I have some questions for you, dear Ms Rebecca Makkai. Four to be exact.
❓Can you give us the recipe for an absorbing page-turner? I Have Some QuestionI have some questions for you, dear Ms Rebecca Makkai. Four to be exact.
❓Can you give us the recipe for an absorbing page-turner? I Have Some Questions For You (2023) is one of the most immersive, emotionally engaging and addictive novels I have recently read. Although I finished it a month ago, my thoughts are still wandering around the Granby campus. I was not thrilled by the main theme at first — femicide at the elite high school in New England — but I am glad it did not put me off. I became embroiled at once.
❓Why does excess seem to be the main problem with your novel? At least for me. Too many characters. Too many subplots. Too many pages. At some point, I got a bit tired of your book. And last but not least, too many social problems. The list of things this novel is against is long: racism, predatory teachers, teen sexual abuse, defence mechanisms in a small community, sexism, non-functional and unfair legal system, social inequality, to name just a few. It seems impossible to delve into all these issues profoundly on 438 pages, grappling with a whodunit plot and characterization at the same time. The result? Superficiality. On the other hand, if after having read this novel even one woman says no to the "friendly" advice: You just have to roll with the abuse, otherwise you're a crazy bitch, I think your effort was worthwhile.
❓Am I right to suspect that Thalia was inspired by the Sleeping Beauty fairytale? In Charles Perrault's story, Princess Talia pierces her hand with a spindle and falls asleep, although originally she was supposed to die. The way Thalia in I Have Some Questions For You is portrayed, not only her name, made me think of Sleeping Beauty. Such a pity the awakening was out of the question here. Or maybe I am overinterpreting? After all, it is a realistic, brutal novel. Please, note that you mentioned fairytales though, a bit ironically: For the journalists of the future, it would mean endless easy metaphors. Boarding school as kingdom in the woods, Thalia as enchantress, Thalia as princess, Thalia as martyr. That is why I do suspect Thalia's name was not chosen randomly. My first association was of course one of the Muses, the goddess who presided over comedy and idyllic poetry. Music and theatre were our Thalia's hobbies and moreover, she was mythologized after her death: What could be more romantic? What’s as perfect as a girl stopped dead, midformation? Girl as blank slate. Girl as reflection of your desires, unmarred by her own. Girl as sacrifice to the idea of girl. Speaking of names, Bodie, the narrator's nickname, makes me think of a body — this is exactly how some male characters perceived her and not only her: every girl was just a body to be used, to be discarded.
❓Why is rating your book so tough? In addition to the already mentioned excess, I had some issues with credibility. Would a teacher take part in a spiritualistic seance with a group of high school kids? Would a teacher intensively engage teenagers in solving a crime of this type? Would she send them on a goose chase, as she put it? Would the involved people agree to be interrogated about a murder by some teenagers? On the other hand, the atmosphere of this book is unforgettable. Besides, I enjoyed the fact that it is a multifaceted and genre-defying novel: a bildungsroman, a thriller, a campus novel, a mystery, a psychological study, and socially engaged fiction. And the way the narrative voice is constructed! Most of the time the story is narrated by Bodie, who used to be Thalia's roommate, but it often shifts to the second-person narration. This type of narrative voice seems to be quite rare, at least in the books I read, and frequently feels artificial but not this time. And I loved how slowly and gradually it was revealed who the mysterious "you" was, bit by bit: first it was the name, then the job, then more and more details followed.
Bodie confesses after having watched the school play: It was a worthy distraction. I’ve always been happiest when I can sit in the dark, when I can turn off my own life and watch a story unfold.I Have Some Questions For You was much more for me.
❗️Note to self: either read excellent and captivating reviews by Ruben OR make elaborate reading plans. You cannot do both, the choice is clear. When you devour something as wonderful as this, your intricate booklist ceases to be relevant. ❗️I was very fortunate to read I Have Some Questions For You simultaneously with another Goodreads friend I adore, Roman Clodia and her eloquent, exquisite review is a feast.
[image] Sleeping Beauty by Henry Meynell Rheam....more
Two facts about The Dead of the House (1972) immediately attracted my attention: it took Hannah Green twenty years to write this novel and it is the oTwo facts about The Dead of the House (1972) immediately attracted my attention: it took Hannah Green twenty years to write this novel and it is the one and only book for adults she published in her lifetime. In our era of literary mass production such perfectionism sounds quite baffling, doesn't it?
