There may not be anything new to say about this classic, but the strident tone of absolute futility stands out for me. Orwell sees totalitarianism as There may not be anything new to say about this classic, but the strident tone of absolute futility stands out for me. Orwell sees totalitarianism as a viable threat. And at its most effective, the result is as depressing as anything I might imagine.
That’s enough to make this a great book. The depressing theories essentially consume all sense of story. And I’m OK with that too.
Halfway through, Orwell takes a 20 page break to explicitly drive home his vision of effective totalitarianism. There’s one passage in particular: it’s as if Orwell is predicting the rise of Donald Trump, if Trump could take credit for being so intentional.
“To tell deliberate lies while genuinely believing in them, to forget any fact that has become inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary again, to draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is needed, to deny the existence of objective reality and all the while to take account of the reality which one denies - all this is indispensably necessary.” (p133)
And then the plot returns. It’s next to impossible to enjoy the story of Winston’s life, but he is fascinating in his own way. His troubles are much worse than anything Trump has inspired - maybe I can take some small comfort from that. ...more
I was reading along pleasantly enough. And then I reached the scene in which Howard Crosby pulls the final rotting tooth from the mouth of Gilbert theI was reading along pleasantly enough. And then I reached the scene in which Howard Crosby pulls the final rotting tooth from the mouth of Gilbert the Hermit. “A breeze caught the hermit’s breath and Howard gasped and saw visions of slaughterhouses and dead pets under porches.” Daggum that makes me smile.
And then Howard describes his epileptic seizures. “The aura, the sparkle and tingle of an oncoming fit, was not the lightning--it was the cooked air that the lightning pushed in front of itself. The actual seizure was when the bolt touched flesh, and in an instant so atomic, so immaterial, nearly incorporeal, that there was almost no before and after.”
Soon thereafter the story of Gilbert and Howard closes on a near-perfect note of goodwill.
Then there’s Mr. Jiggsy and his life well worth living. “He was such a free spirit! He chased all the boys and tore their pant cuffs and dug up all the neighbor’s flower beds and ate a cat for dinner every day. Poor Mr. Jiggsy!”
It’s as if Harding found within himself a long lost remarkable chapter of the New Testament: “and that it is good and that it is terrifying and that it is ineffable and that only rational faith can soothe the desperate pains and woes of our magnificent and depraved world. It is that simple, dear reader, that logical and that elegant.” ...more
This graphic adaptation works hard to remain true to Kafka’s surreal vision. Kuper succeeds, at least at the surface level. It helps a lot, though, toThis graphic adaptation works hard to remain true to Kafka’s surreal vision. Kuper succeeds, at least at the surface level. It helps a lot, though, to be familiar with the original.
I read this before I read the original, and I missed out on context as a result. It’s all here though: Gregor’s desperation with his job, his sister’s wild mood swings, Gregor’s remorseless decline. Kuper even manages to fit in lots of specific phrases and actions. I especially like seeing Gregor latch himself to the family portrait on the wall.
But in panel form a lot of the nuance gets lost. It’s much more plausible to think of Gregor Samsa’s condition on several levels when presented with Kafka's writing and all its internal dialogue. The same holds true for everyone else’s reaction to Gregor.
And there’s not enough in this version to preserve Kafka’s sense of humor and absurdity. To see Gregor struggle through the family apartment as a dung beetle defies any consideration of the impossibility of his predicament.
It’s still a very good adaptation. I just like the original even better....more
Coetzee’s writing style is spare and powerful. There’s very little extreme brutality or shock. He conveys the inhumanity of Apartheid through almost bCoetzee’s writing style is spare and powerful. There’s very little extreme brutality or shock. He conveys the inhumanity of Apartheid through almost banal acts of violence, neglect and disregard.
Michael K wants as much as anything to be undisturbed. “He thought of himself not as something heavy that left tracks behind it, but if anything as a speck upon the surface of an earth too deeply asleep to notice the scratch of ant-feet, the rasp of butterfly teeth, the tumbling of dust.” That attitude is the foundation of his supreme dignity.
