Dispatches from Black Lamb and Grey Falcon: Somewhere around two-thirds through

Okay, so much for the “blog about every section as I read it” plan. Er…whoops, I guess? It’s cool. It’s 2018. I have a job and a kid and I’m not very good at much of any of this. Though, I did do a entire post about the Dalmatia section; I’m pretty sure I didn’t much like what I said. So that got stuck in the drafts folder. And then the next thing I knew, a month had gone by, and, well, here I am. Story of my life: I was too busy reading the book to write about it.

Yet: yes, I’m still reading Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, and I’m still enjoying it, I’m overall engaged with it, wrapped up in it, even as I’ve shifted back and forth on how intensely I’ve been reading it over the last few weeks. I ebb and flow with how deeply I try to read and how much I let it wash over me, without being fully convinced that either mode is superior to the other. I’m already a slow reader, and then to slow myself down even more on something so dense (but so smooth!) is to court levels of devotional frustration I haven’t partaken in in quite some time. It’s amazingly easy to grow blind to the amount of amazing writing I’m consuming as I work my way through this book, particularly on those days when I just need to get through some pages my god am I still reading this?

It’s weird. It’s fun.

It’s fair to say I’m at that odd point where I’m starting to get a little bit impatient. But really just a little bit. It’s like, I can hear the other books on the TBR pile calling to me, but, muffled, as if from under a blanket in a different room on the other side of an aquarium. I mean, I knew at the outset it was likely to take me about two months to get through the entire book, and unless I bonked out in the first week, I anticipated that I was going to be cool with that, that this was the time of the year to get wrapped up in a behemoth like this, that I intend for this to be my one gigantic read of the year and then I can spend the rest of the year reading the backs of cereal boxes or whatever. And by and large, the devotion has paid off. Even as that impatience starts sending half-lost telegrams, I know when I finally put this book down it’s going to feel really uncool to not have it active in my life. I’ve got about 400 pages to go and I as much wish that number could gain or lose a zero at the end of it and that my brain would scale accordingly.

There remains that worry that my ignorance about the region and its history and the period in which West is writing is blinding me to the nuance of her opinions that may be masquerading as observations or her biases that may be cloaked in omittance; I sample essays that discuss whether she’s pro-this or anti-that and I feel a bit dumb for generally thinking she’s mainly interested in the experience of traveling through this region and putting its history and politics to paper. Of course then I remind myself that if I were A True Student of History trying to gain the deepest possible understanding of all this stuff I wouldn’t be stopping with a single source, anyway. (And obviously I know West is smarter than me several times over, and that she herself spent five years, at least, writing this book, so I can be forgiven for not being perfect.) This all reminds me that there’s often books I like to imagine re-reading sometime in the future, a theoretical (and very tall) pile on which I’d definitely place this one; it would be interesting to see what additional insight would come after some follow-up study.

And yet for all that when I tune into it and notice how much I notice, I still come back to why I’m most engaged with this book, right now: the quality of the writing is exquisite. Whether she’s describing a scene or a meal or laying out a stretch of history or throwing shade at Gerda (Gerda!), it’s hard to imagine many other writers I’d want to spend this much time with at this point in my life about these particular subjects (or maybe any subject). If for nothing else this is why I feel comfortable saying, two-thirds through, that, yes, it’s worth reading this book, if you’re curious, interested, ready and willing. And that I wish I could go back in time and read along with you, hypothetical smarter-than-me reader, so we could point out to each other what we’re pointing out to ourselves, every couple pages. This is a literary buffet that deserves to be shared.

Dispatches from Black Lamb and Grey Falcon: Prologue, Journey, Croatia

Hey! I’m doing it! I’m reading Black Lamb and Grey Falcon by Rebecca West! Finally! And, oh, holy shit, this book is big!

So: why read Black Lamb and Grey Falcon?

In his introduction, which I’ve only skimmed, Christopher Hitchens suggests that West’s book is basically four books in one. It’s, first, “one of the great travel narratives of our time”; second, it’s “an account of the mentality and philosophy of a superbly intelligent woman”; third, it pulls us “into the vertiginous period between the two World Wars”; and, finally, it is a “meditation on the never-ending strife between the secular and the numinous, the faithful and the skeptical, the sacred and the profane.”

Which, okay: I am here for all of that. But I’m hardly going to delude myself into believing I’m suddenly a great student who is fully going to grok this time in history or this area of the world or the history of this time from a single epic-length piece of travel-slash-history writing that I am at best reading in fits and starts between work stresses and diaper changes. I got things going on, and there’s so much I don’t understand or won’t get or will outright miss as I make my way through this book; I’m trying to enjoy and absorb the ride without freaking out about the fact that I’m not cataloguing every single digression or historical figure or keen insight.

Which is to say, yes, I feel like an idiot trying to write about this thing. Suffice it to say, kids, I hope you’re not here for good essay prompts.

