Boris Pasternak: Doctor Zhivago

This is the first novel in a while that I have allowed myself to simply enjoy, to--as Barthes would put it--be seduced by, to simply read and fall in love with. This is partly due to my frame of mind, I suppose. My mantra lately has been "this moment is just as beautiful as any there has ever been," by which I mean that each moment is possessed of infinite small beauties and happinesses, and he is a fool who fails to see them. This sentiment naturally put me in compliance with Pasternak's novel, which is almost more of a painting than a book, so seamlessly does one beautiful picture morph into and meld with the next.

The English Major is incorrigible, of course, and refuses to be entirely dormant, so I naturally have a dissertation's worth to say about theme, style and especially Pasternak's uniquely charming use of pathetic fallacy. I will limit myself, however, to the observation that each of the characters is chasing, in her or his own way, that elusive divine light for which we all search. For some, the light is found, for some not. For Yurii, most tragically, the light is found--in Lara, who seems to hold it within herself--and lost. He holds onto it only long enough to write it down, and then withers away for want of it. All of this is supported and elaborated upon with one beautiful passage after another, but I'll save it for grad school. Suffice it to say that I have been successfully "cruised" by Doctor Zhivago (thanks Barthes) and now need a cigarette.

BTD 16

Joseph Conrad: The Secret Agent

Early in this short novel, Conrad describes what, for lack of a more accurate term, we may call his protagonist as "constitutionally averse to every superfluous exertion" (9). As I continued to read, I seldom went a page without wishing that Conrad, or at least his narrator, had the same tendency. This book needed Strunk and White to take a chisel to it, and winnow it down by half. Let's select a random page and see if I can't find you a good example, shall we? Here's one from page 49:

He walked with the nerveless gait of a tramp going on, still going on, indifferent to rain or sun in a sinister detachment from the aspects of sky and earth. Chief inspector Heat, on the other hand, after watching him a while, stepped out with the purposeful briskness of a man disregarding indeed the inclemencies of the weather, but conscious of having an authorized mission on this earth and the moral support of his kind.

Belch. The passage, as a microcosm of the entire book, overflows with "superfluous exertion". This is only two sentences, mind you. Can't you see Mark Twain spinning in his grave, perhaps wishing he were a lathe upon which to shear down Conrad's pointlessly flowery tone?

Whatever the flaws of this particular book, however, Conrad is still canonical for a reason. Even in the midst of all this diarrhoea, he manages to reach a mental study that would have merited Dostoevsky's admiration. When he confines his love of detail solely to the inner workings of his characters, he shines. Just as his "superfluous effort" is in startling contrast to Mr. Verloc's hatred of the same, so does his conscientious probity of his characters' minds stand in contrast to Mrs. Verloc's "belief that things did not stand being looked into" (89). Now that I mention it, perhaps he needn't be chastised quite so rashly for his loquacity after all . . .
 

Francois Marie Arouet: Zadig and L'Ingenu

As fairly enjoyable as these two tales were, their chief interest to me was as reflections of that better known of Voltaire's works, Candide. Zadig, written at at the beginning of his career, and L'Ingenu, written at the end, create a sandwich of sorts, that I'm sure has been written about consistently. Unlike Candide, which seems to rotate around external circumstances, these two stories pivot on the title characters themselves. Where Candide is simpleminded, some might even say a caricature, both Zadig and Hercules, the so-called Ingenu, are noble, sophisticated, caricatures in their own way.

