"In vacant or in pensive mood..." I am: Bekah; 24; Law Student / Favorite Things: Carbs (so there!), Johnny Damon, Smiling at babies, Grilled cheese, Comfortable silence / Favorite Supreme Court Justice: Brennan / Favorite Wilson: Owen by an inch / Today's Special: Song: Elliott Smith, "Bled White"; Quote: "You know, there's like a butt-load of gangs at this school. This one gang kept wanting me to join because I'm pretty good with a bowstaff." Please love me: mmbekah@yahoo.com


February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 September 2005

 
Book Reports

Ok, quick rundown on the books I read. It’s a short list this year, since one of the books turned out to be a lot longer and a lot less exciting than I was hoping. (I’m one of those sad people who have to finish a book once they've started it). First I read Galapagos, which was good, but not my favorite Vonnegut by a long shot. I have to say that I’m honestly not sure if I really got the whole thing. Kind of fell a little flat for me--and wasn’t as funny as the others. I prefer Mother Night and Sirens of Titan. And Cat’s Cradle. And basically every other Vonnegut I’ve read. Oh well.

I also read Of Human Bondage, by the esteemed old, dead, white, and British W. Somerset Maugham. I found the book to be, if I’m being kind, tedious, dated, and badly written. I read the Introduction to try to get an idea of the author, and the critic said that Maugham always thought it most important to find “a story interesting in itself, apart from the telling.” At the time, I was happy to see such frankness in a writer, and thought that it was a great insight; unfortunately, the realization of that insight was completely lost in Maugham’s case, considering that the story was played and the telling was dull and ponderous.

Of Human Bondage is one of those coming of age stories about the life and education of a boy who goes through ups and downs and meets various friends and enemies and evil, life-ruining whores along the way. Basically, I didn’t really like the main character (based loosely on Maugham himself, fancy that!), and I thought Maugham's writing was not only boring, but surprisingly repetitive. Kind of like a sledgehammer with the symbolism too. It's actually ridiculous how many times the same adjectives, metaphors, and ideas crop up all over this 625 page monster. I would venture to say that the word “grotesque” shows up about 800 times. My favorite line from the book is this gem: “It’s rather jolly to come back and find someone about the place. A woman and a baby make very good decoration in a room.” Women, potted plants--I mean really, what's the difference?

Don’t get me wrong—-I can take a little bit of sexism and anti-Semitism and whatnot thrown into a novel as a product of its time. But the problem with Of Human Bondage is that there was nothing remarkable or even memorable to make the rest of the novel worthwhile—the characters were lame and badly developed, the storylines were roundabout, and when I finished the book I had an overwhelming feeling of pointlessness. The central character's big revelation is that life is meaningless, and that understanding that meaninglessness is the key to beauty and happiness. As evidenced by a Persian rug given to him by an old drunk poet. Uh…thanks?

At the end of the day, what I got from the book was a strong desire to make up dialogue like this: I say, old man, you look terribly out of sorts. The whole town knows she was an ill-mannered slut—a damned painted hussy! And yet, you were nothing but a brick to her all the same. A right brick! In any case...it’s frightfully pleasant out, old chap! Shall we stroll to the public-house, while the missus (simple wench—god love her!) fixes up some mincemeats for tea? I’m simply dying to discuss art and beauty and life and other pretentious and amorphous things with you over a frothy pint or some absinthe. Oy.

On my last night at the house, I read Animal Farm, one of those books that I somehow graduated from high school without reading. I loved it. The prose was perfect and well-formed and crisp, like a shiny red apple. And the humor--so dry! So subtle! It was a needed reminder that a good number of the old dead white guys' works are worth keeping around. I learned from the Introduction that Orwell's real name was Eric Blair. How cool is that? He sounds like a porn star! But I also read that he died when he was just 43 or something. Does anyone know the story behind that? Please fill me in. And now, I'm off to prepare for my first full day of work. More on that soon.


posted by Bekah at 3:58 PM :: |