In the Miso Soup

I read a book not on the list, In the Miso Soup by Ryu Murakami ( New York: Penguin, 1997). I was getting my hair done and needed to read something to avoid small talk with the hair dresser.

Kenji guides tourists who want sex in Japan. An American, spouting standard psycho killer babble, hires him. This book was disturbing. Violence to genitals. Tampons. Need I say more?

There I was sitting, getting my hair wrapped in foil, and reading about sex and blood spurting from someone's body parts. It was twisted.

I don't like violent books but I understand sometimes there is a need for violence to prove a point. Having said that, the quality of Ryu's work or his overall point (Japan has a seedy side) doesn't justify the amount of violence he uses.

What book warrants violence? Jerzy Kosinski's The Painted Bird, 1976. Horrific scenes and circumstances caused by war. That book changed me. I began to understand how tragic war is and realized that terrible things happen which are beyond what we who live in first world countries can imagine or would want to know.

No progress on the thesis yet. I'm going to school tomorrow so I'll borrow something.

Here's to shootin' low!

I'm pleased to announce that this blog is too far ahead of schedule so I'll have to go on pause. 162 books in 10 years gives me 3.2 weeks per book and I'm 3 down already. Three books should have taken me to July 11th.

I wish. The truth is my draft is due end of the month. Got to slug along on that.

Think of the martini as a go away and come back later message. Back in a week.

Pity, Thinkers & Sloths

Finished Humboldt's Gift this morning. Three thoughts on pity, thinkers, & sloth and this book will close.

- - - - - - - - - - PITY - - - - - - - - - -

Previously I complained how HG was inaccessible but on p.320 there was something familiar -- Charlie Citrine's pity. Citrine suspects his girlfriend, Renata, has run off but cannot confront her scheming mother, the Señora.

I couldn't argue with the Señora. I had seen her one morning before she was made up, hurrying toward the bathroom, completely featureless, a limp and yellow banana skin, without brows or lashes and virtually without lips. The sorrow of this sight took me by the heart, I never again wanted to win a point from the Señora. When I played backgammon with her I cheated against myself.

Citrine sees a person who doesn't have what they value most. Never again will the Señora be beautiful or young (firm, bright skin; full lips; lashes and brows) and for a person that trades on looks, this must crush her daily. Would the Señora be pissed to know Citrine's pity is why he cows to her? Damn rights! She would hate him to shreds for patronizing her and for assuming her weakness. Perhaps the Señora has accepted aging and moreover, doesn't care if her daughter's sugar daddy sees her without makeup. Besides it must be a hoot for her to look like a bag and still get Citrine's money.

Pity is a way for Citrine to think himself in control and his thoughts can never be challenged because they without doubt, quietly assume.

- - - - - - - - - - THINKERS - - - - - - - - - -

Renata does elope with another man and writes her thoughts on the human condition in a farewell letter (p.430):

As a beautiful woman and still young, I prefer to take things as billions of people have done throughout history. You work, you get bread, you lose a leg, kiss some fellows, have a baby, you live to be eighty and bug hell out of everybody, or you get hung or drowned. But you don't spend years trying to dope your way out of the human condition. To me that's boring.

To this Citrine thinks (p.431):

Yes, when she said this, I saw thinkers of genius throwing skeins of belief and purpose over the heads of the multitude. I saw them molesting the race with their fancies, programs, and world perspectives.

At the base of this statement is our friend Karl. Yup, the Marx one. The thoughts of intellectuals are no better than regular people and it's mental tyranny for them to keep thinking, saying, pressing to continually keep the positions of know-it-alls/ banishers of anomie/ leaders to utopia.

Ok good for Citrine. He's just reached the post-modern conundrum:

• we better not be oppressors like our predecessors
• we can't speak for the oppressed because we cannot know them and so it's injust to rally for change on their behalf
• we still want to do the above and secretly think we can
• we want to know the oppressed because their views can help us make a better society
• 'we' are intellectuals though nowadays the club is not exclusive to old white men.