Michael doesn’t ask for empathy. He doesn’t want charity. And given the options available to him, he doesn’t especially want to struggle to extend his life. He won’t be satisfied until the world changes. It’s a blueprint for disappointment and failure, revealed in such a way that I’m left feeling every bit as insignficant and astounded as Michael K himself. ...more
My goodness, this story is crammed with a whole bunch of strange. It’s a major shift from the opening, which feels like an undeniably literate yet sliMy goodness, this story is crammed with a whole bunch of strange. It’s a major shift from the opening, which feels like an undeniably literate yet slight small-town laugh. A cranky old teacher wants to set the record straight in a self-serving tell-all to his former headmaster.
As the story builds it becomes clear that the teacher, Dustan Ramsey, really does have a lot to say. He abandons the folksy humor to dwell instead upon his horrific suffering in World War One, the surreal courtship of his nurse, and the meteoric rise of his boyhood rival, a Gatsby/Tom Buchanan mashup.
That still leaves a lot of personal history for my three favorite characters: Mary Dempster and her son Paul, and Padre Blazon. The Padre is admittedly a guilty pleasure. He’s essentially a society gossip. Mary and Paul are tougher to pin down, each a bit unhinged in their own way.
The teacher's an interesting guy too, certainly. Given all the strange he wades through, it would be near impossible to be otherwise. ...more
My impression of Part 1: Little House on the Prairie. With Economics! And then Part 2 opens with “It is 16 years since John Bergson died.” The NebraskMy impression of Part 1: Little House on the Prairie. With Economics! And then Part 2 opens with “It is 16 years since John Bergson died.” The Nebraska farmlands have undergone a complete makeover. It’s still a horse and carriage world, but motorized machines plow the fields, and everybody is calling each other on the phone. The economic foundation is firm, and we never get to see exactly how that came to pass. Gaps like that keep the pace brisk, but only if you enjoy the alternative scenes.
The theme is now love, regret, and sullen stubborn grumpiness. I like the grumpies more than the agronomy, and I like the entire story well enough, but I can understand why my wife found this novel dreary and dull in high school.
There are five parts in all, and the melodrama consistently ramps up, until the weepers and wailers can wail no more. One interesting aspect of this: John Bergson’s daughter is at the center of the story, and for her melodrama is inconceivable. She remains practical, supportive, and remarkably progressive, no matter what circumstances arise. She’s an impressive person; one of the most modern pioneer women I’ve ever found in literature.
Even so, the melodrama that surrounds her is extreme for my taste. And the “dis” and “dat” dialogue of some of the secondary pioneers can be distracting. But I don’t feel those are the most important considerations.
O Pioneers! is Cather’s devotional tribute to the land of the American Midwest. Fertility, the cyclical nature of life, inherent beauty, darkness and light, warmth and bitter chill: it’s all essential to an appreciation of this novel. And I’m ok with that: just not quite swept away. ...more
Ouch. I don’t want to read about a knife cutting into an eyeball, or brains roasting over a sulfur fire. Humans are barbaric. No doubt about it. And mOuch. I don’t want to read about a knife cutting into an eyeball, or brains roasting over a sulfur fire. Humans are barbaric. No doubt about it. And maybe more literature like this can force us to change. Or at least acknowledge our sick failings. Or maybe just make us feel as icky as we’ve ever felt reading a classic.
For those with a higher tolerance, this is undoubtedly a powerful book. For me, I’m just happy my dreams haven’t gone all twisted.
One of Doctorow’s most impressive achievements is the presentation of Daniel himself. He’s the son of two American Communists who are accused of being spies. He and his younger sister are the legacy of their parents' political philosophy and horrific execution. That’s not a spoiler, by the way. The fate of the Isaacsons is confirmed early on, and much of the book involves Daniel’s reconstruction of the family’s past. The US post-WW2 government and judicial system is convincingly portrayed as an abomination. There’s a lot of interesting history woven into the storyline.
To what extent does this history explain the manipulative monster Daniel has become? And should readers accept his narration as an honest comprehensive record? Don’t expect me to provide an answer. Heck, Daniel’s the one who gets to decide how much of himself to reveal, and there are times when he clearly struggles with this responsibility. It’s too much to decipher. Whatever else, I do know that I am disgusted by the way he abuses his wife.
The bonus phrases and passages don’t exactly provide clarity. I realize this is classic literature, and I should be able to recognize Doctorow’s allusions and poignant fragments as something other than typos. But that’s what I’m left with; scratching my head over chunks of reading that might as well be typos for all I can glean from them. There’s even a full sentence pulled straight from Joyce’s Ulysses; my forever go-to novel for classic experiments in gobbledygook parsing.