These relatively flat characters could cause one to assume that Voltaire is not in earnest, that the stories are cheeky or satirical--and this is the customary approach to Candide especially. My personal affection for Candide lies in my belief that Voltaire secretly meant it in earnest, that for all the scorn he heaped upon Pangloss, this really is the best of all possible worlds, and our only choice is to be content in it. With this perspective on Candide, it is only natural to wonder if the other two stand up to the same literal lens. In Zadig, Voltaire seems to earnestly believe that all is for the best, that whatever terrible thing happens there is some greater good behind it. By the time of Candide, he has clearly altered his view somewhat, but only insofar as to remove God from the equation. Where in Zadig we should accept the terrible in life because it leads to the good, in Candide we should accept it because there is no better alternative. This puts him on a rather cynical trajectory, and sure enough, by the time of L'Ingenu the terrible in life doesn't give rise to any particular philosophy, and the book ends with a flat thud where one has come to expect something rather more pithy--both in Voltaire, and in literature generally

Reiner Kunze: The Lovely Years

Many thanks, once again, to Philip Ward for setting me on the track of this remarkable author. This book possessed every virtue that I normally look for in a book--layered, metaliterary, resonant and epigrammatic, to name a few--and one that I don't normally look for, that of brevity. In form and texture, the book was very Joyceian. It's simply a collection of vignettes, some startlingly short, that serve to convey the feel of East Germany and Czechoslovakia during the cold war. Often, Kunze uses the perspective of a father observing the maturation of his daughter, and it is these scenes that feel like the center, the pivot of the book. He often returns to this character--which may or may not be the same father--as he treads the line between wanting the daughter to escape youth unscathed, and wanting her to think honestly about the political situation. the daughter, of course, chooses her own path as the father watches helplessly.

When not in this mode, Kunze often adopts the character of a publisher visiting Czechoslovakia as tensions over the partially East German invasion mount. Through him, Kunze introduces a string of obscure Czech poetry. At first I thought he might be pulling the Borgesian move of writing poems in the voice of a fictional writer, but research revealed that the writers were real, and this makes Kunze's choice decidedly more political than Borges'.

Peppered among these narratives are seemingly unconnected glimpses into the lives of others affected by Cold War politics in the countries of the Warsaw Pact. The narrator of these scenes usually is anonymous, which makes it only natural to hear them in Kunze's own voice. The arrangement of the stories is fluid, rhythmic, almost musical in its artistry.

Which brings us to the element which sets the book in an entirely different bracket. I always train my students to look for the things that don't fit, and trust the writer that they are often the keys to the entire book. Kunze does not disappoint. The scene "Organ Recital (Toccata and Fugue)" is set apart by its form-- the paragraphs line up on the left margin. This seemingly insignificant formatting choice cues the reader to look more deeply at this scene than at the others, and is rewarded for that inspection with he revelation that it is really almost an "Easter Wings" style shape poem, a pipe organ spread over four pages.

Although superficially prose, the refrain "all organs--" gives it a poetic rhythm that build as the clause is left dangling, setting in the mind like an unresolved chord. After wondering what the narrator is trying to say about "all organs" for three pages, the reader is rewarded with " . . . should all suddenly burst into sound, sweeping away the lies with which the air is so thick that those striving for honesty can scarcely breathe . . . at least one single time, at least one Wednesday evening" (70). The Lovely Years is that single time, the moment when all pipes of all organs, "those thirty feet tall, and with the highest those measured in inches" let loose a simultaneous blast, and clear the air--if only for an instant (69). The voices of The Lovely Years, window washers, teenagers, soldiers, fathers and others of all flavor, including of no flavor, roar out and "thunderously [dispel] the terror of the spirit" (70). A poignant message, and written with such musical artistry that one must be seduced by it.

Keith L. Pratt: Everlasting Flower

Perhaps I'm just burnt out on reading Korean history after this, my third in as many months. I normally read no history whatsoever, so this certainly represents a saturation bombing. Whatever the reason, I found little to remember about this book, compared to the other two. It felt perfunctory and lacking subtlety. Of the three, I definitely enjoyed Cumings' Korea's Place in the Sun the most, although it was also the lengthiest, and the least broad. Perhaps if I had read Everlasting Flower first, I would have enjoyed it more, but after the other two it just felt too fluffy.

The one element that I might have enjoyed if it were done in more detail was the series of photo essays, which were really just glamorized captions. They serviceably set a bit of context onto the narrative, but, like the rest of the book, felt lacking. I think it safe to say that I am done with Korean history for a while.