What I can say after a hundred or so pages is that I am unreservedly, unabashedly here for a fifth book that Hitchens alludes to without enumerating as such, the one that ties all these other books together, the one that’s basically a how-to-write-like-hell manual, the brick full of writing that “must be esteemed and shown to later generations, no matter what the subject.” I think I’ve already underlined more of Lamb than I have any book in quite some time; every page or every other page it feels like there’s some sentence or entire paragraph that makes me want to grab strangers off the street so I can read passages at them with wide-eyed ecstasy. Whip-smart phrases, crackly sentences, oh fuck yes paragraphs; if nothing else came of reading this book, if I could absorb even the slimmest fraction of her skill into my own writing, or whatever it is I do these days, I’d be a better human being for it.

“I was then very busy being an idiot, being a private person, and I had enough on my hands. But my idiocy was like my anaesthetic. During the blankness it dispensed I was cut about and felt nothing, but it could not annul the consequences. The pain came afterwards.”

The very opening of the prologue seems to anticipate the reader’s potential wonder at why this book, this trip, is of such importance, as West tells her husband, her traveling companion, who “did not really want to come to Yugoslavia at all,” that he’ll understand what the fuss is all about once they get where they’re going. Through the brief history of violence related to the region that had occurred in her lifetime, winding around from the stabbing of the Empress Elizabeth of Austria in 1898, to the murder of Alexander Obrenovitch, King of Serbia, and his wife Draga in 1903 (“But now I realize that when Alexander and Draga fell from the balcony the whole of the modern world fell with them. It took some time to reach the ground and break its neck, but its fall started then.”), to Franz Ferdinand, to the assassination of the King of Yugoslavia in 1934, West leads us in to her rationale for her trip to the Yugoslavia region, as rooted in the need to better understand the source all these deaths, of so much that could potentially rain hell down on her world:

“Violence was, indeed, all I knew of the Balkans: all I knew of the South Slavs…. I had to admit that I quite simply and flatly knew nothing at all about the south-eastern corner of Europe; and since there proceeds steadily from that place a stream of events which are a source of danger to me, which indeed for four years threatened my safety and during that time deprived me for ever of many benefits, that is to say I know nothing of my own destiny.”

At which point we’re off on the train journey toward Croatia, during which we partake in the inscrutable company of West’s fellow passengers; “I realized again that I would never understand the German people,” she says, setting down one of the themes I expect to resurface throughout the book.

Me, I particularly liked the description of Slavic “dark and rich romantic soups.” That sounds awesome.

West’s time Croatia is spent mainly in Zagreb, in the company of three friends—friends of West’s, not necessarily of each other—who set the stage for the inter-social conflicts and tensions we’ll (again, I anticipate) see throughout the book. They also act as a brief refresher on the general state of affairs leading up to West’s present-day narrative. There’s Constantine, “a Serb, that is to say a Slav member of the Orthodox Church, from Serbia,” and Valetta, “a Croat, that is to say a Slav member of the Roman Catholic Church,” and Marko Gregorievitch, “a Croat from Croatia.” Their relationship to Yugoslavia is represented as generational, with Gregorievitch, a former revolutionary against Hungarian rule, seeing the younger Constantine as “impious in the way he takes Yuglosavia for granted,” and regarding Valetta as a “traitor” to the ideal of Yugoslavia.

Time and again throughout this section we’ll return to the history between Croatia and Austria and Hungary. Croatia is described as a nation without a heroic past, which gives its history a lack of a sense of purpose, standing in contrast, for example, to English or United States history. On the flip side, something I found fascinating was West’s observation that the Slavs “hold that the way to make life better is to add good things to it, whereas in the West we hold that the way to make life better is to take bad things away from it.” Chuckle if you must, but this bit provided me the brief insight I needed to get me through exactly one night of trying to get my kid, who would not eat his dinner, to eat his dinner. Though I’m not sure Panera’s chicken noodle soup would be described by anyone as dark or rich or romantic.

I do admire the way West works history in to her writing, the way an observation gives rise to the retelling of the history behind that observation, before flowing back in to the events she’s partaking in in the present tense. It’s all very engaging and generally makes dense subject matter into smooth reading. She’s conscious of her attempt to do so, and I’m not sure if she’s finding what she expected:

I had come to Yugoslavia to see what history meant in flesh and blood. I learned now that it might follow, because an empire passed, that a world full of strong men and women and rich food and heady wine might nevertheless seem like a shadow-show: that a man of every excellence might sit by a fire warming his hands in the vain hope of casting out a chill that lived not in the flesh.

She takes care in animating historical figures throughout, like “the great Croat patriot,” Bishop Strossmayer: “Out of the political confusion of Croatia which makes for the endless embitterment and impoverishment I have described, this creature had derived sweetness and well-being.”