So Doctorow has written a great book, and I enjoyed reading it, when I wasn’t scratching my head or covering my eyes with my hands. ...more
The Great Gatsby is one of my favorite literary views of United States ideals and promise and self-importance. Right up there with Ragtime and My AntoThe Great Gatsby is one of my favorite literary views of United States ideals and promise and self-importance. Right up there with Ragtime and My Antonia and Big Rock Candy Mountain and a few others I may be forgetting. I take Fitzgerald at his word when he wrote, “for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.”
That’s the kind of wonder that defines Gatsby. That’s also reason enough to describe the story as a romance. Gatsby seems most real when he meets his true love, Daisy Buchanan, for the first time in five years. “There was a change in Gatsby that was simply confounding. He literally glowed; without a word or gesture of exultation a new well-being radiated from him and filled the little room.”
Of course their love is flawed, in much the same way the Great American dream and vision are flawed. Too many of us think too much of ourselves and our home. There’s a lot of show to the States, and that same showmanship defines the narrator’s first discovery of Gatsby. “Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.”
Then there’s Tom Buchanan, Daisy’s husband. A husband is one sure way to doom a romance, and it doesn’t hurt that Tom is such a bombastic boor. “The fact that he ‘had some woman in New York’ was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his preemptory heart.”
Tom has dirt on Gatsby, and he’s desperate to attack, and fight fight fight USA USA! Two manifestations of the same emotion. That’s why The Great Gatsby is my choice to define my home country, at least until Trump the Novel is published....more
What a ridiculous moral tragicomedy. It’s impressive to consider all the different institutions this novel must have offended at its time of publicatiWhat a ridiculous moral tragicomedy. It’s impressive to consider all the different institutions this novel must have offended at its time of publication in the 1890s. And I’m not sure how comic Hardy meant for this story to be, but it made me laugh a lot, so I get to label it the way I want.
Hardy definitely wants to make a statement about the hypocrisy of social conventions – marriage, the Church, higher education. There’s a never-ending procession of silly and cynical scenes and characters to drive those points home.
My favorite is Sue Bridehead. She is perfectly horrible as a misguided morally pretentious demon tease. ‘Maybe I’ll let you hold my hand. But no, you weren’t very nice just then so it’s time for you to leave me forever. Maybe tomorrow I’ll change my mind and let you put your arm around my waist, but only if you promise it’s a friendly gesture, not some wild outburst of unseemly passion.’
OK, those might not be her exact words. She does a lot more speechifying, and lamenting over the stifling bonds of Husband and God. But the effect is the same – she’s a sexless temptress. And poor Cousin Jude is smitten senseless. So of course they each marry others, for reasons that have nothing to do with love or much of anything else.
In the midst of all that deep meaning and folly, the plot goes bonkers. Hardy decides it’s not even worth explaining the arrival of Jude and Sue’s two children. By this time they are living together, so logical biological assumptions can be made. But they’re still not married, and who knows how Sue really feels about him.
There’s also a semi-adopted eldest child, Father Time, who gets more attention. My turn to decide what’s not worth explaining, except to say that Father Time fits the rest of the script well enough, as a morose little monster of lamentation.
He’s also a catalyst for even bonkier crazies. It’s at the level of “Oh my God! That couldn’t have just happened, could it?” The impossible reactions to the tragic nonsense are even better than the nonsense itself.
As a result, in spite of all the lofty allusions, it’s impossible to take Hardy’s message too seriously. And that’s the strongest endorsement I can manage at this point. ...more
“What is the meaning of life?” Really? Woolf can slip that line into this bog of consciousness thinkorama? I like her better when she’s writing about “What is the meaning of life?” Really? Woolf can slip that line into this bog of consciousness thinkorama? I like her better when she’s writing about whether the strikingly beautiful Mrs. Ramsey would like a pear.
The answer, by the way, is no. Mrs. Ramsey does not want a pear. And so, after 100+ pages of similarly profound musings, Mrs. Ramsey is left to… well, I guess it wouldn’t do to reveal that spoiler, even though I don’t have much of an idea of what I would be spoiling.
I certainly don’t have the capacity for ideas that these characters possess. There is a lot of mind reading going on. The novel is essentially a literary treatise on ESP. I like Lily Briscoe’s powers of perception best. She’s the one who most effectively recognizes and has fun with Charles Tansley’s ego-fueled anxiety attack.
