Pericles, Prince of Tyre). These were all written around the time Shakespeare married off his elder daughter Susanna, so there may be a bit of sentimentality in there for being absent so often during his children's childhoods. For the record, this is me speculating wildly--though if there's any relevent scholarship out there, feel free to point me to it.
Anyway, the romances have a few other themes in common. First of all, they all involve magic and fantastic elements which results in a big old deus ex machina at the end. Second, they also introduce the idea of tragicomedy. These aren't bright, happy romances where everything is wonderful, unicorns shoot rainbows from their horns, and the only strife is who beat who in the hugging contest (though, for the record, not even the happiest of Shakespeare's comedies are like that). Even when bad things happen in comedies, you know that it's all going to work out in the end. You don't ever forget you're reading a comedy. In the beginning of these plays, it's really easy to assume that you're reading a tragedy. These romances feature deaths, injustices, and have plotlines that even the happy marriages at the end cannot entirely wipe away. He raises some dark and profound issues--in the end of The Winter's Tale, for example, sure everyone's happy and reunited, but you can't forget that sixteen long years of separation have gone by, that Mamillius and Antigonus are still dead and Hermione's too old to bear children again.
The Winter's Tale does have the best stage direction EVAR: 'Exit, pursued by a bear'
The play starts in Sicilia, at the court of King Leontes and Queen Hermione. King Polixenes, childhood friend of Leontes, has been visiting for the past nine months. Missing his son and his kingdom, Polixenes plans to leave Sicilia the next day. Leontes isn't able to convince him to stay, so he sends Hermione to try instead. She's successful, and suddenly Leontes is struck by this horrible, jealous, insane certainty that Polixenes and Hermione are sleeping together and the child Hermione's carrying is actually Polixenes's bastard. He sends Camillo to poison Polixenes, but Camillo confesses to Polixenes instead, and he and Polixenes flee Sicilia.
His insanity increasing, Leontes assumes that there's actually a plot against his life, and arrests Hermione, since he cannot get his hands on Polixenes or Camillo. He throws her into the dungeons with a few of her ladies, and refuses to let their older son, Mamillius, anywhere near her. He's fairly certain that Mamillius is his, and he doesn't want his son contamintaed by Hermione's perfidity. All of his councilors tell him he's wrong, that Hermione's never been anything but good and virtuous, but Leontes remains convinced, even though he has no real, solid proof. Hermione gives birth to a daughter, and Leontes orders Antigonus to dispose of the infant, after Antigonus's wife, Paulina, tries to use the baby as evidence of Hermione's faithfulness. Soon after the birth, he drags Hermione to trial, and the Oracle at Delphos pronounces her innocent. Even that's not enough for Leontes; he announces that even the gods in heaven are liars. He no sooner says that then he is shown what happens when mortals sass the gods: he immediately receives word that Mamillius is dead, Hermione swoons, is rushed offstaged, and pronounced dead as well, and he is told that he'll have no other heirs until the lost baby girl is found. Surrounded by the death of everyone he has ever loved, Leontes gecomes sane again, swears that he'll grieve for his dead wife and son every day for the rest of his life.
Antigonus is dropped off on the seacoast of Bohemia (Polixenes's country), where he is to abandon the princess. He leaves gold, some of Hermione's jewels, a note about the baby's identity, and names her Perdita, after Hermione comes to him in a dream. The wrath of the gods fall on him and the ship, too. He's eaten by a bear, the ship he sailed on sinks, and the baby is found by an old shepherd and his son, who assume Perdita's a changeling.