It’s confusion and complexity she ultimately sees in her time in Croatia, confusion and complexity she foresees for its future. She also finds intense beauty here, as in the following vision from an automobile during a trip from Zagreb to the country to visit several castles; I might have to print and frame this one for myself so I can stare at it all the time:

“Thereafter the snow was so thick on the wooded hills that the treetrunks were mere lines and the branches were finer than any lines drawn by a human hand. No detail was visible in the houses of the villages at the base of the hills. They were blocks of soft black shadow edged with the pure white fur of the snow on the roofs. Above the hills there was a layer of mist that drew a dull white smudge between this pure black-and-white world and the dark-grey sky. There was no colour anywhere except certain notes of pale bright gold made by three things. So late was this snowfall that the willows were well on in bud; their branches were too frail to carry any weight of snow, and the buds were too small to be discernible, so each tree was a golden-green phantom against the white earth. There were also certain birds that were flying over the fields, bouncing in the air as if they were thrown by invisible giants at play; their breasts were pale gold. And where the snow had been thickest on the banks of the road it had fallen away in a thick crust, showing primroses. They were the same colour as the birds’ breasts. Sometimes the road ran over a stream, and we looked down on the willows at its edge. From this aspect the snow their green-gold branches supported looked like a white body prostrate in woe, an angel that had leaped down in suicide from the ramparts of the sky.”

I mean: oh fuck yes, right?

Miscellaneous Quotables

On honor:

“Honour often seems a highly artificial convention, but life in any level of society where it has been abandoned astonishes by its tortuousness.”

A dancer:

“She had that vigorous young beauty that seems to carry its keen cold about with it. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed as if she were not really here, as if she were running on her points up the cornices of a snow peak to a fairy ice-palace.”

On comfort:

“It is not comfortable to be an inhabitant of this globe. It never has been, except for brief periods. The Croats have been peculiarly uncomfortable.”

2018-006: Infomocracy, Malka Older

Infomocracy, by Malka Older, is near-future science fiction about election process, and it is awesome.

No, seriously. Honest.

But, also, okay, I mean, yes, I know, I know, no, honestly, I know: it’s weird, right? My (still-too-fresh) memories of the 2016 U.S. election veer toward the guttural, if not the outright post-traumatic; the sleepless nightmares, the beer I couldn’t finish, that fucking New York Times wiggly needle. A novel about an election, through that lens, ought to be one of the last things I’d want to touch, let alone recommend to others, and yet, here I am, fresh off this fascinating, riveting story, and I’m already looking forward to finishing off the trilogy, which will be completed later this year, because I really want to know what happens next, and I’d like to press copies of this book into the hands of a few other people, because I’d like to know what they think. It’s damned fun like that.

What I found kind of remarkable is that Infomocracy had me glued to my seat despite (or because of) the fact that (er, spoiler?) it didn’t build to a world-shattering conclusion. Maybe we go there by the end of the trilogy, and if we do, I suspect it’s going to be awesome, the earned end of a good steady burn, and if it doesn’t, that’s also going to be awesome, because I’m finding myself strangely attached to this world, and maybe I don’t want to see it torn apart at the seams. But at least for now, this first book is all about taking a handful of key ideas—Where does the internet go next? What if global microdemocracy? What if war was actually generally frowned upon?—and building out the systems those ideas give rise to and the world around those ideas into which those systems would feed. It all feels both futuristic but also somehow natural. You could sort of see how, theoretically, with just the right few hard-left turns here and there in the years to come, we could get to the world Older presents to us in the book. Or is that the optimist in me? Or, you know, what did I miss?

Either way, this emphasis on ideas isn’t to say there isn’t good story happening, plot movement or cool action sequences or interesting technologies or fun character arcs. At their core, after we divorce ourselves from certain painful recent realities, elections and election cycles are innately dramatic structures, and Older does a great job of taking a familiar highway and populating it with interesting sights and perils and winding roads. I don’t know where the series goes next, but there’s any number of threads left seductively dangling at the end of the book that she could pick up and tease out. I enjoyed liking the characters, too. It’s hard not to feel like an election geek right along with Ken, and even though I couldn’t yet succinctly explain what Mishima’s “narrative disorder” actually is, I know I want to keep seeing her in action, regardless. She’s a bit of a badass.

I’m calling this book post-future scifi, a phrase I’m not even going to Google so I can live inside the delusion that I’ve coined it myself. It’s like, we live in the future now, the beginnings of one version of the future that science fiction has been driving us toward since forever. Artificial intelligence, global information networks, rich assholes flinging cars into space, all that. This book picks up that future that we are actually creating for ourselves right now, and riffs on it, draws it out, sees where it could go. What I wonder at, in a very book-clubby question way, is whether this future is optimistic. It would be lovely to think so, in a moral arc bending toward justice sort of way: we’re pretty awesome at building and embracing systems that could better our lots even while leaving ourselves wide open for manipulation by those with the will to do so; the question is, whose will will be greater, and where will that will come from?

