Books: Last Book You Read and Rate It

[Spring in Fialta]

Speak, Memory by Vladimir Nabokov (initially published in 1951, revised and extended in 1966) - Lots to unpack in this book. I will dwell on its strength and begin with its flaws. Nabokov is a peculiar one for me. He is a writer who (rightfully) considers the crafting of literature as an entirely private pleasure, an entirely private puzzle. Superb approach until you get to the man himself. His confidence and sense of self-worth is unsurpassed in literature. He is utterly and shamelessly in love with his own uniqueness and sensibilities. His arrogance as an individual knows no bound. After his meteoric rise to fame in late middle-age, he was a merrily plump man who loved sitting down and absolutely ripping apart other books, other authors (some of which I agreed with, some of which I don't, but always an entertaining number) What makes it even funnier is that the goofy bastard could largely back it up. But what it can also do, for an artist as detail-obsessed as Nabokov, is it'll make him drone on, become tedious, gets caught up in his literacy to silly effect. For the general reader, there is no necessity or great pleasure to reading him go on about mushrooms. Certain of his vivid pictures can become such a mishmash of details and colors that they ultimately become murky. Also, Nabokov, who trusts his own judgement so greatly, has no qualms about rising the few people he loves as icons to be venerated by all whose paths crossed theirs. This is particularly ridiculous at the start of the book. His father (a wealthy democratic man who worked in various high-level government positions) being tossed in the air by happy Russian peons is an eye-roller. Now, the great, which is very great, because at his top dollar, Nabokov is as good and memorable an author as anyone who came before and after him. I just think he lacks the consistency of my absolute favorites (McCarthy, Kafka).

Chapter 9 - A 12 year-old Nabokov, largely unaware of the minute details of his father's work, learns that his father will be involved in a duel with a slandering editor (often a target of right-wing garbage, it is said that this insult, never explained, could not be ignored). Like one can be shocked reading Cormac McCarthy giving himself away to emotion, a similar shock is felt reading Nabokov, who fancies himself a genius the moment he is birthed, admits to bugging out with fear and panic. Like I said in a previous post, this fear and panic stemming from a little boy's love and respect for his father, gives way to the greatest declaration of love that I have ever read. Getting in schoolyard fight with a friend he somehow deems responsible, shouting at a carriage driver to hurry home, reminiscing of the tender gestures of his father (a particularly great one revolves around his father, knowing his son is obsessed with butterflies, darting into his room, grabbing Nabokov's net without a word and running out to catch and bring back a rare specimen to his son) gives way to a return home where immediately he understands that an apology was offered to his father and all will be okay. There, Nabokov, unable to look at his father, admits to weeping (with the perfect 'I had no handkerchief'). I wept too. And gracefully, gorgeously, Nabokov, whose father is to die ten years in Berlin later shot by fascists, makes sure to explain that this future untimely death in no way alters the loving memory he has of that day. In fact, in the first pages of the book, his father's death is presented subtly with fascinating skill and hints at a grief that Nabokov deems entirely private.

The greatest line of the book: 'But no shadow was cast by the future event upon the bright stairs of our St Petersburg house; the large cool hand resting on my head did not quaver, and several lines of play in a difficult chess composition were not blended yet on the board.'

Chapter 7 - No tears. All smiles. Also previously published as the short story Colette or First Love. A ten year-old Nabokov heads to Biarritz for a family vacation. There, he falls in love for the first with time with a french girl named Colette. The first half of the chapter details the train ride to Biarritz, where Nabokov's lovely recollection of the train details gives way to sublime descriptive prose. The words 'Someone's comfortable cough' while describing the surroundings before sleep will remain with me forever. The second half deals with his chance friendship (with undertones of romance the children are naturally too young to fully grasp) with the french girl. It's fuzzy and all smiles and laughs. His words after she pelts a kiss on his cheek? You little monkey! They hatch an escape plan together, eloping only with a single cold coin and her dog before finally getting caught at a nearby cinema. Nabokov is submitted to a perp walk under his brother's amazed eye. The last paragraph is a stunner for anyone oppressed with the trouble of nostalgia and memory (which I've struggled with as well immensely for not similar but relatable reasons).

The Comedy - Despite all his fame, all his acclaim, one thing that is acknowledged but underrated regarding Nabokov was his humor. It is one of the best things about him. He is ridiculously goofy and funny. One of the 20th century's great comics. He's a total, low-key nut who hides it under his eloquence and patrician manners. His gripes are outrageous. He has an intense philosophical hate for sleep, calling it debasing and a 'moronic fraternity'. A teenaged crush is ruined by her taking part in a dumb dance number, Nabokov deeming the transgression unforgivable. He finally (and solemnly) deduces that a previous tutor is completely insane when he remembers that the tutor became a government official and managed to ship his wife to a gulag, where she died. Another (warmly remembered) tutor is a kind and bumbling fool (similar to Nabokov's greatest fictional creation, the adorable Pnin) who freezes at examinations or when helped to study by Nabokov's father, and who finally speaks when disagreeing with Nabokov's father when the latter gently tells him that he's bound to fail his exam and that he doesn't know a thing. In another tender phrase, this tutor, being of Jewish descent, Nabokov claims not to know what happened to him during the war. Nor does he wish to, remembering the tutor as a decent and pure man. Throughout the book, Nabokov is also superb at turning mundane phrase or moments with a small twist that gets a laugh at the reader.

Soccer Goalkeeping - I was pleasantly surprised to read that Nabokov recognized the greatness of soccer goalkeeping. I did not know he played. I'd have kept playing competitively if I wasn't 5'9 and hadn't also discovered the joys of teenage drinking and party romances. He describes the sentiment and oddness of the position perfectly. For me, goalkeeping is a position that I find even more exciting and impressive than that of the playmaking ten or net-filling nine. I will watch a video of Buffon's save on Zidane's overtime header ('06 World Cup Final) before the latter's Panenka even if I will readily concede that Zidane's gall to do so in a final is one of the 21st century's great sporting moments. Also, as a great treat, wanting to see if Nabokov had written more about goalkeeping, I found this little gem regarding San Jose's very own talented Nabokov, the great Evgeni. Sports of The Times; Two Goalies Named Nabokov (Published 2000). A rookie taking the league by storm, they ask him about Vladimir Nabokov and read him the goalkeeping passage, which Evgeni Nabokov (unaware of who the author is), expands on and relates a bit more to the hockey counterpart.

