I read this in French.

It was once given to me by the aunt of a French speaking girlfriend.

I picked it, thinking, which 'classic' can I finish in under two hours?

I didn't keep track of time, so can't say if I managed to do exactly that.

I read it in French to rub off some of the guilt I feel for indulging in such an unproductive act as reading. If it were legal my family would have burned me at the stake on charges of heresy by now. Or stoned me to death. One rock for every book I ever read. I think that would do it.

As you can see, I'm not really saying anything about the book itself. That is because there is very little to be said about it.

It's about silk. But not really. It's about eggs. But not really. It's about getting the eggs. In Japan. And bringing them back to France.

But it's also not quite about that.

Do I even know what it is about?

Maybe, just maybe, it's about the power of our imagination in constructing experiences that never happen, but that are so enticting, they bewitch us and even make us travel for three months, just to catch a glimpse of the thing or person that could make the product of our imagination real.

The end made me slightly melancholic (even more than I normally am) and made me feel extra guilty (could it be I have enough guilt to start my own religion?- a quote borrowed from Toris Amos) about every time I took being loved for granted. The book isn't about that, it just made me feel that way. Maybe most of all because I didn't get any sun today and was alone most of the day.

It's a nice story. That could have done without the first half and would have made a nicer short story than a slender novel.

There's a letter at the end that probably was the main reason for bombarding this into such lists as '1001 books you should read before you die'

I have the list that was custom-made for the environment of Aalst, town marinated in alchohol and the historic haze of a textile industry, long since moved to Asia.

So being such a slender book, it had a much bigger chance to get on this Aalst edition of '1001 books you should read before you die'. The length of the selected volumes being stricly in keeping with the local life expectancy.

06-01-2012 om 21:29 geschreven door Tederdraads  

I'm not sure who gave whom the -lazy- idea, but this book smells like Murakami's 'What I think about when I think about running' (see somewhere else on this blog) 

Both books are written by famous writers. And both rave about their preferred sport and make some comparisons between that and their writing. In Irving's case it's wrestling, in Murakami's case it's long-distance running.

First of all, one of the more obvious remarks to make here:

If either one had sent this in as his debut novel, both would have been instantly rejected, without a thought. 

I don't recommend reading this. I only finished it, because it's mercifully short, and well, most any autobiographic appeals to a certain degree.

So what do we learn? The same thing as in Murakami's book:

writing isn't so much about talent, it's about self-discipline.

A friend of mine happened to quote Murakami in a late night email yesterday:

“I think certain types of processes don’t allow for any variation. If you have to be part of that process, all you can do is transform— or perhaps distort—yourself through that persistent repetition, and make that process a part of your own personality.

To keep on going, you have to keep up the rhythm. This is the important thing for long-term projects. Once you set the pace, the rest will follow. The problem is getting the flywheel to spin at a set speed—and to get to that point takes as much concentration and effort as you can manage.”

The friend adds: “To sum up: Motivation is what gets you started, habit is what keeps you going”

Or as Kerouac used to put it: 'If you want to write, write and keep it up like a guy hooked on benny' (benny not being a person, but the era's drug of choice) 

Irving states: “my life as a writer consists of 1/8 talent and 7/8 discipline”

The same was true about his wrestling career, he says.

My life as a writer consists of ¾ talent and ¼ desperate fear of death caused by my genes vomitting up a dark hole which suddenly inhales me (I'm not kidding)

How this could help anyone's writing? It can't. The only interesting thing Irving says about writing througout this book, is that writing can't be taught, and that you can only point out his or her weaknesses and strenghts to a budding writer. Which the budding writer would discover on his/her own, but then at least you save him/her some time.

Any reason why anyone should read this? It's more interesting to a wrestler, than to a writer. The genuine love of wrestling the book comes with and Irving's apparent joie de vivre can cheer you up. 1/8 of a Prozac pill pulverized into 148 pages.

I like the tone of Irving a lot better than Murakami's. If I had to choose between having dinner with one of them, I would most definitely go for Irving. He seems a lot more fun to hang around with.

If you want to read a famous author's book about writing, go for Stephen King's 'On writing', it's also autobiographic, it doesn't come with a sport and it does help budding writers save some time in developing their craft.

06-01-2012 om 21:01 geschreven door Tederdraads  

I liked this kloon of Bright Lights, Big City, by the same author.

These two quotes were worth the read:

1. “Beware the woman who doesn't like other women; she's probably generalizing from her own character.”

So true.

2. “If the concept of romantic love has any use, it is to denote that vast residue of inexplicable attraction which is not covered under the categories of blind lust and well-informed self-interest.”