A couple stray thoughts:

  • The concept of that fucking New York Times wiggly needle does make a spiritually prescient appearance in Infomocracy. One of these days I’ll suck up the courage to ask Older whether she’s a time-traveler or if she’s just really that good.
  • To be fair, to be clear, I don’t actually know if we keep following any of these characters through the rest of the trilogy. I’ll be happy if we do and I’ll be happy if we don’t. Either way, I’m in for the long haul.
  • I do hope it wasn’t too much of a spoiler when I say that the climax of the book is not world-shattering. I won’t say what does happen, of course, but I do feel it was all well in tone with the rest of the book, though if I were to level any criticism against it, its that it might feel like a dramatic beat or two were rushed in the final stretch? But I still totally loved the book on the whole, so.
  • My comment about enjoying liking the characters is definitely a bit of a timing thing for me. Having read this as a follow-up to Fates and Furies, which, to me, challenged the basic goodness of the very idea of wanting to like characters, it was hard not to feel refreshed by simply rooting for most of the major characters of the book, and feeling like a totally okay human being for wanting to do that.

2018-005: Fates and Furies, Lauren Groff

Oh but I worry that maybe Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff is where my Great Blogging Experiment of 2018 starts splitting at the seams. Too damn soon. This is a rave-reviewed, well-loved book, critics and people I like praise it, and yet, I don’t want to talk about it. Part of me wants to say it’s because I’d feel like I’d let down those who have praised it, but I’m sure it’s not that, or not entirely that, and part of me wants to make a point about how the book feels like an extended hit-piece against the likeability of its own characters, but that’s a half-formed thought for another post entirely. I can see that it is a good novel, ambitious, transportive, plotted intricately, surprisingly, layered through lyrical, alluring prose, infectious prose—prose that simultaneously draws the attention of everyone in the room while secretly slipping its hands through your skin and flicking your earlobe with the tip of its tongue. While these were all reasons for me to enjoy this novel, while it’s safe to say I could pick up what this novel was putting down, I’m not sure I could so easily say I actually liked it. Honestly: it stressed me out. (I mean, it’s January, yeah, and all is darkness, sure; the timing is hardly Lauren Groff’s fault.) It’s a little bit like I couldn’t possibly have been smart enough or cool enough for it; this novel was better than me, it had to be living a life beyond mine, one I’d never see in full focus or understand as well as I might like, but also that it made me nervous because I saw myself in it, from certain glancing angles, through shattered layers of frosted glass, those shards of recognition crested on mild waves of nausea. To talk about this book would be to talk about myself and I don’t much feel like talking about myself right now.

2018-004: Who You Think I Am, Camille Laurens

This year, I’m using this blog, in part, to force myself into a habit of capturing what I most want to hold on to from the books I particularly enjoy.* From the rich, beautiful book Who You Think I Am, by Camille Laurens, translated by Adriana Hunter, it was the feeling of being intrigued and allured by the experience of wanting to linger inside it, for days, even as I found myself stealing any spare moment I could to read a few pages here, a few pages there, to race blindly through its switchback turns. I described it to my lady as a story that retells itself a couple times over; I felt like I could have happily followed it down that rabbit hole for several hundred more pages, while, simultaneously, being thrilled it ended exactly when it needed to.

“Desire works in mysterious ways…. If everything’s written in advance, that would be too sad, I thought. If the die is cast what’s the point trying to change the numbers?”

And that story, what story is it? Well, it’s…MTV’s Catfish: The TV Show, but for French novel-reading intellectuals. What it lacks in banter between Nev and Max**, it makes up for in…well, it’s Frenchness, I suppose; its sexy-not-sexy sensuality, its philosophic bent, its wrestling with fault-lined relationships.

That “Frenchness” is probably a label I have no right to apply here, as I realize it’s been a while since I’ve read anything else to which I could fairly and with certainty apply it. But as a story that is not just about the idea of making up stories about ourselves and telling those stories to others, about hiding inside lies, it’s also a story about story, a French novel caught in a self-conscious affair with French literature. At least, I assume so; I admit to feeling a bit like an outsider on that front. Every inter-textual reference exposed another gaping hole in my own reading history.***

“In the ongoing fictions of our lives, in our lies and our accommodations with the truth, in our need to possess, dominate, and control other people, we’re all novelists in the making.”

Lucky for me, by sheer coincidence, this book also happened to converse with the books that came just before it on my reading stack. I never intended for “bifurcation” to become a theme of my reading—and I’m also starting to think it’s an awfully pedestrian thing of me to be picking up on but, like, whatever, for right now, how do you even blog, right?—but here’s a contemporary, woman-centric story that picks up threads that Roth wouldn’t**** and Bilton/Ubricht, for obvious reasons, could not.