Seemingly, The Dead of the House is a quiet and subdued blend of a multigenerational family saga and a coming-of-age novel, intertwined with the history of North America, especially Ohio and Lake Michigan surroundings. It is also one of the most piercing tales of the inevitability of death and the transience of life that I have ever read. I found it achingly beautiful and despite the title not depressing or gloomy. According to the author, it is a very real book, which is, in fact, a dream. I got the idea from life, but I have proceeded from vision. I have made use in equal parts of memory, record, and imagination. Although the narrator is called Vanessa, she seems to be Hannah Green's alter ego and most of the characters' portraits are based on her family members.
The Dead of the House resembles a braid neatly plaited from three strands. The first one is the narrator's grandfather's memories, sprinkled with his poems, family-related documents and recollections of ancestors. The second one is Vanessa's reminiscences of her childhood and youth. The two narratives have distinctly different styles. The grandfather's story is succinct, matter-of-fact and concrete, full of names of people and places, the Native American versions included. You immediately get the impression that most of the anecdotes and episodes had been told hundreds of times and passed from generation to generation, with every oral storyteller leaving his little mark. Vanessa's narration is impressionistic and sensual, much more sublime and literary. The third strand is the history of the United States which affects the family's past.
Actually, there is the fourth strand in the braid, unwritten and invisible: every reader's own childhood memories, one picture leading into another. It makes us reflect on the change of generations, the inseparable intertwining of life and death. The central symbol in the novel is water to illustrate the passing of time, among other things. There are many scenes depicting swimming and canoeing. Besides, a lake plays an important and dramatic role in the plot.
One of the most astounding things about The Dead of the House is a gallery of Vanessa's eccentric relatives' portrayals. For instance, great-aunt Honora who loved to walk on the heathery moors like the Brontë sisters, or cousin Cato who swallowed a goldfish worth five hundred dollars and ate ninety-nine bananas, hopefully not on the same day, or poor great-grandfather who got so engrossed in Tess of the D'Urbervilles that was run over by a train! I wish the editors had foreseen that the numerous relatives mentioned in the book might be easy to confuse. To be honest, it took me a frustrating while to identify who was who. Such a pity a family tree was not included.
Wallace Stegner argues that in The Dead of the House you can encounter evocation at the level of magic. I could feel it too. There are stunning passages in Hannah Green's novel indeed although I found it a bit uneven as a whole. I think this fragment captures the quintessence of the book: Is it not strange that very recently bygone images and scenes of early life have stolen into my mind like breezes blown from the Spice Islands of Youth and Hope, those twin realities of this phantom world. It is much more than a typical walk down the nostalgia lane. The world of the past depicted by Hannah Green is full of flavours, scents, sounds, emotions. It is luminous too — The Dead of the House made me think of a passage from The Years by Annie Ernaux which I am reading at the moment: The distance that separates past from present can be measured, perhaps, by the light that spills across the ground between shadows, slips over faces, outlines the folds of a dress—by the twilight clarity of a black-and-white photo, no matter what time it is taken.
I am very sorry to report that the dramatically descending red arrow on the cover of Either/Or can be used as a symbolic image of my mood while readinI am very sorry to report that the dramatically descending red arrow on the cover of Either/Or can be used as a symbolic image of my mood while reading this new novel by Elif Batuman. I literally kept checking the name of the author to make sure the sequel to The Idiot was written by the same person. Some fragments sounded like auto-parody or fanfiction.
Basically, the protagonist does five things in Either/Or: 1. Explores her sexuality with a plethora of random guys she met a few minutes/hours ago; 2. Summarizes some books she read, spoilers included; 3. Basks in self-indulgence; 4. Recalls her childhood memories; 5. Skates gracefully on the surface of philosophical and literary issues, bestrewing the ice with 'Kierkegaard, Proust, Breton et altri' sprinkle
Compared to The Idiot... ...what is gone? * Crispy freshness; * Lustre; * Warmth; * Charm; * Humour; * Lightness; * Subtlety; * Ivan (only physically).
...what is new? * Boredom; * Perceptible efforts to be entertaining; * Details of Selin's sex life in abundance. I wonder if the author was criticised for lack of sex in the first part and now she was trying hard to play catch up?; * Passages which look like notes from actual seminars and lectures; * Portraying people as stereotypical national caricatures — please, check the Turkish men Selin encountered during her trip; * Selin's personality, radically transformed in a few months. How I missed the socially awkward, timid, smart, hilarious introvert from The Idiot!
As for sequels and second seasons, I usually try to keep my hopes low but I did not anticipate Either/Or to be such a colossal disappointment from almost all fronts. Sometimes a shadow of The Idiot's brilliance flickered shily, sometimes I pondered on the author's originality, talent and acuity. Still, I cringed for the most part. It felt as if Elif Batuman was terrorised by the editors to continue the series against her will and sabotaged it secretly.