“He felt extremely, even physically, uncomfortable. He wanted somebody to give him a chance of asserting himself. He wanted it so urgently that he fidgeted in his chair, looked at this person, then at that person, tried to break into their talk, opened his mouth and shut it again. They were talking about the fishing industry. Why did no one ask him his opinion? What did they know about the fishing industry?”
“Lily Briscoe knew all that. Sitting opposite him, could she not see, as in an X-ray photograph, the ribs and thigh bones of the young man’s desire to impress himself… But, she thought, screwing up her Chinese eyes, and remembering how he sneered at women, ‘can’t paint, can’t write,” why should I help him to relieve himself?”
That’s my favorite scene of the whole book. I also like the ending, especially the final line. I wonder how long it will stay with me.
Mr. Ramsey is intriguing, and a bit of a hoot. There’s some question about how much of a philosophical genius he is. But there’s no doubting his title as King of the Divas. He intimidates all the other characters, in much the same way Woolf intimidates me. How on earth can such a literary genius, and such a widely acknowledged masterpiece, earn only 3 stars? I guess, intimidation or no, I don’t really like this book all that much, and all the commas make me tired. ...more
It gets better, because the words flow so well. And Robinson eventually lets the story unfold. Lila is an astounding person. She hurts too much to truIt gets better, because the words flow so well. And Robinson eventually lets the story unfold. Lila is an astounding person. She hurts too much to trust anyone or anything, and fears for how her times of contentment disrupt her sense of the world. Her husband, an old preacher, can sense how Lila feels, and has his own fear that she’ll run off and leave him alone and unloved once more.
So all that’s compelling, but I can’t figure out why the book has to shuttle so much through layers of past and present to get to that point. It’s all part of being a great masterpiece of literature, I suppose. And then the story just ends, like letting out air from a tire. ...more
Sure, they’re called The Martian Chronicles, but they read more like The New Mexico Chronicles. Bradbury admits as much in his introduction to the 199Sure, they’re called The Martian Chronicles, but they read more like The New Mexico Chronicles. Bradbury admits as much in his introduction to the 1997 edition. At one point he writes, “How come The Martian Chronicles is often described as Science Fiction? It misfits that description.”
Well, it’s SF because it’s set on Mars, albeit a Looney Tunes Mars. And it’s SF because it imagines the role of science in advancing the destructive potential of human nature.
I like Bradbury’s descriptive language, and his messages too, except at their most heavy-handed. Bradbury’s world view is far more bleak than I anticipated. As for Mars itself, it’s a ridiculously incongruent patchwork of impossibilities. The locals drink wine straight from the canals, which later on, as far as I can tell, carry water for humans to fish from. The Martians are a silly facsimile of humans. Thinner faces, noticeably short, eyes like coins, and six fingers instead of five. And they speak English of course, via telepathy.
The Earthlings are even sillier than the Martians. The members of an early space mission pout like children when the Martians don’t give them a welcoming parade. Another early transplant dreams of opening the most popular hot dog stand on the planet. In order to solidify his business prospects he apparently has to destroy every Martian and Martian artifact he comes across.
Speaking of wholesale destruction, a global nuclear war breaks out on Earth. The cataclysm is so violent that the flames and whatnot are visible from Mars. So of course all the human pioneers rush to their rockets to return home and join the fun. Who in their right mind would do that?
I guess that’s Bradbury’s most important point. We’re all on a Doomsday track to forfeit our right minds. And there’s little sense in wishing that Mars will be our salvation. Fair enough, but he would have had a better chance of selling me on his ideas without the hot dogs. ...more
At first all the absurdity seems silly: slapstick that reminds me too much of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Scenes are constructed upon scraphAt first all the absurdity seems silly: slapstick that reminds me too much of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Scenes are constructed upon scrapheaps of absolute contradictions, apparently just for the sake of being absolute and contradictory. Heller’s sentence structure is purposefully rambling and divergent, with rarefied adjectives and adverbs and scattered spikes of shock.
It takes a long time for the plot to evolve into anything more than a scrambled joke. I can’t pinpoint the page or chapter when my attitude changed, but I eventually started liking the book a lot more, and getting more frustrated with it too. Heller makes me care enough to get angry at Milo, and Aarfy, and Corporal Whitcomb, along with all the colonels and generals. The jokes aren’t just jokes anymore. Terrible things happen: death and destruction aren’t any less tragic for being absurd.