In the next Act, Time enters and announces that sixteen years have gone by. Leontes has spent that time mourning his stupid, Perdita has grown up to be a beautiful young girl, and Florizel, prince of Bohemia, has fallen in love with her. Polixenes and Camillo notice Florizel's been acting weird, so they disguise themselves and follow him to see what he's been up to recently. They attend a sheep-shearing festival held by the old Shepherd, ands discover that Florizel's about to marry this little nobody. Since neither the shepherd nor his son could read, no one knows that Perdita is anything other than what she seems. Polixenes threatens to disenherit Flroizel, and threatens to burn Perdita as a witch and then kill shepherd and his son if they go through with the match. Camillo, who is homesick for Sicilia, sends Florizel and Perdita to Sicilia to visit Leontes, and then runs home and tells Polixenes that they've gone to Sicilia, so he can legitimately go home again. The shepherd and his son don't want to be killed, so they rush home, collect the remainder of the gold and jewels and all the paperwork that they found with Perdita, to prove that they aren't actually related to her and should be spared the king's wrath. Unfortunately, they get violently seasick on the way to Sicilia, and are too busy throwing up to prove anything to anyone until after they dock. Eventually, Polixenes catches up with Florizel and Perdita in Leontes's court, Perdita's true identity is revealed and she reunites with her father. Her royal heritage makes everything better, Polixenes is thrilled to marry his son off to the daughter of his bat-shit best friend, and they all troop down to Paulina's house, to see the statue of Hermione, recently carved by some famous sculptor. There, once Leontes talks about how he was a douche and would give anything to get Hermione back and Perdita is presented as their daughter, the statue comes to life and Hermione is returned to the land of the living. The end.
Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of this play is the language. Now, all Shakespeare language is tough if you haven't practiced for awhile. It's close enough to our own where it feels as if it should be obvious, but the slang, the grammar, the spelling...it's just far enough off to make it hard to dive right into. In The Winter's Tale, however, language is even more obtuse and abused. The language in the first two or three Acts is tough, occasionally reading is more akin to slogging. The footnotes in my version are full of explanations like: "We think it means this, these other scholars say it prolly means that, one guy said it means this other thing, but he's wrong..." Rather than taking away from my understanding of the play, I felt as if the language actually heightened it. True, I didn't grasp every meaning, but the first few Acts are all about a mental disorder to the point of insanity. The language reflects that--it's gets more and more twisted as Leontes's mind does the same. I thought it makes for a great illustration of the disorder of his brain. Then, as his court spirals deeper into craziness, their speeches follow the same pattern. Awesome.
As for characters, the only one I really liked was Paulina. She's this crazy old bat of a courtier, and she's the only one really willing to stand up to Leontes and call him a nutjob. She takes him to task for his behavior over and over again, first when he impugns hermione's honor, then when he denies his daughter's paternity, and again when he orders Perdita to be exposed. She also accuses his other courtiers (including her own husband) or cowardice for not standing up to a tyrant. Even later, after he's repented, she still rides him about it, keeping that grief and regret alive and well. She's also the one who brings Hermione back to life once Perdita comes home. I love ballsy and sassy women. Everone else in the play is either insane (Leontes), or ill-defined. We don't meet our heo and heroine till Act Four, and they barely speak in Act Five. The other big character, Autolycus, is named for Odysseus's grandfather (a reknowned thief), and does his best to live up to the reputation. He swindles the shepherd and his son not once, not twice, but three times. He's pretty cool, but also very much a stock character, showing some signs of wit, but not enough to keep him interesting. I kind of viewed him as an interruption to the play--I wanted to see how the main plot would resolve, not watch him steal yokels blind.
So this is the play I intend to turn into a Gothic novel. It's got almost all the requisite elements in there already--which is why it's so entertaining. Even those that it doesn't have will be easy enough to slip in. I'm very much looking forward to writing it. As for the play, it's difficult to read, which is probably why it isn't more popular, but it's funny and interesting. It doesn't develop the same emotional attachment that the Tragedies do, but it easily stands toe-to-toe with any of the Comedies.
4.5 stars
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Review #1 of the make-up posts
Beasts by Joyce Carol Oates, reviewed by N. Vivian on March 7, 2009
Words are like bullets.