Which is a way of circling around some of the more obvious, surface-level things I’m totally not diving into in this post, because while the book does certainly highlight online relationships and how age matters differently for men and women, I’m well aware of the fact that I’m comfortably uncomfortable with the idea of talking about those things, myself, being, you know, yet another drippy middle-aged white male with feelings. The moment I start trying to tell anyone anything about the sexuality of pretty much any woman (or, hell, anyone, period) of any sort is the day I’ll go ahead and get that License to Mansplain tattooed all over my paunch.***** But what I can say is that the book is much more and much deeper than all that, and that while the story and the surface drew me in to the water, all this other stuff roiling around under the surface pulled me down into the thrilling undertow.

“When are we ever more alive? Happier? Freer? I’m talking about desire, about the impatient slowness of desire…. A book doesn’t keep all the promises of that desire, it is one of its end results. But it translates the pleasure that came after the surge of desire, its epiphany. If a book doesn’t have that, it doesn’t have anything.”

Impatient slowness: as accurate a way as any to describe my immersion in this book. I liked this one quite a bit, and, if I’m talking to myself, years from now, looking back at old blog posts, looking for books I think might be worth revisiting some day, I’d like to tell myself: yeah, give this one a shot. It’s worth it.


* – Or don’t enjoy. But that hasn’t happened yet this year. This has been, overall, a way more exciting start to my reading year than last year, when I slogged my way through Ada by Vladimir Nabokov, which might be a great book, but, fuck, I wouldn’t know.

* – And but also (and yes I’m double footnoting a single reference because I didn’t know from where else I could plausible excise the following snippet I didn’t want to lose for some entirely wanky reason) I went on a bit of a wanky monologue in an earlier draft here about how for as much as I’d theoretically love to quote passages verbatim from books I read a decade ago or be able to rattle off entire character relationship maps without batting an eye, I just don’t have that kind of memory, and that what I need to get down, when I’m fresh out of the book, may be nothing more than a reminder of where I was and who I was when I was reading it, but that also even that, I’m realizing I’m not quite there yet, not quite as in love with the sheer act of being me writing these posts yet, which is probably for the best for everyone involved; who do I think I am, anyway?

** – My spirit animal.

*** – Yeah, I’m side-eyeing you, Dangerous Liaisons. At least until someone I trust tells me whether I need to get with you.

**** – Though…Delphine Roux? Does she strive to re-become? Am I reaching?

***** – Which, the shreds of my pride do permit me to admit, I’ve been working on. But.

****** – I was going to end with a stray thought (“I’ve had a tab open on my phone pointed at the Wikipedia page for ‘Aboulia’ since reading the book; I just haven’t been able to bother closing it out”) but I just couldn’t do that to you, faithful reader.

2018-003: American Kingpin, Nick Bilton

“While [Ross] couldn’t talk to them about what he did for work, he could discuss what inspired him to do it. After all, in San Francisco the mentality of using technology to try to disrupt a broken system wasn’t a strange way of thinking but rather the norm. In so many ways, the programmers and entrepreneurs Ross met were just like him.”

American Kingpin, by Nick Bilton, presents the story of Ross Ulbricht, creator of the Silk Road website, and the (many) federal agencies and agents tasked with taking him and his site down. It’s a damn good read.

Because I guess I live under a rock I didn’t know anything about the story going into the book. My lady gifted it to me at Christmas; she knows me well. This was a fascinating story. It feels weird to call a real-life story about drugs and crime and murder “fun,” but there it is; I did it. I mean, it’s also horrifying, and sad, and yet, the book itself moves; it’s quite efficient as narrative nonfiction—I had a hard time putting it down. Seeing the puzzle pieces fall into place made for fast, engaging reading. It often felt hard to believe it actually all happened the way it did. And I couldn’t help but feel like I was rooting for certain people throughout. Not to name names. (Gary.)

One thing, which, for you, your mileage may vary: Bilton is not afraid to embrace the story’s inherent melodrama, the melodrama of a story about a strange guy who set out to—and, arguably, did—change the world according to his own sincere beliefs and interests, this larger-than-life character who was simultaneously a sort of complete nobody. (How American! How bifurcatey!) I appreciated that light touch—the smooth prose, the dramatic beats and hints of foreshadowing, the slightly archetypal feel of most of the “characters” involved. It felt right.

At times, it reminded me a little bit of Don Winslow’s novel The Power of the Dog. So if you liked that, you might like this, and vice-versa.

Stray thoughts, in the form of questions I’m not going to answer (publishers, if you’re looking for book club discussion questions for the paperback edition, I accept payment in Bitc—I mean, cash, huge, physical, dirty piles of cash): just how filthy rich would Ulbricht be today if he’d hung on to his freedom and his Bitcoin and sold it all at the recent inflated market peak? Also, how sympathetic of a “character” is Ulbricht? What might have happened if it had been some other wildly intelligent asshole who’d made the same leaps? Am I pissed that the book spoiled Breaking Bad, a show I swear I’m going to watch during one of my lifetimes on this planet? Could this story have existed at any other point in history—or what stories from history parallel this one, plus or minus a little PHP code ? Gary: the coolest IRS agent, or the coolest IRS agent?