That’s great, but Heller doesn’t stop there. Yossarian has to take a final world-weary hike through war-torn Rome. And then he relives his past. The jokes dry up, and I have a whole new excess to shy away from. ...more
This novel is written in two parts, and Part I is a perfect comedy of British aristocratic manners. I like it more than anything I’ve read from Wilde This novel is written in two parts, and Part I is a perfect comedy of British aristocratic manners. I like it more than anything I’ve read from Wilde or Austen.
The novel opens in a Florence pensione. Forster uses this setting to skewer those who envision themselves as enlightened expat adventurers. “The hour was approaching at which the continental breakfast begins, or rather ceases, to tell, and the ladies bought some hot chestnut paste out of a little shop, because it looked so typical. It tasted partly of the paper in which it was wrapped, partly of hair oil, partly of the great unknown.”
The effect of the environment isn’t nearly as important, however, as the effect the travellers have upon each other. The snobs of the story are as quick as they are cruel. “I hardly know George, for he hasn’t learnt to talk yet.” This is Clergyman Beebe’s assessment of one of the pivotal characters, George Emerson.
George is implicated in what qualifies as a scandal with Lucy Honeychurch. Forster’s summary of the scene is one of my favorite passages. He enfolds the entire social circle in a single snare. “There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst them – not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics.”
The romance heats up, so to speak, in Part II, with the appearance of Cecil Vyse, Lucy’s fiancée. “So it happened that from patronizing civility he had slowly passed if not to passion, at least to a profound uneasiness.” For this guy, tepid is an achievement, and cynicism is a birthright. “Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement.”
And then, sometime soon after that, I stopped laughing so much. George, Lucy and Cecil settle into a predictable romantic rivalry. It’s all the more predictable because Forster, in his narration, provides an infallible diagnosis of each character’s heart.
There are still some brilliant scenes and thoughtful ironies, but the story seems spent. Old Mr. Emerson warns, “there’s nothing worse than muddle in all the world.” I can think of worse, but that doesn’t do much to redeem the final muddle found here. ...more
I let the end sneak up on me. Kind of embarrassing. I’m not convinced that was Cunningham’s intent. It’s pretty obvious how the three reconstructions I let the end sneak up on me. Kind of embarrassing. I’m not convinced that was Cunningham’s intent. It’s pretty obvious how the three reconstructions of Virginia Woolf and Mrs. Dalloway fit together. Even so, I enjoyed the surprise, and love the overall effect of this intricately crafted novel.
I love how the characters embrace and battle the longings in their lives. So many thoughts of anguish and pleasure and suicide, fueled by the momentary inconveniences and revelations of daily life. “She will give Richard the best party she can manage. She will try to create something temporal, even trivial, but perfect in its way.”
And I love the message made explicit in this late passage. “Here, then, is age. Here are the little consolations, the lamp and the book. Here is the world, increasingly managed by people who are not you. Who will do either well or badly, who do not look at you when they pass you in the street.”
This book may be almost too perfectly scripted as a tribute to Virginia Woolf; I don’t know. Mrs. Dalloway is the only novel by Woolf that I’ve read, and I don’t remember it well enough to make a proper judgment. At this point I’m satisfied in my enjoyment of The Hours as a sublime read. ...more
One of the best war stories I’ve ever read. It’s a story of trust, loyalty, and the different ways a person can prove their worth in the face of dangeOne of the best war stories I’ve ever read. It’s a story of trust, loyalty, and the different ways a person can prove their worth in the face of danger.
Small bands of guerrillas are hiding and attacking behind fascist lines, during the Spanish Civil War. An American idealist, Robert Jordan, has orders to recruit the rebels and blow up a bridge. Jordan is a bit of an Indiana Jones superhero. He is a professor from Montana, an explosives expert, and he seems to know everything there is to know about Spanish geography, horses, and machine guns.
Pablo, the guerrilla leader, is the second most iconic character of this novel. He’s selfish, ruthless, and fully aware of the danger that Jordan’s plan has put the group in. The last stand of Sordo’s gang is a classic tragicomedy of stubborn bravery and stupidity and rotten luck. Anselmo is my favorite character. He’s in his 60s, as strong as anyone, with a simple uncertain faith in humanity. There are lots of other great characters – another testament to the extraordinary detail and scope of this densely compacted epic.