This is a phenomenal book. But it is to be taken with a bit of a grain of salt. Short of being a fascinating specimen that should have been studied by scientists, one cannot reasonably deduce that Nabokov's extremely vivid details of his childhood can be remembered with such extreme precision. I think it is safe to assume that Nabokov may have amped it up a bit. Also, very little is centered around his wife and child or even his life in Europe post-Russia. I wish I could have read about more of this, although it is obvious that Nabokov wrote this book to remember his very own Russia, which he never returned to after the revolution. The book ends perfectly, the moment before the family is to board a boat to New York. A must read for anyone who is interested in the man, the author and his work. While I think he has his flaws, I must admit, his way of thinking and approaching art (as well as his other obsessions: chess and butterfly chasing) is utterly fascinating and I find myself agreeing with essentially all of it, although I am not as rigid an opponent to the literature of ideas and dicdaticism as he was.

 

[Thucydides]

Speak, Memory by Vladimir Nabokov (initially published in 1951, revised and extended in 1966) - Lots to unpack in this book. I will dwell on its strength and begin with its flaws. Nabokov is a peculiar one for me. He is a writer who (rightfully) considers the crafting of literature as an entirely private pleasure, an entirely private puzzle. Superb approach until you get to the man himself. His confidence and sense of self-worth is unsurpassed in literature. He is utterly and shamelessly in love with his own uniqueness and sensibilities. His arrogance as an individual knows no bound. After his meteoric rise to fame in late middle-age, he was a merrily plump man who loved sitting down and absolutely ripping apart other books, other authors (some of which I agreed with, some of which I don't, but always an entertaining number) What makes it even funnier is that the goofy bastard could largely back it up. But what it can also do, for an artist as detail-obsessed as Nabokov, is it'll make him drone on, become tedious, gets caught up in his literacy to silly effect. For the general reader, there is no necessity or great pleasure to reading him go on about mushrooms. Certain of his vivid pictures can become such a mishmash of details and colors that they ultimately become murky. Also, Nabokov, who trusts his own judgement so greatly, has no qualms about rising the few people he loves as icons to be venerated by all whose paths crossed theirs. This is particularly ridiculous at the start of the book. His father (a wealthy democratic man who worked in various high-level government positions) being tossed in the air by happy Russian peons is an eye-roller. Now, the great, which is very great, because at his top dollar, Nabokov is as good and memorable an author as anyone who came before and after him. I just think he lacks the consistency of my absolute favorites (McCarthy, Kafka).

Chapter 9 - A 12 year-old Nabokov, largely unaware of the minute details of his father's work, learns that his father will be involved in a duel with a slandering editor (often a target of right-wing garbage, it is said that this insult, never explained, could not be ignored). Like one can be shocked reading Cormac McCarthy giving himself away to emotion, a similar shock is felt reading Nabokov, who fancies himself a genius the moment he is birthed, admits to bugging out with fear and panic. Like I said in a previous post, this fear and panic stemming from a little boy's love and respect for his father, gives way to the greatest declaration of love that I have ever read. Getting in schoolyard fight with a friend he somehow deems responsible, shouting at a carriage driver to hurry home, reminiscing of the tender gestures of his father (a particularly great one revolves around his father, knowing his son is obsessed with butterflies, darting into his room, grabbing Nabokov's net without a word and running out to catch and bring back a rare specimen to his son) gives way to a return home where immediately he understands that an apology was offered to his father and all will be okay. There, Nabokov, unable to look at his father, admits to weeping (with the perfect 'I had no handkerchief'). I wept too. And gracefully, gorgeously, Nabokov, whose father is to die ten years in Berlin later shot by fascists, makes sure to explain that this future untimely death in no way alters the loving memory he has of that day. In fact, in the first pages of the book, his father's death is presented subtly with fascinating skill and hints at a grief that Nabokov deems entirely private.

The greatest line of the book: 'But no shadow was cast by the future event upon the bright stairs of our St Petersburg house; the large cool hand resting on my head did not quaver, and several lines of play in a difficult chess composition were not blended yet on the board.'

Chapter 7 - No tears. All smiles. Also previously published as the short story Colette or First Love. A ten year-old Nabokov heads to Biarritz for a family vacation. There, he falls in love for the first with time with a french girl named Colette. The first half of the chapter details the train ride to Biarritz, where Nabokov's lovely recollection of the train details gives way to sublime descriptive prose. The words 'Someone's comfortable cough' while describing the surroundings before sleep will remain with me forever. The second half deals with his chance friendship (with undertones of romance the children are naturally too young to fully grasp) with the french girl. It's fuzzy and all smiles and laughs. His words after she pelts a kiss on his cheek? You little monkey! They hatch an escape plan together, eloping only with a single cold coin and her dog before finally getting caught at a nearby cinema. Nabokov is submitted to a perp walk under his brother's amazed eye. The last paragraph is a stunner for anyone oppressed with the trouble of nostalgia and memory (which I've struggled with as well immensely for not similar but relatable reasons).

The Comedy - Despite all his fame, all his acclaim, one thing that is acknowledged but underrated regarding Nabokov was his humor. It is one of the best things about him. He is ridiculously goofy and funny. One of the 20th century's great comics. He's a total, low-key nut who hides it under his eloquence and patrician manners. His gripes are outrageous. He has an intense philosophical hate for sleep, calling it debasing and a 'moronic fraternity'. A teenaged crush is ruined by her taking part in a dumb dance number, Nabokov deeming the transgression unforgivable. He finally (and solemnly) deduces that a previous tutor is completely insane when he remembers that the tutor became a government official and managed to ship his wife to a gulag, where she died. Another (warmly remembered) tutor is a kind and bumbling fool (similar to Nabokov's greatest fictional creation, the adorable Pnin) who freezes at examinations or when helped to study by Nabokov's father, and who finally speaks when disagreeing with Nabokov's father when the latter gently tells him that he's bound to fail his exam and that he doesn't know a thing. In another tender phrase, this tutor, being of Jewish descent, Nabokov claims not to know what happened to him during the war. Nor does he wish to, remembering the tutor as a decent and pure man. Throughout the book, Nabokov is also superb at turning mundane phrase or moments with a small twist that gets a laugh at the reader.