“And just like other ambitious CEOs who ran other start-ups around San Francisco, [Ross] was unable to see how a single decision, made from behind a computer, could trickle down and affect an untold number of real, living human beings.”

Start blogging again, and the world celebrates with you

To celebrate my return to blogging, The New York Times went ahead and interviewed Philip Roth, the subject of one of my first posts of the year. And then The Guardian invited Elena Ferrante to be their new weekend columnist, after she was featured in one of my first posts of the year.

Hey, writers…call me. My blog works.

2018-002: The Human Stain, Philip Roth

“There could be such a gigantic gap between what she liked and what she was supposed to admire—between how she was supposed to speak about what she was supposed to admire and how she spoke to herself about the writers she treasured….”

When I look at my reading habits, when I think about myself as a reader, I see myself oscillating between two extremes; between the reader who wants to be the kind who reads Philip Roth, and the reader who knows he’s more at home reading Stephen King. I want to be engaged with capital-L literature; big social themes and deep thoughts and virtuosic crafting of language. I know I’m more interested in finding out what happens, who did it.* But I know I’m not entirely happy wholly at one end or the other. When there’s less motion to the story, I grow restless and fidgety. But when the story’s about little more than it’s own motion, I feel hollow, unsatisfied.

I also know this spectrum and my placement of myself on it are fabrications, but they’re useful ones, ones that help me describe my headspace and the internal tensions that I prodded and poked at as I read The Human Stain, the third book of Philip Roth’s American Trilogy.** Why do I read 20, maybe 30 pages of Roth, whose prose is so not hard and is so often so punchy and grabby and physical and damned well-done, only to get distracted by pretty much whatever? I could certainly, likely, sit down tomorrow and fly through who knows how many pages of the The Stand without really trying. I recognize that both are awesome, in different ways, but, man, what’s slowing me down when it comes to the book without the death virus in it?

I pick on Roth and King for convenience sake, trusting you to know what I mean, and that we can both agree that the situation is certainly far more complex than that. True, the prose styling of Roth is more savory, a bit meatier, and yet there certainly is story to Stain, a certain what-happens-next element to it, though it’s of a whole with the first two books of the trilogy—American Pastoral and I Married a Communist—in that they’re more about keying off neatly summarizable plots focused on specific events and just unfolding around them, digging in, swooping back out, revisiting, circling, zooming, withdrawing, shifting and sliding between periods and points of view. Finding the waves of complexity and conflict that certain events invite and expel, swallowing swaths of the American experience in the process.***

And what is the American experience?

“To become a new being. To bifurcate. The drama that underlies America’s story, the high drama that is upping and leaving—and the energy and cruelty that rapturous drive demands.”

I was reminded, reading reviews, about this theme, throughout Roth’s writings and the Zuckerman books in particular, of generational rebellion, of the leaving behind of what feels like someone else’s past toward one’s own future, and that might be what I’d attach myself back to, in the hypothetical future where I re-read the series, looking to see what I missed the first time through. I also wonder about the supposed nostalgic threads that run through the books, as I come to them here in an America in 2018 where the very notion of nostalgia has been co-opted (well, has been co-opted more loudly and horrifyingly than ever before) toward sickening, racist ends.

Hmm. I’m not really satisfied with any of this. Anyways: want some stray thoughts? I got some stray thoughts:

  • Who’s going to be the Philip Roth of this incredibly dumb historical moment we’ve landed ourselves in? The 20th century was a pretty fascinating century and here we are in a time that is somehow both far more simplistic and far more complex, better yet dumber at the same time. Who’s doing for us what Roth is doing for them?
  • And just how easy is it to see the connective tissue between the history Roth describes and the one we find ourselves in now?
  • After finishing Stain, I’ve only got one Zuckerman book left to go, Exit Ghost. (Which I’ve already ordered. No time like the present. By which I mean, who knows when, actually.) I read a handful of Roth’s slimmer, later books a while back—Indignation, which I think I liked, and Everyman, which I recall feeling particularly affected by; I mean, well, death—so I sort of feel like I can guess what to expect. That said, in sampling reviews of the American Trilogy I’ve also come to realize how little personal stake I have in the idea of Zuckerman as a character, bifurcated from Roth himself to whatever degree. (I suspect I probably need to re-read The Ghost Writer before finishing the series.) Still, though, there’s some degree of, “Well, huh, I guess that’s over,” to knowing that, well, that’s about to be over.
  • Another thing that sampling reviews helped me with was refreshing the context of these books compared to “typical Roth.” They’ve been Roth to me, the last few years, and it’s been an age since I’ve read anything like Portnoy’s Complaint, so I have to remind myself that, yeah, it’s interesting that, for whatever sex there is in these books, they’re not sex books.
  • The idea that the book rails against political correctness feels to me like the least interesting thing about it? As important as it may be to the themes and plot. But there’s probably an entire essay to be written linking that theme of the book through to where we find ourselves today, the evolution of that idea over the last two decades.
  • I forgot about the Anatole Broyard controversy. Secondary sources!
  • I like David Lodge’s summation of what the books that comprise The American Trilogy are about, from a review of The Dying Animal in The New York Review of Books; of course, I’m sure it raises some questions about what that American Dream was about, and whose dream it was to dream, questions that would be worth carrying back into a re-read of the series.