The political asides can get excessive, but they help to put the actions into context. More than any of the Spaniards, Jordan is the one who directly measures his success in the service of the Republic. But he also, ultimately, aspires to live an honorable life above all else.
Hemingway’s writing style is immediately recognizable, and it suits the story well. Repetitive, simple and formal at the same time. Most of the dialogue is a stiff English translation of ritualized Spanish. The conversation feels most stilted between Jordan and the new-found love of his life, Maria. It’s tolerable enough the rest of the time. ...more
The back cover of my edition describes this novel as a “chilling exposé of violence and gang warfare.” Suffice to say I wasn’t chilled.
Pinkie, the maThe back cover of my edition describes this novel as a “chilling exposé of violence and gang warfare.” Suffice to say I wasn’t chilled.
Pinkie, the main character, is as pathetic a crime leader as his name would suggest. He’s forever testing the boundaries of unintentional comedy with his defensive bragging and anger and threats. But the story isn’t bad enough to funny. And it’s not horrific enough to be good.
It didn’t help that I found the circumstances confusing. I was never able to fully grasp exactly what kind of racket Pinkie was trying to control. There’s some kind of illegal off-track betting on horses going on, but I couldn’t figure out why, or how. There are a couple murders, and near-misses, but again the action always seems to happen just beyond the range of immediate awareness.
It’s much more obvious that Pinkie is too small-time and young to matter much to the rest of the crime bosses, except as an unpredictable thorn. His girl, Rose, is the only character that’s more pathetic than he is. Even so, it’s hard to know what she sees in him. She has some interesting moments, and I liked the first scene well enough. The rest reads like an unusually literate stain. ...more
Reading the first 100 pages of this novel is like reading the mud at the bottom of a mug of coffee. I can’t keep track of who’s who. Time is indistincReading the first 100 pages of this novel is like reading the mud at the bottom of a mug of coffee. I can’t keep track of who’s who. Time is indistinct. Why are so many people awake at 4am? There are all sorts of geographical links to the Caribbean, but I still can’t pinpoint where anything takes place. And it’s impossible to determine what really matters, in the events before, during and after the murder of Santiago Nasar.
But then the aftermath of the disgraced bride unfolds, at least a little, and it becomes easier to give in to the absurdity of the situation. Everyone seems involved in Nasar’s death, one way or another, but the violence and finality of the act is essentially a tangent to the enduring stages of surprise, wonder and absolution the townfolk claim for themselves. Credit Garcia Marquez for making me think, and scratch my poor befuddled head several times. ...more
I like the flow of the sentences, the funnier lines. One favorite description, of a landowner named Kotlovich: “He did nothing, didn’t know how to do I like the flow of the sentences, the funnier lines. One favorite description, of a landowner named Kotlovich: “He did nothing, didn’t know how to do anything; a flabby sort of individual, as though made out of boiled turnip.”
I even like most of the philosophy. Ward 6 most memorably: “To grow cold and then go whirling round the sun it was surely not necessary to drag man with his high, almost divine mind out of non-existence and then, as though in mockery, turn him into clay. Transmutation of matter! But what cowardice it was to console oneself with that makeshift immortality!”
My memory of the other stories blends together a bit much. Similar snapshots of Pre-Revolution Russia. The landed gentry and their affairs. Men and women who spend their money and time to the point of dissolution. Their mundane tragedies are all elegant, but I’m not convinced they present Chekhov at his best. ...more
The people are forlorn, threadbare, emotionally stunted, and cantankerous, and somehow the combination makes me laugh. This may be the most fun I’ve eThe people are forlorn, threadbare, emotionally stunted, and cantankerous, and somehow the combination makes me laugh. This may be the most fun I’ve ever had with a century-old classic.
This novel might be best described as a New England horse and buggy romantic tragedy, if not for all the Yankee one-liners. Wharton’s language is spare and direct, befitting the snow blanket landscape. There’s no love lost between Ethan and his bitter ever-ailing wife. Cousin Mattie adds a breath of life to their home, and that is clearly dangerous.
The unlabeled epilogue is jarring, and the location of the various villages, farms and trails gets confusing. This is especially frustrating, because local travels and distances are very important to the storyline. But it’s not problematic enough to ruin the fun of gawking at the absurdity of Frome’s unhappy home. ...more
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