In writing, I have serious flaws that I'm working on fixing. Specifically, I write too much--this is why drabbles are so good for me. Saying everything I want to say in 100 words...I can rarely contain myself to 100 words exactly, but I do (generally) try to keep them below 1000. It is hard to write a story in 1000 words or less--at least for me. You read my reviews, you know how verbose I can be; I make a three hour tale out of a limerick. I give the set-up, then the punchline, and then go out on to explain the joke. It's not that I don't trust my audience--it's more that I don't trust myself to have told it properly. It's for that same reason that I abuse italics and adverbs. This way I know everyone will understand what I mean.
I am convinced this is one of the reasons I'm not good at poetry.
If words are like bullets, then my words are like buck shot--lots at once, that scatter so when they hit, they don't do much damage or penetrate very deeply.
Joyce Carol Oates, on the other hand, her words are jacketed hollow-tipped bullets shot from a high-powered sniper rifle. Not only does she not bother explaining the joke, half the time she'll give you maybe half the punchline (or none at all), and demand that you figure it out your own damn self. I almost felt as if the book were a race, and I had to run to keep up with her--her prose is so quick and fast that you have to pay attention or it slips right by you. Much the main character, Gillian, I felt lost and disoriented while reading, as if there was so much more going on, hovering at the edges of my senses.
I'm not saying that the book was incomprehensible. Far from it--the narrative is clear, with enough short, declarative sentences to make Hemingway proud. Though the book itself isn't completely linear, but it is symmetrical. It starts in 2001, goes to January of 1976, then to September of '75 up through Jan of '76 again, before ending back in 2001. Jaunts in time aside, it's still very easy to follow, thematically. the "lost and disoriented" feeling comes from the denseness of the text. It's not dense like Judith Butler (her prose is a mortar, nigh-overwhelming when you're hit with it), in fact, it's dense in an opposite kinda way. Butler uses big words and long sentences to get her words out point across; her text is dense because she is describing a complicated theory in a very complicated way. Neither Oates's words nor her meaning are very complicated; however, she uses few words to get that point across. Butler exercises your brain trying to figure out what she means by deciphering what she says. Oates exercises your brain by making it work to put in all the meaning that is implied by her words that she doesn't come out and say. I'm not saying she leaves stuff out, but...reading novels, we're used to having all the information we need spoon-fed to us. There's tons of description and dialogue and interaction and we have more than we actually need to know. I'm not saying that's a bad thing--I'm all over lush descriptions and the like. But it takes a mental shift to go from all that to Beasts, where we're given exactly what we need and no more. My brain had to work to give me everything she wasn't saying.
I'm tempted to give a few more analogies (one about painting, the other about food), but I won't. Either you understand me or you don't. Either way, you should read the book.
Anyway, Beasts primarily takes place on a small college campus in the Berkshires during the Fall semester of 1975. We only get brief sketches of the characters (most only described with a single aspect), but they still feel alive and vibrant. Gillian is the girl we all know--the one who does well at school to please the frigid and demanding parents at home; uptight, nervous, and repressed. Dominique is sultry, Marisa has ash-blond hair, Cassie is emotionally fragile. The main triangle of characters is Gillian, Andre, and Dorcas, so they get the most description, but even with only a few words and bits of dialogue, we know enough about them.
Gillian, a junior, is madly in love with her poetry professor Andre Harrow, just like every other student on campus. He and his scultpress wife, Dorcas, have this whole 1960's bohemian mystique about them. Her sculptures are weird and engrossing and scary and bizarre. His writing workshops can make people cry, but a single word of praise can make a semester of pain vanish in a blink. According to rumor, they occasionally take a student to be one of Dorcas's 'interns' for a bit, and that girl is swept up in their lavish and exciting lifestyle. But no one ever says for sure what happens there, or who's a part of it.
Unsurprisingly, it's a world of sex, drugs, and power. I half-expected this book to contain a supernatural element; that Andre and Dorcas use these girls to fuel crazy-ass blood rituals and call forth demons or something. I'm more disturbed that it doesn't--Andre and Dorcas just seem to enjoy using, manipulating, and exploiting young women. They probably don't even see it that way--even as they dope the young woman and take pictures of them, and send those pictures to various X-rated magazines. These girls are trauma victims and don't even know it--no, instead they go back ask for more until they spiral out of control. They're abused, emotionally kicked and petted, until they can't tell which way is up. Attention, any attention is good. I almost felt claustrophobic while reading it--there's so little but it means so much, and everything is just so...fraught.