(For these same conclusions on p-mod stretched over many readings see Subaltern Studies or Gayatri Spivak)

- - - - - - - - - - SLOTHS - - - - - - - - - -

A word on sloth because I started my blog with this sentiment, see A Slothly Start http://bookwash.blogspot.com/2006/05/slothly-start.html

Citrine admits to being slothful and explains to his childhood sweetheart that it's hard work (p.306):

"Some think that sloth, one of the capital sins, means ordinary laziness," I began. "Sticking in the mud. Sleeping at the switch. But sloth has to cover a great deal of despair. Sloth is really a busy condition, hyperactive. This activity drives off the wonderful rest or balance without which there can be no poetry or art or thought -- none of the highest human functions."

At first I thought ooh yes, I too suffer from a condition of sloth, but then I realized this bit on sloth masks and romanticizes procrastination. Keeping busy doing things other than what you must is plain old procrastination and making excuses just ain't cool.

Can't we let a sloth be a sloth?





One sentence sum up: The protagonist, Charlie Citrine, is boring for 400 pages and the last 87 pages doesn't warrant the long windup.

Humboldt's Gift is a Story

Read to p.343. Charlie Citrine in Humboldt's Gift lives his life at a distance. He watches passively as events triggered by friends/ lawyers/ accountant/ girfriend/ ex-wife, all after his money, happen to him. Finally, at long last -- something happens in the book! Charlie snaps out of it and is moved to act. On p.239 he finds out Humboldt bequeathed a letter to him and a hundred pages later, Charlie has this letter in hand.

Will these words from the grave help Charlie shed his guilt from not crossing the street to greet Humboldt that day? Will it shock him awake (i.e. start writing and seek answers to questions of extistence and death)?

Even more exciting news! Humboldt's letter includes a story that he says is a gift to Charlie. Yup, this is the clearly identified money shot. Or the theoretical, soul shaking shot. I haven't read the gift yet. I want to keep curious so I will want to return to this book.

Saul Bellow aka Sollie

Saul Bellow (June 10, 1915 – April 5, 2005)

I wanted to post nasty photos of Saul but couldn't bring myself to because he's dead, likely someone out there loves him, and it's mean to laugh at old people. So I put a young one of him, and an older, more distinguished, haughty looking one that I'm sure Sollie would have loved. I imagine Charlie Citrine from Humboldt's Gift to look like the right photo -- lean, intelligent, vain.

Sollie is a Canadian-born American writer of Jewish descent. His parents are from St. Petersburg, Russia and he grew up in the slums of Chicago. Living in the U.S. during WWII and the Cold war with that background must have been tough. Last century's identity issues remain relevant but at the same time, it's so far away to me and I can identify with none of his background. This is partly why Sollie is inaccessible to me but mostly its because he writes from the perch of an old white guy.

I've put off picking up HG. I'll read a bit this weekend and report back.

003 Humboldt's Gift

Now on p.120 of Saul Bellow's Humboldt's Gift. Saul is a Nobel winner and HG won the Pulitzer so its a 2 for 1. (New York: The Viking Press) 1975.

HB is concentrated self-apologizing high snot. It's about poets and writers finding meaning in life. Consistent name dropping. Proust, Hegel, Marx, Durkheim, Balzac and tons I've never heard of. Need I say more?

Fine you egg me. Charlie Citrine, a famous writer (won the Pulitzer) living in Chicago, now an old man, is haunted by his mentor, Von Humboldt Fleisher, who died poor and crazy. Charlie is made to be so smart that he feels guilty having a Mercedes and from getting kicks from hanging out with petty criminals (read proles). He knows capitalism/ disparity of wealth is bad from a lifetime of reading philosophical/ literary/ revolutionary books but still enjoys what money can buy.

Hey you educated, rich people! Got Guilt? Read HG to soothe yourself! An intellectual knows your pains!

It gets better. While alive Humboldt despises Charlie for being rich and insults him (p.3):

They gave Citrine a Pulitzer prize for his book on Wilson and Tumulty. The Pultizer is for the birds -- for the pullets. It's just a dummy newspaper publicity award given by coorks and illiterates. You become a walking Pulitzer ad, so even when you croak the first words of the obituary are 'Pulitzer prizewinner passes.'"

I'll spin this for you, the people in the book (author too) are above awards. The prize givers are unworthy to judges. They just don't get it -- can't get it. This reeks of high High Snot. Who can judge then? People that have read all of the above plus more?

But then again, how I be so nasty to Saul especially since his opinion applies aptly to this crappy Pulitzer winner.