Any ideas how to prevent a book from ending? All helpful tips and magic spells are welcome. Alas, it is too late to use them on The Idiot, but they wiAny ideas how to prevent a book from ending? All helpful tips and magic spells are welcome. Alas, it is too late to use them on The Idiot, but they will be kept for future reference.
Lightness is the word which perfectly encapsulates my impressions after having read this book. Was it a novel at all? Or maybe a sparkling potion of many ingredients: linguistics, coming of age, literary classics, national identity, philosophy of language, philosophy in general, immigration, to name just a few? And it is so charming and unpretentious at the same time. Please, ignore its blurb — it makes The Idiot sound like a not especially riveting YA novel and there is much more to it.
It is such a special and rare feeling when you discover that the author's sense of humour is 100% compatible with yours and The Idiot is just the case. The playfulness of this book is difficult to describe: subtle irony comes to mind. By the way, Elif Batuman may have changed my neighbours' opinion on me — a few times I could have been spotted giggling uncontrollably while dog walking. It happens every time I recall some hilarious comments by Selin or Svetlana.
The Idiot is one of the most uplifting novels I have ever read. Uplifting in a gentle and warm way, not hyper-energetic and trying-to-be-funny-by-all means way. I could almost hear the jaunty swish of endorphins being produced by my brain while reading The Idiot.
I got enamoured with this novel, all its imperfections included. I did not like the Paris part very much because of some cliches. I am not a massive fan of its title either — the references to Dostoevsky were visible in the novel anyway — and I think there might be a little confusion because of the famous namesake.
I was truly miserable when I reached the last page of Elif Batuman's novel. It was such a relief when I found out that a continuation was published a few months ago. I feel sorry for the readers who had to wait patiently for five years!
I did my best to like Carys Davies's West (2018) but failed miserably. This novella disappointed me on all possible fronts except one: the atmosphere.I did my best to like Carys Davies's West (2018) but failed miserably. This novella disappointed me on all possible fronts except one: the atmosphere. There was something unsettling, something mesmerizing about this story. It kept me reading on although my enthusiasm was dwindling with every page.
The premise of West is engrossing: Cy Bellman, a poor farmer from Pennsylvania, sets out on a lonely journey in the footsteps of Lewis and Clark’s expedition to solve the mystery of the great creatures whose bones have been found and fascinate him to such an extent that he leaves his ten-year-old daughter in the care of his sister. It becomes an obsession: I have to go. I have to go and see. That’s all I can tell you. I have to. After some time, we find out that this risky solitary quest leading to Kentucky is supposed to be a cure for the grave depression Cy has been struggling with since his wife died.
West has the feel of a parable. The advantage of this genre is that if you are blamed for anachronisms, you can always say it is not historical fiction after all. Unfortunately, I have the impression Carys Davies took this freedom a tad bit too far. I have nothing against British writers' books set in America but some details grated on me. The biggest surprise was the existence of a well-equipped library in a little town in Pennsylvania around 1810-1820. Another asset of a parable: you do not have to worry about the probability. The final scenes of West challenge my belief in coincidences to the fullest extent. The deus ex machina denouncement is strikingly cinematographic but the miraculous synchronicity of the events felt truly, truly awkward. Almost grotesque.
A parable should reveal a moral. It is unclear to me what the message of West is. Colonialism was bad? If you do something evil, you will be punished for that? If you pursue your Donquichotian dream, you are not the only one who pays for it? Women are weak and passive, while men are ruthless predators (speaking of which, fifty per cent of the main male characters in this short novella are paedophiles)? Truth be told, I expected something less stereotypical, less cliché. I also wonder why the Native American boy, who is a positive character by the way, has such a ridiculous name, "Old Woman From A Distance". Was it supposed to be hilarious? To the best of my knowledge, the names of Indigenous Peoples' were not given at random and jokingly.
As for the characterization, I do not have good news either. Cy Bellman and his family seemed to be drawn with highlighters, not with fine and subtle lines. I missed nuanced detail. Moreover, the use of literary devices in this novella felt heavy-handed, particularly the cliffhangers. While reading West I had the impression this was just a rough sketch of a novel that Carys Davies was planning to flesh out further but for some reason gave up and decided to publish the draft instead. If you have ever been served a dish that showed promise but was undercooked, you can fully understand how I felt while reading West.