Reading this book is like watching the heroine (the smart one, the one you don't hate) go down the basement stairs in a horror movie. You're screaming "Don't do it!" but the pull is inexorable.
I will never write like Joyce Carol Oates. She's a master artist, and the closest I could come would be weak imitation. I don't really want to write like her (I am a lush description kinda girl myself), but it's humbling to read her work anyway. She polishes each word till it gleams and then uses them to cut. It's beautiful, the way really good poetry is beautiful. This book is profoundly disturbing, and only gets moreso the more you think on it. She writes like an iceberg, and only after you put the book down and have time for reflection can you get to most of what's hidden beneath.
5 stars
In books I trust,
N. Vivian
Words are like bullets.
In writing, I have serious flaws that I'm working on fixing. Specifically, I write too much--this is why drabbles are so good for me. Saying everything I want to say in 100 words...I can rarely contain myself to 100 words exactly, but I do (generally) try to keep them below 1000. It is hard to write a story in 1000 words or less--at least for me. You read my reviews, you know how verbose I can be; I make a three hour tale out of a limerick. I give the set-up, then the punchline, and then go out on to explain the joke. It's not that I don't trust my audience--it's more that I don't trust myself to have told it properly. It's for that same reason that I abuse italics and adverbs. This way I know everyone will understand what I mean.
I am convinced this is one of the reasons I'm not good at poetry.
If words are like bullets, then my words are like buck shot--lots at once, that scatter so when they hit, they don't do much damage or penetrate very deeply.
Joyce Carol Oates, on the other hand, her words are jacketed hollow-tipped bullets shot from a high-powered sniper rifle. Not only does she not bother explaining the joke, half the time she'll give you maybe half the punchline (or none at all), and demand that you figure it out your own damn self. I almost felt as if the book were a race, and I had to run to keep up with her--her prose is so quick and fast that you have to pay attention or it slips right by you. Much the main character, Gillian, I felt lost and disoriented while reading, as if there was so much more going on, hovering at the edges of my senses.
I'm not saying that the book was incomprehensible. Far from it--the narrative is clear, with enough short, declarative sentences to make Hemingway proud. Though the book itself isn't completely linear, but it is symmetrical. It starts in 2001, goes to January of 1976, then to September of '75 up through Jan of '76 again, before ending back in 2001. Jaunts in time aside, it's still very easy to follow, thematically. the "lost and disoriented" feeling comes from the denseness of the text. It's not dense like Judith Butler (her prose is a mortar, nigh-overwhelming when you're hit with it), in fact, it's dense in an opposite kinda way. Butler uses big words and long sentences to get her words out point across; her text is dense because she is describing a complicated theory in a very complicated way. Neither Oates's words nor her meaning are very complicated; however, she uses few words to get that point across. Butler exercises your brain trying to figure out what she means by deciphering what she says. Oates exercises your brain by making it work to put in all the meaning that is implied by her words that she doesn't come out and say. I'm not saying she leaves stuff out, but...reading novels, we're used to having all the information we need spoon-fed to us. There's tons of description and dialogue and interaction and we have more than we actually need to know. I'm not saying that's a bad thing--I'm all over lush descriptions and the like. But it takes a mental shift to go from all that to Beasts, where we're given exactly what we need and no more. My brain had to work to give me everything she wasn't saying.
I'm tempted to give a few more analogies (one about painting, the other about food), but I won't. Either you understand me or you don't. Either way, you should read the book.