Soccer Goalkeeping - I was pleasantly surprised to read that Nabokov recognized the greatness of soccer goalkeeping. I did not know he played. I'd have kept playing competitively if I wasn't 5'9 and hadn't also discovered the joys of teenage drinking and party romances. He describes the sentiment and oddness of the position perfectly. For me, goalkeeping is a position that I find even more exciting and impressive than that of the playmaking ten or net-filling nine. I will watch a video of Buffon's save on Zidane's overtime header ('06 World Cup Final) before the latter's Panenka even if I will readily concede that Zidane's gall to do so in a final is one of the 21st century's great sporting moments. Also, as a great treat, wanting to see if Nabokov had written more about goalkeeping, I found this little gem regarding San Jose's very own talented Nabokov, the great Evgeni. Sports of The Times; Two Goalies Named Nabokov (Published 2000). A rookie taking the league by storm, they ask him about Vladimir Nabokov and read him the goalkeeping passage, which Evgeni Nabokov (unaware of who the author is), expands on and relates a bit more to the hockey counterpart.

This is a phenomenal book. But it is to be taken with a bit of a grain of salt. Short of being a fascinating specimen that should have been studied by scientists, one cannot reasonably deduce that Nabokov's extremely vivid details of his childhood can be remembered with such extreme precision. I think it is safe to assume that Nabokov may have amped it up a bit. Also, very little is centered around his wife and child or even his life in Europe post-Russia. I wish I could have read about more of this, although it is obvious that Nabokov wrote this book to remember his very own Russia, which he never returned to after the revolution. The book ends perfectly, the moment before the family is to board a boat to New York. A must read for anyone who is interested in the man, the author and his work. While I think he has his flaws, I must admit, his way of thinking and approaching art (as well as his other obsessions: chess and butterfly chasing) is utterly fascinating and I find myself agreeing with essentially all of it, although I am not as rigid an opponent to the literature of ideas and dicdaticism as he was.

Great review. I had Lolita on my re-read list for this year, and now I think I'll add this, too. This is the second glowing review I've read of this book on here.

Do you do any writing of your own? You have a good way with words.

 

[Spring in Fialta]

Great review. I had Lolita on my re-read list for this year, and now I think I'll add this, too. This is the second glowing review I've read of this book on here.

Do you do any writing of your own? You have a good way with words.

Thank you for the kind words. And yeah, I do. Fiction (where I'm a lot more rigorous and also attentive to typos and run-on sentences and all that other good stuff than in my reviews). I've published a couple of short stories (the last one in July and the one I'm most proud of by far) but I struggle mightily with cowardice and idleness when it comes to submitting (and the preparation to submit). I'm also working on the first draft of a third novel. The first one is largely a piece of shit that nonetheless had to be written, never submitted and has met its forever doom in a drawer. The second is a novella (but oh so close to tipping over that line and becoming a novel) that I'm starting to think will be submitted as part of a short story collection where I'm seeing a thematic fit with other pieces I've written and the third is starting to look somewhat extensive and is (naturally) the thing I'm most excited about in terms of potential. We'll see during revisions, I guess. Do you (or anyone else?) write?

 

[Thucydides]

Thank you for the kind words. And yeah, I do. Fiction (where I'm a lot more rigorous and also attentive to typos and run-on sentences and all that other good stuff than in my reviews). I've published a couple of short stories (the last one in July and the one I'm most proud of by far) but I struggle mightily with cowardice and idleness when it comes to submitting (and the preparation to submit). I'm also working on the first draft of a third novel. The first one is largely a piece of shit that nonetheless had to be written, never submitted and has met its forever doom in a drawer. The second is a novella (but oh so close to tipping over that line and becoming a novel) that I'm starting to think will be submitted as part of a short story collection where I'm seeing a thematic fit with other pieces I've written and the third is starting to look somewhat extensive and is (naturally) the thing I'm most excited about in terms of potential. We'll see during revisions, I guess. Do you (or anyone else?) write?

Awesome. If you don't mind me asking where did you publish your short stories? If they are online can you send me a link? Feel free to PM if you'd like.

Who are your main influences in writing?

I have published some things in the past - mostly poems (heavily influenced by Bukowski) in obscure university literary journals. I do have an idea for a novel that I've been rolling around in my head for a couple of years now, but not sure if I have the discipline to sit down and write.

 

[Spring in Fialta]

Awesome. If you don't mind me asking where did you publish your short stories? If they are online can you send me a link? Feel free to PM if you'd like.

Who are your main influences in writing?

I have published some things in the past - mostly poems (heavily influenced by Bukowski) in obscure university literary journals. I do have an idea for a novel that I've been rolling around in my head for a couple of years now, but not sure if I have the discipline to sit down and write.

A couple are in French so I don't know how interesting that would be for you. I'll PM you a link to the latest one that's in English and was published through a Montreal literary magazine. As far as influences go, I don't know, consciously. I think that's something an outside eye would be more useful to discern and I don't think about it while writing or ever, really. Realistically, I'm sure my favorite writers seep in here and there but depending on the stylistic and narrative necessities of the story, the cadence and use of language from piece to piece will differ. I hope you work out your novel idea. It's hard sometimes but I always try do it every weekday and force myself even if I don't feel like it. It helps to have a routine, I find. Some days are more productive than others but I'm completely against the idea of waiting for inspiration to hit - not that this is what you're suggesting - and I find just the physical act of picking up a pencil and of a flowing (sometimes stumbling, tottering) hand to be helpful to get going. A blank sheet of paper is a great thing, a pristine sheet of ice patiently waiting for the ice pick's blow. You've got to do it even when it's unpleasant.

 

[Thucydides]

Jonestown details the life of its leader - Jim Jones, from his childhood right up to the final, tragic days in Guyana. Interesting from start to finish. Would recommend.