[image] Oil painting by Tony Abeyta, Navajo....more
Aphasia (2020) by Mauro Javier Cárdenas is like an oxymoron. Simultaneously exhausting and unputdownable, repelling and engrossing, obscene and catharAphasia (2020) by Mauro Javier Cárdenas is like an oxymoron. Simultaneously exhausting and unputdownable, repelling and engrossing, obscene and cathartical, depressing and amusing. Yes, I know, it sounds bizarre and crazy but so is this novel.
My guess is that if you do not like Antonio, the neurotic narrator of Aphasia — and he may get on your nerves right from the start — reading this book might be a frustrating experience. Please, do not give up as chances are you will warm up to him gradually. I did.
Why aphasia? Judging by the title, you might wrongly suspect that it is a non-fiction study on the impairment of language. Sounds ironic, given the fact that Antonio is interested in literature and creative writing. He keeps juggling with words for 208 pages. You will find the interpretation in the novel: 'aphasia is a metaphor for expressive paralysis'. Communication skills and expressing feelings are not Antonio's forte. Real aphasia is often caused by stroke or head trauma. In the narrator's case, it was an emotional injury.
No wonder words and literature play such an important part in Aphasia. The narrator’s stream of consciousness feels like an unstoppable logorrhoea which oftentimes drives you mad. Besides, there are many literary allusions.
Do not let an eccentric disguise of Aphasia deceive you. Behind the literary extravagance, there is a disturbing, emotionally draining story of child abuse and family trauma. Cárdenas depicts how such experiences shape our life and who we are.
As it seems, sometimes it is better to embark on a book not knowing exactly what is awaiting you. Had I known before how heart-breaking Aphasia is, despite dark humour and sarcasm, most probably I would have shied away from it. That would have been a mistake: two weeks have passed since I read this novel and it is still circulating in my thoughts.
When you read this book, be careful not to get drowned in Cárdenas' endless, meandering sentences. Most probably, you will need a moment to get used to his overwhelming narration and excess is its second name. After a while, you will notice that Antonio's chaotic rant often has an addictive rhythm, musical cadence and poetic aspect.
I liked the experimental quality of Aphasia however two things annoyed me. It felt awkward when the author was trying to impress the readers by all means and his efforts to shock and amaze were not seamless. Personally, I prefer to be enchanted not being aware that it is happening. Besides, Antonio’s verbosity was sometimes insufferable. I needed a few breaks but felt so worried about Estela, Antonio's sister, that had to go on, despite the irritating flood of words I was floating in.
Aphasia is like a rapid river. Numerous digressions and subplots made me think of bifurcating tributaries and dark pools. Sometimes you breathlessly dive headfirst, sometimes you drearily wade in the shallows, but the voyage is memorable anyway.
Most probably your heart will not start missing a beat when I tell you the premise of No. 91/92: notes on a Parisian commute (2021) by Lauren Elkin: aMost probably your heart will not start missing a beat when I tell you the premise of No. 91/92: notes on a Parisian commute (2021) by Lauren Elkin: an American teacher jots down some impressions on her mobile while commuting to work on public transport in Paris. Poetics of the city as viewed through the bus, as the author put it.
It is not hard to guess that Lauren Elkin's favourite observation object is other passengers: I lose myself in other people's plot lines, I watch people who exist pretend to be people who don't exist. A bus turns out to be as good a way to view the city as another. Better, even. You're on the move. Taking it all in. Slightly above all the congestion it clears our sight like menthol clears our sinuses.
Although Lauren Elkin is a fan of the Oulipo — with no reciprocity though, as she sardonically stated — you will not find any extravagances in this book. The only unusual thing is the original spelling, with some typos preserved. Maybe it was an attempt to make the notes look more natural, more realistic.
After some time a parallel between the woman and the city becomes more and more visible: they both have to grapple with anxiety, grief and loss. For Lauren Elkin it is the loss of her baby, for Paris terrorist attacks. Deceivingly plain entries gradually turn into a moving account of coming to terms with trauma and efforts to go on against all odds. The simple, raw writing style works perfectly here. Emotional honesty always resonates better with me than pathos.
The impact of this book is inversely proportional to its size. Speaking of which, what is wrong with slight? How are we asking books to be when we dismiss them for being slight, what isn’t in them that “should” be there? (Lauren Elkin interviewed in The Paris Review).
It is really hard to explain what makes No. 91/92: notes on a Parisian commute so readable. The author's personality might be one of the answers. Lauren Elkin we get to know from her diary is a witty and sensitive person who loves literature. And, as usual, Paris besotted me tout de suite.