Fay the Real Optimist

I finished The Optimist's Daughter. The plot was boring but the character development was alright. An old man from Mount Salus, Mississippi dies and in the following days his daughter, Laurel, learns to let go of the deaths of her mother, husband and father. Laurel learns through interacting with her father's second wife, Fay, a selfish, hillbilly floozy.

There are conflicts from class differences and feminine kinds of rivalry. Fay is white trash and after her husband death, screams selfish things like, "All on my birthday. Nobody told me this was what was going to happen to me!" (p.44).

We are suppose to hate Fay (I felt sympathy because women characters are often too simply vilified). She's the bitch who is especially hated by other women in town because she is rude and a bad housekeeper. But Eudora hints at sympathy for Fay when a neighbour, Adele, commenting on how Fay threw herself on her husband's corpse points out, "I think that carrying-on was Fay's idea of giving a sad occasion its due." (p.109) .

From my high horse I'd say -- Fay does what is appropriate according to her own sense of propriety and the problem of 'distaste' is that her guidelines differ from those who bad mouth her.

The one sentence sum up: A low class, selfish bitch helps the protagonist let go of the past.

Eudora Welty's Bloggin' Style

I'm paid to organize 3 months of a lecture series. Mostly it's responding to emails from academics, AV & venue peeps but it seems 80% of my time is spent on unexpecteds. Today is the culmination of an unexpected that in hindsight was obvious. I don't want to get into it. It's boring and insignificant.

Eudora Welty has a perfect blog writing style. The Optimist's Daughter has no unnecessary words and sentences are short with maximum effect. See this description of our protagonist (p.3):

Laurel McKelva Hand was a slender, quiet-faced woman in her middle forties, her hair still dark. She wore clothes of an interesting cut and texture, although her suit was wintry for New Orleans and had a wrinkle down the skirt. Her dark blue eyes looked sleepless.

From three sentences we know Laurel's full name, age, physique, character, clothing style, location, and current state of mind.

Eudora expects the reader's attention and uses details to build characters. Laurel finds out her father is dead and she's in the hall with the doctor (p.41):

Laurel felt the Doctor's hand shift to grip her arm; she had been about to go straight to the unattended. He began walking the two women toward the elevators. Laurel became aware that he was in evening clothes.

This bit tells the Doctor's experience with the bereaved and his off duty trip to the hospital. Laurel's previous state of shock is conveyed through her coming to awareness.

Ok peeps. If you are or know a know it all who thinks they can read people like a book by their habits/deportment/slips of speech, tell them to read Eudora Welty. They'll love it.

002 The Optimist's Daughter

Pockets of stress since I woke up. Urgent things at the part-time job, driving in traffic, but the cherry was emailing my prof to report that my draft is not ready for today's deadline. "End of the month!" I said.

As a treat then, I'll start The Optimist's Daughter by Eudora Welty this evening. It won the 1973 Pulitzer prize (the P is always chosen among work published the previous year). Here is the version I'm reading:

Welty, Eudora. The Optimist's Daughter. New York: Random House, 1972.

I've never heard of the author or book before but chose it for the title and because I like female authors. The other book I borrowed today was Humboldt's Gift by Saul Bellow. Sounds boring doesn't it?

I took out books on these books. Humboldt's Gift made me do it. Cringing after flipping through that book, I decided to skim what others say before condemning it. And just in case OD is a drag I better get a book on it as well.

Sometimes books are boring because I don't know the context or miss the cultural references of the time. Maybe these crits will help place these books. But don't expect indepth analysis here. I get enough of a work out just thinking about my draft.

ACoD: Annoying & Boring

It's that time of day again. Not sleepy yet too tired to "work". Though I did photoshop this nifty collage of A Confederacy of Dunces covers:

And no, I'm not nuts about the book. The publishers from the 60s were right -- nothing really happens. Plus Ignatius was irritating especially during passages of his first person lengthy, flouty tirades. Yes, Ken probably wanted Ignatius to reach out and peeve the reader and that's edgy and all, but the kiss of death was that those parts were boring too.

Don't judge a book by its title. I picked ACoD for its title and its back blurb that promised hilarity. In the end, the title was more interesting that its contents. Strangely this cheers me up because there are some seriously dry sounding titles on the 162-10 list.