Hit me like a glass hammer soaked in truth. Though this could also be the feeling I get from drinking three (??) liters of coffee a day. Which probably also explains my current reading speed.

What's the book about? If you read Bright Ligt, Big City, (I strongly recommend it) you know what it's about.

Setting: New York.

Guy works for a magazine. Doesn't like the work. Lots of self-loathing. Is in a relationship with a hot model. The hot model has more ambition than love. She goes on a business (no, career) trip. Doesn't come back. Is very stingy about shedding any light on her not coming back. Guy loses it. Goes on a half-year (?) drinking binge.

There's more cocaine in Bright Bright; Lights big city, which was more to my taste. Alchohol doesn't quite do it for me. In Bright Lights, Big City the main character wants to be a writer, and works as an editor. Here the main character is a fashion journalist, who wants to do, I don't know what exactly, something useful anyway, either that or be screenwriter. In the end he's a screen writer. He also has a best friend who IS a writer. The kind of writer that thinks he is the real thing. And maybe he is, because he writes short stories. I am a fan of brevity outside of the bedsheets and Nirvana songs not included.

I'm drifting. What is the book REALLY about?

About not cherishing what you have. About getting something just to make other people envious. About only wanting a toy because someone else shows interest in it. Other splashes on this literary canvas:

-how to behave when you want to be taken serious as a writer. The correct answer is: not to give a shit about how to behave to be taken seriously. The writer in the book does care. He tries to avoid the parties of the jetsetters and is afraid he will lose all credit with the credits when he's photographed with a famous model.

-when we lose something the value of the thing or person (in this book mainly symbolized by a dog and top model-turned-actress) suddenly rises sharply and then we sulk and get a little bit crazy in trying to get it back

-'casualties of privilege', most of the characters in the book underachieve because the necessities of life came far too easy to them and they got lazy. The one that lost pretty much everything as a child is the only one who kicks ass in the real world.

-the very fickle opinion of mainstream media towards famous people. They get their ego pumped up to the stretch limit, just to get ripped, and torn down, all for the bloodlusting crowd. Modern day gladiators. With the blood mainly spent in warm bath ubs gushing out of opened wrists. (no, no, I get carried away here: there are no suicides in this book, thank you for that Jay, the last thing we need is an other novel with a suicide in it)

Bright Lights, Big City and Model Behaviour both give hope. If you just got dumped read either one and skip your personal half-year drinking binge.

If you try to avoid angel dust, don't read Bright Lights, Big City, there's something about that book that makes you want to rush into the nearest toilet and do a line off the toilet seat.

If you're thinking about studying literature, read Model Behaviour, and opt for law school.

06-01-2012 om 18:47 geschreven door Tederdraads  

I like writing about books, not the minute I put them down, but months after I read them. Just to see if there's any, ANY bloody use to reading AT ALL.

I remember enjoying this book. Which doesn't happen very often. I read, mostly because I'm a masochist.

It's about a couple.

A young couple.

In the fifties.

The guy wants to have sex with her.

She wants to postpone this devilish act for as long as possible.

He thinks the only way to get to the carnal delights is to marry her.

They get married.

They don't fuck. (This is called a spoiler)

She says he can fuck anything in a skirt, and she won't say anything. They can live happily ever after, together, all the marital bliss, but without sexually consuming the marriage, which needn't be a problem to the woman, she tells the guy he can go and get it anywhere.

The guy for whatever destructive residue of too many bed-time fairy tales and culturally dictacted decorum, doesn't think twice about it and rejects the offer.

She runs off. They get a divorce.

They don't fuck.

The guy comes to the understanding later on, that it was an offer ahead of its time. A sixties offer of free love, handed out in the fifties. He comes to see she really must have loved him and never stops wondering about the might have beens.

All in all, the book struck me as an advocate for patience and tender care.

It's the quick decisions we make to get instant gratification or because we fret because we didn't get instant gratification.

It's short, the prose is fast-paced, the mood has everything of the oppressive fifties and makes you scream for air on every page, which makes you appreciate the agonies of free choice open to us all today, so much more.

Oh, they DO NOT GET TO FUCK.

Which believe it or not, makes it a damn good read.

Best read in the nearhood of a loving spouse. There might be a sharp rise in the want of instant gratification after turning the last page.

Do IT at least once, just to take revenge on an oppressive decade.

Then opt for the blissful choice of ignoring instant gratification, most of the time.

Because it's only any fun to do that, when instant gratification is in such luxurious abundance, and the choice is yours, and dictated by oppressive morals. 

05-01-2012 om 01:04 geschreven door Tederdraads