 

[Spring in Fialta]

The Beach by Alex Garland (1996) - Great, welcomed read after something like Speak, Memory. I hadn't read this adventure novel since around '07 or '08 when I had lended my copy to a high school buddy and of course never bothered to get it back again. Alex Garland, who seems to not entertain the idea of writing novels anymore (this was his first and the following two didn't seem to obtain any sort of success) and who has turned his talent towards screenplay writing and directing. I am somewhat proud of my teenaged self for having loved this book so much as a kid instead. It holds up really well. Over four-hundred pages that speed along with a lot of fun. No, it doesn't require too much of the reader, but it's a fun, frantic and stylish adventure about Richard (an English packbacker), Etienne and Françoise (a French couple) who look for a rumored secret beach in the Gulf of Thailand that is said to be heaven on earth. Itching for adventure, they seek it out. After a grueling trip, they find what they were looking for. A community of thirty or so people have created their own idyllic community for the past four or five years and though wary, the trio are rapidly and warmly welcomed by the community. Naturally, everything goes wrong. As it had to. This is not a complain against the book. The possibility of such a community sustaining forever is close to impossible. People talk, overhear. Richard, who received a map from one of the original founders of the community (who had a breakdown and dipped out after the arrival of a previous uninvited traveler, realizing it was only a matter of time before paradise was ruined) is a symptom instead of the problem.

I greatly enjoyed how much care Garland put into the logic of how such a community would work and the creativity displayed through its organization, camaderie and eventual breakdown was a real kick. It's not a perfect book - the dialogue is sometimes a bit weak, some devices seemed used only to beef up the page count and don't bring much of anything to the story while being a little unoriginal - but it's a very good one, definitely a page-turner that has a couple of smart things to point out (and some less interesting ones too). I'm happy to have another copy again and I imagine I will revisit it when I'll want a familiar, fun and easy read spmetime again. People shouldn't get fooled by Danny Boyle's godawful Hollywood adaptation. This is a cool book. Funnily enough, despite its exotic setting, it kind of makes one not want to backpack. It had the complete opposite effect on me when I was fifteen years old.

 

[sr edler]

Sexual Personae: Art and Decadence from Nefertiti to Emily Dickinson (1990) by Camille Paglia – 3.8/5

This was a pretty exhausting read for me, not only because it's 670+ pages on art history, but also because I read it in English, which is not what I usually do.

To make a brief summary of its content it theorizes the history of Western art as a struggle between Apollonian and Dionysian forces which the author identifies as male and female. And then there's the androgynous moving in-between. Something like that.

Drinking game: if I would have swept a small glass of schnapps every time Paglia says "chthonian swamp" I would probably have had to call for an ambulance regarding acute alcohol poisoning not even finishing the first chapter. She says "chthonian swamp" and "murky" and "liquidity" a lot.

I like her language though. But the use of it gets really exhausting at times. She likes to go on and on.

There were chapters in this book which appeared a bit tedious to me. I didn't like when she went on and on about Samuel Taylor Coleridge, for instance, and his Christabel. I guess that could be personal preference to a degree though, but I felt sometimes she got a little bit too stuck in repetition, and not only on Coleridge.

I really enjoyed the first chapter on Oscar Wilde and The Picture of Dorian Gray, and I also very much enjoyed her take on Edgar Allan Poe. Interestingly enough two of the latest books/stories I've read, Moby Dick by Herman Melville and A Descent into the Maelström by Poe, are dealt with relatively extensively in this book. Me and Camille didn't really read the Maelström on the same kind of analytical page though.

There's really a lot of interesting stuff in this book, and the author's passion for art history really comes across apparent.

 

[ItsFineImFine]

Read the first Louise Penney Inspector Gamache novel, really good. Love the writing style. The mystery isn't exactly at the level of an Agatha Christie but it's a fun read, definitely wanna read the rest.

 

[Spring in Fialta]

Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald (1934) - Abandon. I never seem able to get into Fitzgerald. There is no real flaw that I can actually point to. He just bores me to the extreme. It's hard to rationalize it. I guess in this one, the constant explanations of every character's action seemed a bit much. I also never seem able to get invested into what he's selling. I'm not a classist by any means (my family experience/history is somewhat closer to the folks he describes than working-class) but damn...it always feels so, I don't know, overly self-important/absorbed and weepy? I hate saying this because I don't even think that's what he intends. Hemingway once called Fitzgerald a lapdog for the rich. I wouldn't go that far but I can also kind of understand where he was going with the comment, however mean-spirited it was.

 

[Franck]

I follow a few instagram book pages and kept seeing this one popping up on a lot of them, as one of the best "self-help" books ever.

I would have to agree.

I've heard of stoicism before, but that was it. After finishing this book, and "On the shortness of life", stoicism is something I can rally behind.

These books were written almost two thousand years ago, and the deep insights found within them still ring true to everyone today, at various times of their lives. The book is written in a short, almost jot-note like style, which makes one want to read through it quickly, but best to take your time with it and let his insights really sink in.

"The soul becomes dyed by the color of its thoughts."

You can open the book to any page and find something truly profound and enlightening. It is something I will keep beside my bed for the foreseeable future.

The most extraordinary thing about Meditations is how it came to existence, it says something about Marcus Aurelius that people thousands of years later turn to his personal notes from his diary in search of wisdom.

Sadly I lost my copy while moving, there have been many times recently where I wished I could return to it.

 

[sr edler]

Brideshead Revisited, The Sacred & Profane Memories of Captain Charles Ryder (1945) by Evelyn Waugh – 3.2/5

I understand this book is a beloved cult novel for many people. The novel, and also the TV-series from the 1980s. I haven't seen the TV-series myself, outside of a few clips on the YT.

Spoiler alert, if you haven't read this book, and plan to do so, I'm going to mention some of the plot below, but not in extreme detail.

The novel is structured into three parts. I liked the first part the most, Et In Arcadia Ego. That's when they're at Oxford and Sebastian is running around with his teddy bear. Then in the subsequent parts (2 & 3) Sebastian disappears almost completely (he's gone abroad to live as an alcoholic in North Africa) and a lot of the magic disappears with him.

I think what actually disappears with Sebastian is not magic but the only major character that's not overwhelmingly unlikable, (especially) including the protagonist/narrator. Cordelia is also not unlikable, but she's such a minor character.

I think the story comes across best in the dialogue, and in glimpses/small scenes, and worst in the stream of consciousness parts.

When I read part 2 it almost felt like I was reading a romance novel. I have no great insight into either romance novels or the British upper class, but it almost came across as some kind of subtle parody of romance novels.

Summary: I liked parts of it, and other parts were kinda boring. It's fluidly & lightly enough written though so even if you're a bit bored it's still possible to plough ahead.

 

[Thucydides]

Read this in an afternoon. A bio that skims the surface of the man, his crimes, and his victims. No true insights , but one will come away with the basic knowledge of what happened , and really , is there anything more we really need to know about the guy?

for all his supposed brilliance , the guy was a complete failure .

wouldn’t recommend - you can read an article and obtain the same knowledge .