“In these books he adopted something like the model of the classic realist novel, in which individual fortunes are traced across a panorama of social change and historical events, the individual and the social illuminating and borrowing significance from each other in the process…. Their lives are also affected by and illustrative of profound convulsions, conflicts, and crises in American social and political life over the past half-century…. The trilogy is a kind of elegy for the death of the American Dream as it seemed to present itself in the innocent and hopeful 1950s, and has been widely and deservedly acclaimed.”

* – Funny, for someone who doesn’t read that much mystery.

** – I read the trilogy one per year, starting in 2015, as whatever may have been left of whatever the American Dream might have been has gotten chewed up, spat back out, and urinated on. This book-a-year strategy, I’ve been using it to work my way through some collections like this, for better or for worse. It worked well for Roth, where the connections between the books were more thematic than anything. It also worked surprisingly well for the Gormenghast novels by Mervyn Peake, which I read one per summer, 2014–2016; I actually really missed having one to work through this past summer. I started reading Olivia Manning’s Balkan Trilogy, I think in 2016, but then didn’t quite get back to last year, and at this point I’m thinking maybe I should just read all three in a row, when I get back around to tackling them again.

*** – Which here I want to point out something about how Roth’s writing really isn’t this literary/literarily difficult thing, with passages really getting in deep to the shit of life, getting visceral, and how I wonder how much distance is there, at the end of the day, between King’s endless, italicized internal thoughts, and some of Roth’s close third-person monologue-like literary camera work, like some of Les’s sequences; but then I’m also not sur I want to go there, exactly, either. So.

2018-001: My Brilliant Friend, Elena Ferrante

So my first book of 2018, My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante, was also, technically—for about the first 40 pages or so—one of my last books of 2017, helping me make good on a vague resolution to let myself re-read something in 2017.*

I first read this late in 2015; Elena Ferrante was white-hot at the time, around the time the fourth and final Neapolitan novel was coming out in English, and this was one of those rare occasions I felt myself consciously aligned with the literary zeitgeist. (I mean, she’s probably still white hot, but I’m pretty sure my finger and the pulse of the literary community haven’t exactly snuggled much in a while.) Despite the omnipresent love for the series, I didn’t fall in love myself. I liked it well enough, I think, but for whatever (unrecorded, I suspect) reason or reasons, it didn’t click for me.

I spent a fair portion of this past year considering various options before, in the final couple days of December, landing on Friend as my re-read for the year. It felt like unfinished business—not that there isn’t plenty of that in my reading history, but some lingering feeling of curiosity about the rest of the series must have stuck with me over the last couple years. I’m happy to say that, while I still can’t say I love this book, it did click more for me this time, and I’m happily, vaguely non-planning on reading the rest of the series this year.

I suspect some books, you come to them with certain expectations, and those books need an extra reading so they can break through those expectations, to help you see it for what it actually is. My first time through, I knew the series dealt with a complex friendship (or was it a complicated relationship?) between two women, starting with their childhoods and running through the courses of their lives. And the first book certainly sets that up. But that’s not the full story, I think, and what stuck with me from the first reading and I had a better headspace for this time is the context in which that friendship plays out, the violence and confusion and ugliness of the world in which these two find themselves and each other. I enjoyed the depiction of Naples and the wealth of characters who populated it; the scene and setting kept me hooked throughout.

It was generally pleasing to see that the book didn’t feel like a complete stranger this time through, that whatever I picked up the first time through really did help me like it more this time, knowing what I was getting myself into. Plenty of story beats came back into focus as I read through them; the fireworks sequence once again stood out for me, the two girls leaving town for the first time thinking they could walk to the ocean; there was also the general theme of men being total creepshows. (Topical.)

And yet, again, as I think happened my first time through, I found myself feeling a little drifty toward the end. What about the focus on Lila’s wedding is it that trips me up? Or Elena’s schooling, and my inability to internalize what a big deal that is for her or her community? The distance between these two characters representing itself as a haziness between me and the book? Something. Or it has to do with all those characters I’m (lazily) not tracking as well as I should clouding up the works.