Anyway, Beasts primarily takes place on a small college campus in the Berkshires during the Fall semester of 1975. We only get brief sketches of the characters (most only described with a single aspect), but they still feel alive and vibrant. Gillian is the girl we all know--the one who does well at school to please the frigid and demanding parents at home; uptight, nervous, and repressed. Dominique is sultry, Marisa has ash-blond hair, Cassie is emotionally fragile. The main triangle of characters is Gillian, Andre, and Dorcas, so they get the most description, but even with only a few words and bits of dialogue, we know enough about them.
Gillian, a junior, is madly in love with her poetry professor Andre Harrow, just like every other student on campus. He and his scultpress wife, Dorcas, have this whole 1960's bohemian mystique about them. Her sculptures are weird and engrossing and scary and bizarre. His writing workshops can make people cry, but a single word of praise can make a semester of pain vanish in a blink. According to rumor, they occasionally take a student to be one of Dorcas's 'interns' for a bit, and that girl is swept up in their lavish and exciting lifestyle. But no one ever says for sure what happens there, or who's a part of it.
Unsurprisingly, it's a world of sex, drugs, and power. I half-expected this book to contain a supernatural element; that Andre and Dorcas use these girls to fuel crazy-ass blood rituals and call forth demons or something. I'm more disturbed that it doesn't--Andre and Dorcas just seem to enjoy using, manipulating, and exploiting young women. They probably don't even see it that way--even as they dope the young woman and take pictures of them, and send those pictures to various X-rated magazines. These girls are trauma victims and don't even know it--no, instead they go back ask for more until they spiral out of control. They're abused, emotionally kicked and petted, until they can't tell which way is up. Attention, any attention is good. I almost felt claustrophobic while reading it--there's so little but it means so much, and everything is just so...fraught.
Reading this book is like watching the heroine (the smart one, the one you don't hate) go down the basement stairs in a horror movie. You're screaming "Don't do it!" but the pull is inexorable.
I will never write like Joyce Carol Oates. She's a master artist, and the closest I could come would be weak imitation. I don't really want to write like her (I am a lush description kinda girl myself), but it's humbling to read her work anyway. She polishes each word till it gleams and then uses them to cut. It's beautiful, the way really good poetry is beautiful. This book is profoundly disturbing, and only gets moreso the more you think on it. She writes like an iceberg, and only after you put the book down and have time for reflection can you get to most of what's hidden beneath.
5 stars
In books I trust,
N. Vivian
Friday, March 6, 2009
Welcome to N. Vivian Appreciation Month!
Sorry folks for forgetting to update this as I should. I know, I know...your lives just aren't complete without my book reviews. I shall try to do better in the future. To make up for my lack of reviewing here, I'll post a review every day for the next few days.
Since it's on everyone's mind, I'll add my review of Watchmen as well. Warning: some spoilers.
The Watchmen by Alan Moore and David Gibbons, reviewed by N. Vivian on 3/6/2009.
Watchmen is a comic about superheroes, but it isn't a superhero comic. Instead, it is Moore's playing with the genre to the point of awesome. Picture New York City 1980's; a New York where people really did (at one point) dress up in wacky costumes and fight crime. A New York (and a world) where superhero comics don't exist, because who wants to read comics about real life (people read pirate comics instead)? Of all the costumed crimefighters, only one is actually parahuman: Dr. Manhattan. Created by a scientific experiment gone horribly wrong (betcha never heard that origin story before, eh?), Dr. Manhattan exists outside of time, and can change the physical world on an atomic level simply by will and thought alone. America is using him to hold the pinko commie bastards Russia in check ("the superman exists and he is American"), leading America to behave like a spoiled brat who is always threatening to take his ball home if other kids countries don't play by their rules, and who keeps talking about his big brother who'll beat everyone up if they don't do what he says.
Yeah, I know, it's an America that defies belief.