3.5/10

 

[Ceremony]

A while ago when I finished The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler I thought about writing up my thoughts on it, but I didn't. There were two reasons for this. The first is that I realised I had very little to say, and would quickly have devolved into just posting my favourite quotes from it in place of any opinions. The second is that with six more novels and two more short story collections to go, I realised I'd just be repeating the process several times over.

As a result, the following is an assessment of most of Chandler's Philip Marlowe stories, plus some explicitly non-Marlowe stories he "cannibalised" for his novels. The novels The Big Sleep, Farewell, My Lovely, The High Window, The Lady in the Lake, The Little Sister, The Long Goodbye and Playback are covered here, along with the collection Trouble is My Business featuring the story of that name as well as Finger Man, Goldfish and Red Wind, and the collection Killer in the Rain featuring the story of that name, The Man Who Liked Dogs, The Curtain, Try the Girl, Mandarin's Jade, Bay City Blues, The Lady in the Lake and No Crime in the Mountains.

The next thing to say is that I don't remember a f***ing thing about any of them. Even by the time I reached Killer in the Rain I recognised the stories that had already featured in the novels, but outside of the obvious ones I couldn't have told you which went where. Why, then, would I want to sit here and tell you that Chandler is a writer unlike anyone else I've ever encountered, and that his stories are seemingly perfect despite having plots ranging from the overly convenient to the actually incomplete?

How can you have crime stories with incomplete plots that are still unquestionably brilliant? For much the same reason I didn't bother writing up each novel individually. The plots don't matter. Someone comes to Marlowe with a seemingly simple problem which he agrees to investigate - out of boredom, pity, the fact that nothing else has paid for a while and he's tired of counting the dead flies on the windowsill - and what seems straightforward ends up the start of an intertwined mess of corruption, death and violence. All of it against the backdrop of inter- and post-war California, a place where the rich and poor co-exist with both sides believing themselves superior to the other while never really realising the other is there at all.

Part of the reason I like Chandler's writing is its effortless intelligence. Each novel features a reference to a famous writer. Proust, Pepys, whichever of the Brontes that did Wuthering Heights, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and others. The way Marlowe is written makes his references to these writers always seem natural rather than condescending. I like the idea of a character and stories that pre-suppose a level of intelligence in the reader, even if the basic premise of the novels is comparatively simple. I suppose it makes me feel confidence in Marlowe as investigator. He's an educated man, even if it was probably self-taught. You can tell that Chandler was partly educated in England. He uses S in words rather than Z. He uses words like trousers. Maybe this makes me feel like it's more intelligent, I don't know.

This extends to Marlowe as a character. He's is pretty straightforward. He drinks a lot of whisky and never seems to get drunk. His head seems to attract people with hard objects in their hands. He knows a few cops he gets along with, and he's quickly able to tell whether he can trust the new ones he meets. He can size up the ordinary people he meets just as quickly, whether they're in a situation of their own making or a victim of circumstance who deserves help that nobody else will give them. He does all of this with a level of cynicism which is justified over years of built-up experience, but which never extends into cruelty or indifference.
This means that, unusually for crime fiction, the Marlowe stories are much more character-driven than plot-driven. This is the main strength of the writing, and what allows the setting to be explored so subtly and effectively. The various locations in and around Los Angeles where the stories are set contribute greatly to the narratives and the actions of the characters. The area is brought to life in a way that doesn't shy away from being critical of something which in the same description can easily be interpreted as desirable. Young people, rich people, a bright, sun-drenched urban location. It's all there, and it's all filled with shit.

A few years ago as a student when I discovered daytime TV and specifically Judge Judy was a thing, I looked her up on Wikipedia. I remember a quote from the Reception section about her popularity. It effectively pinned her popularity on a sort of social wish-fulfilment, where people watching see justice dispensed in a way they find satisfying. People turn up with problems, a stern, shouty woman berates the obviously idiotic and sets things right. The way people think justice should be done. In all honesty I forget where I was going with this story, but I think the underlying sentiment transfers neatly to Marlowe. He's not police, but he's still licensed. He always insists that he acts mainly in the best interest of his clients. He always does things the way they should be done to hold the wrong-doers accountable. Maybe this is why they're so satisfying to read. You know the right outcome will be reached for everyone involved.

I don't know that I could pick a favourite, but I should mention The Long Goodbye. It's the most personal to Chandler, featuring several autobiographical references to his life as a writer. I honestly found it a bit invasive to read. As much as Marlowe represents a seemingly stoic moralistic dispensary of justice, he still has the occasional emotional response to certain situations. Even if that emotion is disgust. To see him investigate and try to understand the struggling writer in the sixth novel almost feels amazingly personal in a way the other novels didn't. The conclusion of this novel isn't as neat as the others either, which adds to the sense of emotional distress you get from reading it. I doubt you could have the same level of personal insertion across the rest of the stories, but The Long Goodbye stands out from the others in a different way.
Being a fan of short fiction, I found it interesting to read the Marlowe shorts purely from a structural point of view. After the novels which often combined several different plot threads - especially the ones combining more than one short story - the short narratives just felt short, rather than neat or efficient. Still, it's nice to trace how the novels came together.

I don't have much else to say, so I suppose I can't prolong the inevitable any longer. A top five:

From Farewell, My Lovely:

The big man said: 'Now that we are all between pals and no ladies present we really don't give so much time to why you went back up there, but this Hemingway stuff is what really has me down.'
'A gag,' I said. 'An old, old gag.'
'Who is this Hemingway person at all?'
'A guy that keeps saying the same thing over and over until you begin to believe that it must be good.'

From The Lady in the Lake:

'Police business,' he said almost gently, 'is a hell of a problem. It's a good deal like politics. It asks for the highest type of men, and there's nothing in it to attract the highest type of men. So we have to work with what we get - and we get things like this.'