An aside, if you're ever hard pressed for a Halloween costume, put on a green hunting cap, a plaid shirt, call yourself Ignatius J. Reilly, and shout insults like, "What an abortion!" Can you imagine a party that would really get and dig such a costume? Now that is frightening. Ha ha right? Until it dawns -- we'll get it.

Growing up in the 60s

I finished reading A Confederacy of Dunces today. There are themes of revolution and in particular of revolting against the white upper middle class. The book speaks of its time -- the 1960s. I imagine Ken living his 20s and being influenced by beatniks, the young hip and cool people that resented the wholesome story book family life promoted by consumer ads.

Why would no one publish Ken's book while he was alive? It's because ACoD when read in the 1960s is blathering young angst but in the 1980s, after civil rights and feminist movements, suddenly his book was seen in a new light. Young angst, through a change in temporal perception, transforms into a historical novel of youth (anti- conforming ones) growing up in the 1960s in the U.S.

It's almost nostalgic. But in this sentiment lies the seduction of Pulitzer prize fiction (the P is awarded to novels of American life). I must remember, this country and its past are not mine.

I leave you with a passage that I like from ACoD on how George, a teenager, explains the verbosity of Ignatius, p. 283-4:

You could tell by the way that he talked, though, that he had gone to school a long time. That was probably what was wrong with him. George had been wise enough to get out of school as soon as possible. He didn't want to end up like that guy.

George is right. I've been in school a long time and I've seen what it does to people. Some talk in tongues. Actually, now that I think of it...Ignatius' self righteous pomposity does recall academics I've known...

Ken & Ignatius

John Kennedy Toole (December 17, 1937 – March 26, 1969)

Googled Mr. JKT today. It turns out his life does mirror Ignatius'. JKT, aka Ken to his friends, like his character, lived in New Orleans, Lousiana, was sheltered by his mom, earned an M.A. degree, worked in a clothing plant, was an aspiring writer, and speculated as gay.

It's likely people from New Orleans know Ignatius because A Confederacy of Dunces is hailed for its vibrant post-WWII portrayal of New Orleans. Or maybe they know of him from the bronze statue at 800 Iberville Street in New Orleans.

Thirsty for details?

Ken: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Kennedy_Toole
ACoD: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ignatius_Reilly
Ignatius statue & book setting pics: http://www2.tltc.ttu.edu/qualin/ignatius/

001 A Confederacy of Dunces

I feel compelled for proper book citation. It results from my long stint in school. I'm even using Endnote. Here's my version:

Toole, John Kennedy. A Confederacy of Dunces. New York: Grove Press, 1980.

Some prelim remarks. Toole wrote this book in the 60's and committed suicide in 1969 at the age of 32. His mother, Thelma D. Toole, pressed for it to be published after his death.

The main character, Ignatius J. Reilly, a self-centered, unemployed, annoying, fat and messy 30 year old, lives with his mother. He is forced to get a job after his mother 's car accident (she backs up into a building and smashes a store). I'm on p.74 and he just got a job. And the people in the office seem as eccentric as he does.

Poor John. Did he live with his mother? Did he feel inadequate because there is a stigma attached to men living with mommy?

It's not right that I project the character onto its author. Why should I draw a parallel from Ignatius to John? Then again, who says I shouldn't speculate? Is it the highbrow lit critics?

I must say I am split on whether it is pathetic for a guy to live with his mom. On the one hand, they are selfish beasts that need their underwear washed by someone yet on the other hand, they may have family values especially if they live with elderly parents and care for them. As usual then the answer is IDOC or It Depends On the Circumstances.

Ok a special treat for those egomaniacs out there, I leave you with a quote from the preface of the book:

When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by his sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him.

--Jonathan Swift, Thoughts on Various Subjects, Moral and Diverting

A Slothly Start

It's fitting that this blog starts at 2am with a book on sloth. The time reminds me of how often I am up and not doing things I should. I could be surfing, cooking, reading but seldom do I work.

Guilt is half dead this morning. Times change. From this moment on reading is sanctioned by blog. I've got a vow to keep -- 162 books in 10 years.

It's a happy coincidence that the book to kick off this blog has a good study of bad habits. I am reading John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces which makes it the very first book for this bookwashing. A comedy about a sloth. (Don't get too excited. I had to read up to p.66 before I laughed aloud)

The beware for this book: a book reveling in bad habits still conforms by teaching what not to be.

Who knows when I'll check in but I will because I've a vow to keep.