The comic opens with the murder of Edward Blake, the alter ego of the superhero "The Comedian," one of the two superheroes who works with government sanction. The other, is, of course, Dr. Manhattan; the rest were forced into retirement back in '77 after the passing of the "Keene Act" which basically just said no to vigilantism. The one costumed crimefighter (a more accurate term [though I use them pretty much interchangeably] than superhero since none of them have powers save Dr. Manhattan) who did not go gentle into that good night is Rorschach. Rorschach is, by my thinking anyway, the most interesting character in Watchmen. First of all, his moral code is awesome. On the one hand, he truly believes that the ends justify the means; breaking the fingers of a small time crook to get information is completely okay, but at the same time, he freaks out on another character for having an unlicensed gun. Rorschach never compromises; his entire outlook is purely black or white, right or wrong. If something is wrong, it must be persecuted to the fullest extent (and not necessarily by the law). Like his mask, which is a never-ending swirl of black and white, his views never mix into a neutral gray. Much like Dr. Manhattan and Ozymandias, Rorschach never questions his actions or his motives--he is action, pure and simple. In order to find a missing girl, he tortures fifteen people for information; upon finding she has been murdered, dismembered, and fed to dogs, he kills the dogs, handcuffs the kidnapper, sets the house on fire, then hands the man a hacksaw and says, "Shouldn't bother trying to saw through handcuffs. Never make it in time." Brutal, man, but chillingly effective. His response to the Keene Act? To murder a serial rapist and dump his body in front of the police station, with a sign that says "Never!" pinned to the corpse.
Rorschach believes himself to be Rorschach; he refers to his mask as his 'face' and sees his alter-ego (who is not revealed for several chapters, but you can pretty much guess his identity right off) as the not-real him. This psychological break occurs during the the kidnapping scene, though it builds on several decades of fucked-uppedness: "It was Kovacs who said 'mother' then, muffled under Latex. It was Kovacs who closed his eyes. It was Rorschach who opened them again....Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose...It is not God who kills the children. Not Fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It's us. Only us....Was reborn then, free to scrawl own design on this morally blank world. Was Rorschach." Seriously, his psychology is amazing, and that's before we get into the crazy that was his childhood.
The whole comic book is a deconstructionist text (if there's one thing I can honestly say I've learned at Clark, it's lit. theory. Still don't like it, but at least I [sorta] understand it now), looking at the worth and value of superheroes. First, it looks at the kind of people who would become costumed crimefighters in a modern, fairly realistic setting, at the dark psychology behind such a drive and motivation. It's one thing for Superman and Spiderman to do so--they've got special powers that creates within them a special responsibility. Batman, however? Plain, mortal Batman? Screwed up in the head. It warns of the danger of having a weapon that we place all our hopes and power in because when it goes, or becomes obsolete, we have nothing left and our enemies swarm around us and our newfound (or even newly perceived) weakness. Lastly, this is also a cautionary tale; Moore is warning us about putting all our hopes and trust into powerful beings, either political or paranormal. By doing so, we absolve ourselves of all responsibility and agency. First we give them the power to do as they please, and remove from ourselves the power to protest against them, and then we follow them down into moral decay since, freed from any notion of personal responsibility, we feel empowered to do as we please.
Oh, and let me talk about Tales of the Black Freighter for a moment, Watchmen's comic within a comic. The reader gets to read the story "Marooned," during several points of the comic, as the events in that story coincide with the events in the actual story. "Marooned" is about a sailor who washes up on an island (along with the bodies of his dead comrades) after the Black Freighter (the eponymous ship of evil from the comic) attacks his ship. The sailor realizes that the Black Freighter will be sailing towards his undefended home, and will kill everyone in the town, including the sailor's own family. In order to make it home before the ship, the sailor starts doing the most insane things, slowly stripping away him humanity (and sanity!) in the process. He makes a raft out of the gas-bloated corpses of his friends, catches and eats a raw sea gull, kills and eats a shark that has been drawn to the smell of his raft, and then, once he gets home, begins murdering his friends and neighbors who he assumes are collaborating with the pirate...who never came.
This theme of sacrificing everything to achieve victory has a certain central importance in the main-comic, as you can see if you read the comic yourself (I'm pretty sure that if I spoil the ending, I will be placed on the hitlist of the Geek Mafia). It's not exactly like a Pyrrhic victory--it's more of a deliberate setting out to do insane and horrible things, in order to bring about a "happy ending."