From The Little Sister:

French said: 'It's like this with us, baby. We're coppers and everybody hates our guts. And as if we didn't have enough trouble, we have to have you. As if we didn't get pushed around enough by the guys in the corner offices, the City Hall gang, the day chief, the night chief, the chamber of commerce, His Honour the Mayor in the panelled office four times as big as the three lousy rooms the whole homicide staff has to work out of. As if we didn't have to handle one hundred and fourteen homicides last year out of three rooms that don't have enough chairs for the whole duty squad to sit down in at once. We spend out lives turning over dirty underwear and sniffing rotten teeth. We go up dark stairways to get a gun punk with a skinful of hop and sometimes we don't get all the way up, and our wives wait dinner that night and all the other nights. And nights we do come home, we come home any goddam tired we can't eat or sleep or even read the lies the papers print about us. So we lie awake in the dark in a cheap house on a cheap street and listen to the drunks down the block having fun. And just about the time we drop off the phone rings and we get up and start all over again. Nothing we do is right, not ever. Not once. If we get a confession, we beat it out of the guy, they say, and some shyster calls us Gestapo in courts and sneers at us when we muddle our grammar. If we make a mistake they put us back in uniform on Skid Row and we spend the nice cool summer evenings picking drunks out of the gutter and being yelled at by whores and taking knives away from grease-balls in zoot suits. But all that ain't enough to make us entirely happy. We got to have you.'

From The Long Goodbye:

'You want an amateur opinion, here it is. He thinks he has a secret buried in his mind and he can't get at it. It may be a guilty secret about himself, it may be about someone else. He thinks that's what makes him drink, because he can't get at this thing. He probably thinks that whatever happened, happened while he was drunk and he ought to find it wherever people go when they're drunk - really bad drunk, the way he gets. That's a job for a psychiatrist. So far, so good. If that is wrong, then he gets drunk because he wants to or can't help it, and the idea about the secret is just his excuse. He can't write his book, or anyway can't finish it. Because he gets drunk. That is, the assumption seems to be that he can't finish his book because he knocks himself out by drinking. It could be the other way around.'

From Playback:

His face moved into a rather ghastly grin. 'I have no delicacy. I should like to marry Margo West myself. It would reverse the pattern. Very small things amuse a man of my age. A humming bird, the extraordinary way a strelitzia bloom opens. Why at a certain point in its growth does the bud turn at right angles? Why does the bud split so gradually and why do the flowers emerge always in a certain exact order, so that the sharp, blue and orange petals make a bird of paradise? What strange deity made such a complicated world when presumably he could have made a simple one? Is he omnipotent? How could he be? There's so much suffering and almost always by the innocent. Why will a mother rabbit trapped in a burrow by a ferret put her babies behind her and allow her throat to be torn out? Why? In two weeks more she would not even recognize them. Do you believe in God, young man?
It was a long way around, but it seemed I had to travel it. 'If you mean an omniscient and omnipotent God who intended everything exactly the way it is, no.'
'But you should, Mr Marlowe. It is a great comfort. We all come to it in the end because we have to die and become dust. Perhaps for the individual that is all, perhaps not. There are grave difficulties about the after-life. I don't think I should really enjoy a heaven in which I shared lodgings with a Congo pygmy or a Chinese coolie or a Levantine rug peddler or even a Hollywood producer. I'm a snob, I suppose, and the remark is in bad taste. Nor can I imagine a heaven presided over by a benevolent character in a long white beard locally known as God. These are foolish conceptions of very immature minds. But you may not question a man's religious beliefs however idiotic they may be. Of course I have no right to assume that I shall go to heaven. Sounds rather dull, as a matter of fact. On the other hand how can I imagine a hell in which a baby that died before baptism occupies the same degraded position as a hired killer or a Nazi death camp commandant or a member of the Politburo? How strange it is that man's finest aspirations, dirty little animal that he is, his finest actions also, his great and unselfish heroism, his constant daily courage in a harsh world - how strange that these things should be so much finer than his fate on this earth. That has to be somehow made reasonable. Don't tell me that honour is merely a chemical reaction or that a man who deliberately gives his life for another is merely following a behaviour pattern. Is God happy with the poisoned cat dying alone in convulsions behind the billboard? Is God happy that life is cruel and that only the fittest survive? The fittest for what? Oh no, far from it. If God were omnipotent and omniscient in any literal sense, he wouldn't have bothered to make the universe at all. There is no success where there is no possibility of failure, no art without the resistance of the medium. Is it blasphemy to suggest that God has his bad days when nothing goes right, and that God's days are very, very long?'
'You're a wise man, Mr Clarendon. You said something about reversing the patter.'

Every case and every person Marlowe investigates seems like the ultimate, the final stand he or anyone can make against a collective injustice that's about to overwhelm civilisation. Someone snatching a bag on a street, someone bribing the cops to let them smuggle drugs, someone killing anyone who gets in the way to cut off the trail leading back to them, it doesn't matter. Marlowe is there, and he's putting everything he has - which isn't much - on the line to maintain justice. That's why he's such an iconic character and why the stories are so essential. Without him, who knows what would happen to the world?

 

[Osprey]

If you're a fan of the show, this is a good read. It's largely a history of the shop and the main characters and a large collection of stories. It's mostly written by Rick Harrison, but Old Man, Corey and Chumlee each contribute a chapter to give their personal histories and experiences. It was interesting to learn that Rick had epilepsy as a child and didn't think that he'd live to be an adult, which led him to become a very naughty and irresponsible kid who stopped going to school after the 8th grade... yet he apparently had a genius-level IQ and loved to read, which is why he's so smart. It's all self education. Probably my favorite part of the book is just all of the anecdotes about items and people that have come into the shop. Some were familiar from the show, but some weren't. It was written in 2011, during the third season, so it's a bit out of date now and doesn't cover any of the more recent events, like Old Man's death or Chumlee's legal issues, but I didn't really need to read about those, anyways, especially since I haven't watched the show in several years. Overall, as I said, if you like or once liked the show, it's a nice companion piece and a good read.

 

[Spring in Fialta]

A while ago when I finished The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler I thought about writing up my thoughts on it, but I didn't. There were two reasons for this. The first is that I realised I had very little to say, and would quickly have devolved into just posting my favourite quotes from it in place of any opinions. The second is that with six more novels and two more short story collections to go, I realised I'd just be repeating the process several times over.

As a result, the following is an assessment of most of Chandler's Philip Marlowe stories, plus some explicitly non-Marlowe stories he "cannibalised" for his novels. The novels The Big Sleep, Farewell, My Lovely, The High Window, The Lady in the Lake, The Little Sister, The Long Goodbye and Playback are covered here, along with the collection Trouble is My Business featuring the story of that name as well as Finger Man, Goldfish and Red Wind, and the collection Killer in the Rain featuring the story of that name, The Man Who Liked Dogs, The Curtain, Try the Girl, Mandarin's Jade, Bay City Blues, The Lady in the Lake and No Crime in the Mountains.

