Thursday, August 09, 2007


What have I been reading?

My original plan with this blog was to keep account of what I was reading, and to force myself to think through what I made of a book by writing about it at the end. Thomas Pynchon's two most recent novels dashed these plans, both because they took so long for me to read that they put the blog on indefinite hiatus for months at a spell, and because it was so hard for me to article thoughts about them. Be that as it may, now it's long past time to work through the backlog.

Thomas Pynchon, Mason & Dixon (Henry Holt & Co., 1997).
The most human of Pynchon's books, full of America's promise. George Washington and a parade of others come and go, but the story's arc follows the lives of Mason and Dixon.

Charles Clerc, Mason & Dixon & Pynchon (University Press of America, 2000).
Not without some useful insights, but if I thought there was any money in academic publishing I'd suspect that Clerc dashed this off to be the first to be able to sell a Mason & Dixon book to university libraries.

Brooke Horvath and Irving Malin, eds., Pynchon and Mason & Dixon (University of Delaware Press, 2000).
The first essays in this volume were much appreciated as I tried to make sense of Mason & Dixon, but then my copy disappeared, and when it finally emerged from behind the couch I had moved on.

Francine Prose, Reading Like A Writer (HarperCollins, 2006).
I eagerly snap up books on the craft of writing, but they leave no impression. Am I any wiser or smarter for having read this book? The thought that it increased my capabilities, however imperceptibly, will fuel me to go read the next one.

Here is Prose on gesture.

Thomas Pynchon, Against The Day (Penguin, 2006).
The scope and scale of this novel is overwhelming, but it is well worth it. A neighbor is a fairly well known book reviewer, and I mentioned to her that I was engrossed in Against The Day. She made a face, and suggested that it was just too big and inaccessible for a mass audience, for her audience. But she relented some when I suggested that it was terrific that Pynchon could find a publisher for such a work, be it from those of us who paid full freight (n.b. -- a hardcover copy can be had for $7 on [eta: or could be recently -- now I'm not seeing it]) or from the boost to sales of his other works. Against The Day did not win a particularly favorable critical reaction, but many of the reviewers seemed to have internalized their expectations of how the mass audience would react, rather than trying to come to turns with it on its own terms. For those willing to devote themselves to it (for example, John Clute), Against The Day has its rewards.

Roberto Bolaño, By Night In Chile (New Directions, 2003).
The deathbed confession cum memoir of a Chilean priest whose examination of his life includes a reconsideration of his complicity in Pinochet's regime. Bolaño writes like a song, but does this book deserve the posthumous praise he has received? It certainly left me wanting to read The Savage Detectives.

P.V. Glob, The Bog People (NYRB, 2004).
It's amazing what experts can do with 2000-year-old human remains found in Danish bogs, how much they can tell from so little. This book was written four decades ago, and I bet today's experts have learned even more, but they don't seem to be writing for us non-experts.

Haruki Murakami, After Dark (Knopf, 2007).
The events in Murakami's latest novel occur in the space of one night and weave together a motley cast of Tokyo characters. Whether it was the compressed duration of the story or the way he divided the focus between a number of characters, After Dark felt lacking to me compared to many of his earlier novels. That said, after I'd finished it, moments in it would come back to me later.

Ruy Castro, Rio de Janeiro (Bloomsbury USA, 2004).
A short little book, much cheaper than a trip to Rio but, sadly, much less fun.

Jim Thompson, Wild Town (Corgi Books (UK), 1989).
An entertainment, but perhaps not one of Thompson's best. It took me longer than it should have to figure out that the novel's center of attention is not its protagonist. Good beach reading.

Joshua Ferris, Then We Came To The End (Little, Brown, 2007).
An excellent first novel, told in the first person plural, the voice of the underlings at a failing Chicago ad agency. A reader who hasn't worked in a traditional office may miss some of the resonances of, e.g., the machinations that surround office chairs when someone leaves the company. About two-thirds of the way in, there was a shift in the narrative voice which confused me and made me fear that Ferris couldn't sustain the promise of the early chapters, but he pulled it all together with an ending that at once was bittersweet and made sense of the earlier shift. Not many books make me laugh out loud on public transportation. Thanks to the folks at The Elegant Variation for recommending this one.

Alison Bechdel, Fun Home (Houghton Mifflin, 2006).
A graphic memoir, which is to say a memoir of Bechdel's childhood and particularly her relationship with her father, told in the format of a graphic novel. Just tremendous, for its realization of a novel form, for its structure, for its use of allusion and repeated motifs, and for its emotional impact. Highly recommended, and it takes only a few hours to read, so you really have no excuse.

John Lukacs, Confessions Of An Original Sinner (Ticknor & Fields, 1990). Lukacs grew up in Budapest, almost too young to serve in World War II, and emigrated to the United States not long after the end of the war. He soon found a teaching position at a small Catholic commuter school in the Philadelphia suburbs, and although he seems to have toiled in some measure of professional obscurity for many years, he has found a broad audience for his work. Characteristically, he does not dwell on his professional success. I have always enjoyed Lukacs' histories, and while his memoir does not match the best of them (in my eyes, Five Days In London), it does give a more personal perspective on what he has written elsewhere.

Here is Lukacs on Hungarian populists of the 1930s.

Edmund Wilson, To The Finland Station (NYRB, 2003).
An intellectual history of revolutionary thinkers after the French Revolution and before the Russian Revolution. Wilson spends a bit of time clearing his throat about French thinkers of the 19th century who do not seem to interest him much except as they suggest that non-communist thinking had reached a cul de sac of sorts by the end of the century. The bulk of the book chronicles Marx and Engels, and he does a masterful job lending texture and context to a life often -- unfairly -- reduced to slogans. Marx owed early intellectual debts to German philosophers and later material debts to Engels, who himself was a surprisingly engaging fellow. Wilson displays Marx's formidable academic mind, but sometimes falters in depicting his failure to lead other people. Even Marx, however, seems to be but a prelude for Wilson to the main act, Lenin. And yet the greatest flaw of the book, as Louis Menand suggests in the introduction, is Wilson's blindness to Lenin's brutality once in power. Indeed, Lenin doesn't fit the mold of the thinkers to whom Wilson has devoted the rest of the book, as he saw ideas as a tool to grab power, and not as an end in themselves.

Here Wilson sees Prometheus in Marx, and here he describes American socialists.

Alan Furst, The Foreign Correspondent (Random House, 2007).

Another thriller from Furst, capturing the last years before World War II, this time from the perspective of an Italian emigre living in Paris, where he reports for Reuters and helps to publish an anti-Fascist newspaper. I've written before about what Furst does well, and it's all here again, including some suspense. Most of his books have sections where the protagonist's peril has me wanting to skim ahead to find out what happens, even though thinks usually work out, more or less, at least for the moment.

That doesn't catch me up, but it gets me closer . . . .

Comments: Post a Comment

<< Home

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?