Like Watchmen itself, Tales of the Black Freighter are aspects of the theater of the absurd. They illustrate that life is inherently without meaning, parodying reality, or using seeming absurdity to show the real absurdity that is everyday life (like a comic book about superheroes to hold up a mirror to Reagan-era politics, for example...) It's all about the tragicomedy, yo.
This is a very thought-provoking comic. On the one hand, the story is interesting, the characters multi-faceted, and the gimmicks (comic-within-a-comic, the text afterwords from the Watchmen universe, etc) both enrich and illuminate the story. On the other hand, this comic is a veritable treasure-trove of literary criticism. Two of my students last semester are writing their major papers about Watchmen; the first is looking at Watchmen and comparing it to the Theater of the Absurd, and the second is reading this and V for Vendetta and discussing the concept of 'masking.' It's not a surprise that Watchmen is considered a 'literary' graphic novel. You can peel this text apart like an onion.
4.75 stars
Since it's on everyone's mind, I'll add my review of Watchmen as well. Warning: some spoilers.
The Watchmen by Alan Moore and David Gibbons, reviewed by N. Vivian on 3/6/2009.
Watchmen is a comic about superheroes, but it isn't a superhero comic. Instead, it is Moore's playing with the genre to the point of awesome. Picture New York City 1980's; a New York where people really did (at one point) dress up in wacky costumes and fight crime. A New York (and a world) where superhero comics don't exist, because who wants to read comics about real life (people read pirate comics instead)? Of all the costumed crimefighters, only one is actually parahuman: Dr. Manhattan. Created by a scientific experiment gone horribly wrong (betcha never heard that origin story before, eh?), Dr. Manhattan exists outside of time, and can change the physical world on an atomic level simply by will and thought alone. America is using him to hold the pinko commie bastards Russia in check ("the superman exists and he is American"), leading America to behave like a spoiled brat who is always threatening to take his ball home if other kids countries don't play by their rules, and who keeps talking about his big brother who'll beat everyone up if they don't do what he says.
Yeah, I know, it's an America that defies belief.
The comic opens with the murder of Edward Blake, the alter ego of the superhero "The Comedian," one of the two superheroes who works with government sanction. The other, is, of course, Dr. Manhattan; the rest were forced into retirement back in '77 after the passing of the "Keene Act" which basically just said no to vigilantism. The one costumed crimefighter (a more accurate term [though I use them pretty much interchangeably] than superhero since none of them have powers save Dr. Manhattan) who did not go gentle into that good night is Rorschach. Rorschach is, by my thinking anyway, the most interesting character in Watchmen. First of all, his moral code is awesome. On the one hand, he truly believes that the ends justify the means; breaking the fingers of a small time crook to get information is completely okay, but at the same time, he freaks out on another character for having an unlicensed gun. Rorschach never compromises; his entire outlook is purely black or white, right or wrong. If something is wrong, it must be persecuted to the fullest extent (and not necessarily by the law). Like his mask, which is a never-ending swirl of black and white, his views never mix into a neutral gray. Much like Dr. Manhattan and Ozymandias, Rorschach never questions his actions or his motives--he is action, pure and simple. In order to find a missing girl, he tortures fifteen people for information; upon finding she has been murdered, dismembered, and fed to dogs, he kills the dogs, handcuffs the kidnapper, sets the house on fire, then hands the man a hacksaw and says, "Shouldn't bother trying to saw through handcuffs. Never make it in time." Brutal, man, but chillingly effective. His response to the Keene Act? To murder a serial rapist and dump his body in front of the police station, with a sign that says "Never!" pinned to the corpse.