The next thing to say is that I don't remember a f***ing thing about any of them. Even by the time I reached Killer in the Rain I recognised the stories that had already featured in the novels, but outside of the obvious ones I couldn't have told you which went where. Why, then, would I want to sit here and tell you that Chandler is a writer unlike anyone else I've ever encountered, and that his stories are seemingly perfect despite having plots ranging from the overly convenient to the actually incomplete?

How can you have crime stories with incomplete plots that are still unquestionably brilliant? For much the same reason I didn't bother writing up each novel individually. The plots don't matter. Someone comes to Marlowe with a seemingly simple problem which he agrees to investigate - out of boredom, pity, the fact that nothing else has paid for a while and he's tired of counting the dead flies on the windowsill - and what seems straightforward ends up the start of an intertwined mess of corruption, death and violence. All of it against the backdrop of inter- and post-war California, a place where the rich and poor co-exist with both sides believing themselves superior to the other while never really realising the other is there at all.

Part of the reason I like Chandler's writing is its effortless intelligence. Each novel features a reference to a famous writer. Proust, Pepys, whichever of the Brontes that did Wuthering Heights, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and others. The way Marlowe is written makes his references to these writers always seem natural rather than condescending. I like the idea of a character and stories that pre-suppose a level of intelligence in the reader, even if the basic premise of the novels is comparatively simple. I suppose it makes me feel confidence in Marlowe as investigator. He's an educated man, even if it was probably self-taught. You can tell that Chandler was partly educated in England. He uses S in words rather than Z. He uses words like trousers. Maybe this makes me feel like it's more intelligent, I don't know.

This extends to Marlowe as a character. He's is pretty straightforward. He drinks a lot of whisky and never seems to get drunk. His head seems to attract people with hard objects in their hands. He knows a few cops he gets along with, and he's quickly able to tell whether he can trust the new ones he meets. He can size up the ordinary people he meets just as quickly, whether they're in a situation of their own making or a victim of circumstance who deserves help that nobody else will give them. He does all of this with a level of cynicism which is justified over years of built-up experience, but which never extends into cruelty or indifference.
This means that, unusually for crime fiction, the Marlowe stories are much more character-driven than plot-driven. This is the main strength of the writing, and what allows the setting to be explored so subtly and effectively. The various locations in and around Los Angeles where the stories are set contribute greatly to the narratives and the actions of the characters. The area is brought to life in a way that doesn't shy away from being critical of something which in the same description can easily be interpreted as desirable. Young people, rich people, a bright, sun-drenched urban location. It's all there, and it's all filled with shit.

A few years ago as a student when I discovered daytime TV and specifically Judge Judy was a thing, I looked her up on Wikipedia. I remember a quote from the Reception section about her popularity. It effectively pinned her popularity on a sort of social wish-fulfilment, where people watching see justice dispensed in a way they find satisfying. People turn up with problems, a stern, shouty woman berates the obviously idiotic and sets things right. The way people think justice should be done. In all honesty I forget where I was going with this story, but I think the underlying sentiment transfers neatly to Marlowe. He's not police, but he's still licensed. He always insists that he acts mainly in the best interest of his clients. He always does things the way they should be done to hold the wrong-doers accountable. Maybe this is why they're so satisfying to read. You know the right outcome will be reached for everyone involved.

I don't know that I could pick a favourite, but I should mention The Long Goodbye. It's the most personal to Chandler, featuring several autobiographical references to his life as a writer. I honestly found it a bit invasive to read. As much as Marlowe represents a seemingly stoic moralistic dispensary of justice, he still has the occasional emotional response to certain situations. Even if that emotion is disgust. To see him investigate and try to understand the struggling writer in the sixth novel almost feels amazingly personal in a way the other novels didn't. The conclusion of this novel isn't as neat as the others either, which adds to the sense of emotional distress you get from reading it. I doubt you could have the same level of personal insertion across the rest of the stories, but The Long Goodbye stands out from the others in a different way.
Being a fan of short fiction, I found it interesting to read the Marlowe shorts purely from a structural point of view. After the novels which often combined several different plot threads - especially the ones combining more than one short story - the short narratives just felt short, rather than neat or efficient. Still, it's nice to trace how the novels came together.

I don't have much else to say, so I suppose I can't prolong the inevitable any longer. A top five:

From Farewell, My Lovely:



From The Lady in the Lake:



From The Little Sister:



From The Long Goodbye:



From Playback:



Every case and every person Marlowe investigates seems like the ultimate, the final stand he or anyone can make against a collective injustice that's about to overwhelm civilisation. Someone snatching a bag on a street, someone bribing the cops to let them smuggle drugs, someone killing anyone who gets in the way to cut off the trail leading back to them, it doesn't matter. Marlowe is there, and he's putting everything he has - which isn't much - on the line to maintain justice. That's why he's such an iconic character and why the stories are so essential. Without him, who knows what would happen to the world?

I need to get on Chandler. Great review.

 

[Spring in Fialta]

Couple of quick things.

Orphée by Jean Cocteau (1925) - Amusing play that's quite original and makes for some highly funny marital comedy. I thought it was going to be about artistic vanity - and I guess in some ways it is - but it's not the dominant theme. Very engaging. Quite short but with no holes. I'm looking forward to reading the other Cocteau plays in my book.

Spring in Fialta by Vladimir Nabokov (written in 1936, published in 1959) - I have a middle-aged friend who lives alone and is an Allenesque neurotic Jewish man. With restrictions, he is allowed one visitor. He is struggling. I go to see him and we drink some beers. He asks me what books I've read recently. I mention (among others) Speak, Memory. Turns out that in the late 80s, he had taken a college course on Vladimir Nabokov and became obsessed with the short story Spring in Fialta, which I had never read nor heard of. It bounces with the texture of time in its narrative. He is impressed. Next is an English placement exam to Concordia University. The question is banal and simple: 'What are the benefits to exercise?' My friend, born and raised in Montreal in an English speaking household, word-drunk and wanting to show off, is confident he can pull off Nabokovian acrobatics and decides to format his answer the way the short story is narrated. The decision: he is assigned to a remedy course for beginners (see, largely foreign) students and his English professor - a friend of the family - gets word of the failure and calls him up personally to ask what the hell happened. Besides inducing a tremendous belly laugh, the gorgeous title, premise and my recent reading of his autobiography made me seek it out immediately. I found a version online. My username is changed.