In any case, I dug it, on the whole. Not in an I’m-addicted way, but I’m still glad I’m fairly well committed to reading the rest of the series. Having better connected with the first book, it’s easier to see how much the context of the remaining books might be necessary to help me better appreciate any of the books individually.

* – Giving myself permission to re-read more things really ought to have been included in my list of non-plans for 2018. It goes hand-in-hand with how I’m trying to reignite my interest in writing about books, in that I’ve come to realize that my recall of books that I’ve read more than ten minutes ago is terrible, and I’d like to do something about that. I guess I read very much in-the-moment these days, without any real force driving me to “retain information” or “notice things” or “actually process the words in an intelligible way”—I mean, no joke, it’s been a god-long time since my English major days, and I’ve long since career-suicided myself off the ship that was sailing toward Professionalish Critic/Reviewer Island, and that pretty much leaves you with yet another drippy middle-aged white male with feelings and a confused-at-best relationship with writing words about the written word—and yet I sometimes realize that it is a total, complete bummer to look at my Goodreads ratings and see five-star books of which I couldn’t pull up a single memory. It’s a little weird. I mean, when I was told, a year or two ago, that Dhalgren was, like, 98 percent really weird sex, I think my reaction was like, what, wait, huh? I thought it was about fog or something? And so while no I’m not likely to actually re-read Dhalgren or War and Peace or do round two of the Summer of Dostoevsky Project 2006, whatever I say all the time, there are some shorter works in there I could blaze through just to see if I could see what I saw my first times through. Aaaand well I also do really want to re-read A True Novel by Minae Mizumura, which I liked quite a bit but wasn’t certain I loved it at the time, but I’ve actually thought about it quite a bit since, though of course that’s another long one for a year that’s supposed to be about shorter ones. So who knows.

Year in preview: 2018

So last year I made vague, loose plans, and I kind of stuck to some of them, and that was fun. Reading is fun! This year, I’d like to drift more; no real specific projects or themes or plans or anything like that. Try to sample more widely and wildly; more fun reading, more serious reading. Just more reading, period. I’ve set my Goodreads challenge goal at 47, which is a personally absurd number that I only theorize is possible because I plan on embracing fewer longer-than-your-shadow-at-dawn books this year.

Which then of course I say that and—as one does to demonstrate one’s deep emotional and physical commitment to the craft of shabby-ass litblogging in 2018 (my god, it’s 2018)—I lift my fingers from the keyboard, and gaze contemplatively up at my TBR pile—which, yes, has already grown at a dizzying, luscious rate in the last few weeks—and I’m thinking, hey, maybe this is the year I finally actually read Black Lamb and Grey Falcon by Rebecca West! Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, but I think I tried to start reading it a year or two ago, thinking it was a book I could coast into and out of like a fluctuating breeze. Except then after I read the first fifty pages some time passed and then when I next tried to pick it back up it was like, no idea, what is this, what are books, how do you read them, how do you read? What’s on Netflix? (Thomas the Train, that’s what’s on Netflix, when you have a two year old in the house. Thomas the Trainflix.) Nope: that won’t be the way to read that one. I’m going to need to buckle down and maybe even take a damn note or two and live inside it for a good long while and hope there’s still air out there to come up for by the time I’m done. So that may be my summer, my nice, light, refreshing summer reading that’s going to slide in to screw up my plans of reading 47 books this year or even like more than five books, who knows.

So yeah. No real plans, but maybe one plan.

And okay I really do want/need to keep mixing more non-fiction in, just, in general. I didn’t like that slump I hit last year. Things got ugly. If making myself smarter helps address that, well, here’s to actively trying not to be a complete idiot all the time.

Aaand well, yeah, getting in deeper with more indie presses. There are so many of you out there! I want to love you all. You are worthy of love.

Aaaaaaaand yeah I totally screwed up “reading more women authors” last year. Gang, I have no idea what it is. Every damn time I turn around, it’s like I’ve been in a fugue state, reading books by dudes. Says the guy who is right now reading a Philip Roth novel. I can say that many of my favorite books that I read last year were written by women? There’s that? I guess? I don’t know.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand yeah I’d like to keep getting more poetry into the mix. I do like poetry. I do. I’m just still wildly uncertain how I’m supposed to read it, these days. The way I attacked Saint Friend last year—late at night, standing in the middle of the living room, sipping beer, reciting bits under my breath, like some kind of total weirdo—seemed to work, though it still took me most of the year to actually read the whole thing. (Yes, I finished it New Year’s Eve, just so I could put it on the read-pile before the ball dropped. Don’t judge me. However much I may deserve it.)

And so yeah. Okay. I’ve made no plans but some plans have made me. I’ve offered them no reason to feel I feel committed to them in the slightest, though, so, really, we’ll just see what happens.

I’m also going to blog about every single book I read this year.

(…Until I don’t.)