Rorschach believes himself to be Rorschach; he refers to his mask as his 'face' and sees his alter-ego (who is not revealed for several chapters, but you can pretty much guess his identity right off) as the not-real him. This psychological break occurs during the the kidnapping scene, though it builds on several decades of fucked-uppedness: "It was Kovacs who said 'mother' then, muffled under Latex. It was Kovacs who closed his eyes. It was Rorschach who opened them again....Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose...It is not God who kills the children. Not Fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It's us. Only us....Was reborn then, free to scrawl own design on this morally blank world. Was Rorschach." Seriously, his psychology is amazing, and that's before we get into the crazy that was his childhood.
The whole comic book is a deconstructionist text (if there's one thing I can honestly say I've learned at Clark, it's lit. theory. Still don't like it, but at least I [sorta] understand it now), looking at the worth and value of superheroes. First, it looks at the kind of people who would become costumed crimefighters in a modern, fairly realistic setting, at the dark psychology behind such a drive and motivation. It's one thing for Superman and Spiderman to do so--they've got special powers that creates within them a special responsibility. Batman, however? Plain, mortal Batman? Screwed up in the head. It warns of the danger of having a weapon that we place all our hopes and power in because when it goes, or becomes obsolete, we have nothing left and our enemies swarm around us and our newfound (or even newly perceived) weakness. Lastly, this is also a cautionary tale; Moore is warning us about putting all our hopes and trust into powerful beings, either political or paranormal. By doing so, we absolve ourselves of all responsibility and agency. First we give them the power to do as they please, and remove from ourselves the power to protest against them, and then we follow them down into moral decay since, freed from any notion of personal responsibility, we feel empowered to do as we please.
Oh, and let me talk about Tales of the Black Freighter for a moment, Watchmen's comic within a comic. The reader gets to read the story "Marooned," during several points of the comic, as the events in that story coincide with the events in the actual story. "Marooned" is about a sailor who washes up on an island (along with the bodies of his dead comrades) after the Black Freighter (the eponymous ship of evil from the comic) attacks his ship. The sailor realizes that the Black Freighter will be sailing towards his undefended home, and will kill everyone in the town, including the sailor's own family. In order to make it home before the ship, the sailor starts doing the most insane things, slowly stripping away him humanity (and sanity!) in the process. He makes a raft out of the gas-bloated corpses of his friends, catches and eats a raw sea gull, kills and eats a shark that has been drawn to the smell of his raft, and then, once he gets home, begins murdering his friends and neighbors who he assumes are collaborating with the pirate...who never came.
This theme of sacrificing everything to achieve victory has a certain central importance in the main-comic, as you can see if you read the comic yourself (I'm pretty sure that if I spoil the ending, I will be placed on the hitlist of the Geek Mafia). It's not exactly like a Pyrrhic victory--it's more of a deliberate setting out to do insane and horrible things, in order to bring about a "happy ending."
Like Watchmen itself, Tales of the Black Freighter are aspects of the theater of the absurd. They illustrate that life is inherently without meaning, parodying reality, or using seeming absurdity to show the real absurdity that is everyday life (like a comic book about superheroes to hold up a mirror to Reagan-era politics, for example...) It's all about the tragicomedy, yo.
This is a very thought-provoking comic. On the one hand, the story is interesting, the characters multi-faceted, and the gimmicks (comic-within-a-comic, the text afterwords from the Watchmen universe, etc) both enrich and illuminate the story. On the other hand, this comic is a veritable treasure-trove of literary criticism. Two of my students last semester are writing their major papers about Watchmen; the first is looking at Watchmen and comparing it to the Theater of the Absurd, and the second is reading this and V for Vendetta and discussing the concept of 'masking.' It's not a surprise that Watchmen is considered a 'literary' graphic novel. You can peel this text apart like an onion.
4.75 stars
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Blogger Error
Blogger has reported that for some users, the word verification window will not load. They're working on fixing the bug, but as of yet, it is still listed as a Known Issue. You can read about it here.
Until this is fixed, I have temporarily disabled word verification on my blog. Spam or inappropriate comments will be deleted.
Until this is fixed, I have temporarily disabled word verification on my blog. Spam or inappropriate comments will be deleted.
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