 

[Pink Mist]

The White Lioness by Henning Mankell (Wallander #3)

In 1992, a woman goes mysteriously missing outside the southern Swedish town of Ysted. Detective Kurt Wallander is on the case are slowly uncovers that her murder is part of a plot connected to Afrikaner extremists/white supremacists attempting to disrupt the ending of apartheid in South Africa. Obviously, a lot going on in this book, but at this point Wallander is a provincial cop who seems to always get tangled up in international intrigue. Perhaps the ambitious plot becomes a bit too ambitious and over complicated at times, as it involves many different perspectives and locales and drags at time, however overall, it is a decent thriller/mystery novel. I do miss when Wallander was focused with super local crimes and not international conspiracies like in the first novel Faceless Killers. It seems quaint now in comparison to the plot from this and the 2nd novel The Dogs of Riga (I’ve only read the first three in the series so far). I do hope the next novel in the series is a bit more low key and localized.

 

[Pink Mist]

The Universal Baseball Association, Inc., J. Henry Waugh, Prop. by Robert Coover

J. Henry Waugh is an avid, perhaps too avid, commissioner of a baseball league played by rolling dice, similar to strat-o-matic baseball. One day, in the 56th year of his league, a rookie pitcher is pitching a perfect game when a rare role of the dice causes the young pitcher to be fatally struck by the ball. Henry becomes depressed by this outcome and his life begins to spiral out of control as he becomes more obsessed with playing the game and finding a way to correct his baseball universe. As an avid player of sports management simulation games like Out of The Park Baseball and Football Manager, this is basically a book written for me. Basically, I was predisposed to enjoy this book. But it also is an interesting and comic novel which explores genesis and creationism as Henry acts as a god overseeing his baseball universe, as well as the notions of chance and destiny. An excellent and creative novel and among the best I’ve read in a long time; reminds me a lot of A Confederacy of Dunces in style and content.

 

[tarheelhockey]

The Turn of the Screw (Henry James, 1898)

A governess believes that the grounds are haunted by entities trying to get at the two young children that she's looking after. The story is interesting, but I found it very tedious to read. First, it's literally hard to read. Here's an example:I'm guilty of writing in long sentences and using lots of commas and other punctuation, too, and don't mind reading it in other forms, but a story of fiction read for entertainment shouldn't be a chore similar to a scientific paper. Second, pretty much the whole story is written in this first person, diary-like point of view. There's more explanation of how the narrator feels about things than descriptions of actual events. So much internal monologue was boring to read and my mind tended to wander until she got back to the story. Anyways, this is a classic horror story and I wanted to like it, but its style just didn't age well, IMO.

If you're interested in seeing the story with a modern treatment, Netflix's "The Haunting of Bly Manor" is a loose adaptation set in 1987. I've only seen a couple of episodes but it's pretty well done and the core elements of the plot are recognizable.

 

[Osprey]

If you're interested in seeing the story with a modern treatment, Netflix's "The Haunting of Bly Manor" is a loose adaptation set in 1987. I've only seen a couple of episodes but it's pretty well done and the core elements of the plot are recognizable.

Thanks. Yeah, I'm aware that it's an adaptation and am looking forward to it. I still need to watch The Haunting of Hill House, though. Well, I know that the two are unrelated, but I want to see the original series first, anyways. That's being held up by the fact that I want to read the novel that that's based on first. Who knows when I'll finally get to 'Bly Manor'. Hopefully, it'll be sometime in 2021 .

FYI, if you haven't seen it and are interested in a stricter adaptation after you finish 'Bly Manor', there's also the 1961 film The Innocents.

 

[ItsFineImFine]

Really enjoying this from 2020, I have a feeling that the actual mystery in the end will be a let-down but I like the writing style. Quite airy and fun like an Agatha Christie but less dialogue focused like a Dorothy Sayers book minus all the pretentious nonsense

 

[Spring in Fialta]

Other quicks things.

Antigone by Jean Cocteau (1922) - Boring. Thank God I didn't have to sit in a theater for this one. A chorus would have croaked me.

Intimate Relations by Jean Cocteau (1938) - T'was okay. Overbearing French mothers is hard to f*** up so long as you can write okay. Lots of funny bits but the allegory was too easy. Sometimes a bit boring too, though

Today is Friday by Ernest Hemingway (1926) - Got nothing out of it. A novelty take on the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. Three Roman soldiers are drinking wine in a bar while being served by a Hebrew bartender. Yeah. Just that. I admire Hemingway's work but that whole awe in front of the Iceberg Theory has always felt a bit ridiculous to me. Maybe it was that revolutionary at the time and I'm just a victim of my youth, but I really don't understand what's so nuts about it. Don't get me wrong, he wrote great, great stories but as an art theory? It's got its use for sure and has its aesthetical value but I really don't understand how it took the literary world by storm and surely Hemingway couldn't have been the first to master it, no?

Banal Story by Ernest Hemingway (1926) - Spoken word delivery, but on the page. Not my thing. At all.

The Killers by Ernest Hemingway (1927) - Superb. The best Nick Adams story that I've read. A.

Big Two-Hearted River by Ernest Hemingway (1925) - Very good but a bit quaint even if rugged. Inviting and warming loneliness.

There are a couple of others that I'm forgetting.

 

[Chili]

Lots of info on his long career in hockey and the many stops on the way. Goes into some key relationships including Lou Lamoriello, Pat Quinn and Gary Bettman. Gives good background on moves that were made on his teams including the complicated drafting and signing of Pavel Bure, drafting the Sedin twins & assembling the Ducks Cup team. Explains his philosophy on team building. He did play pro hockey one season for the Flyers AHL team that won the championship.

In the credits he mentions that he may have overlooked some people while others were left out for a reason (which he doesn't apologize for). That's Burkie with plenty of 'truculent' language. There's a hearfelt chapter on losing his son. One of the better hockey books I have read.

 

[ItsFineImFine]

The Thursday Murder Club #1 (2020) - 4/5

Not exactly the best mystery but certainly one of the most delightful ones I've read. Who would have thought following around a group of seniors in a retirement village while they help the police would be so fun.