The House in Paris by Elizabeth Bowen

Posted on March 31, 2010 by

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Summary 
Elizabeth Bowen’s The House in Paris is an intriguing novel of love, secrets, betrayal, youth, family, and friendship.  There’s a whole lot wrapped up in this novel of fewer than 300 pages, but the separation into three distinct segments allows for much ground to be covered in such limited time.  The main characters (in the “Present”) are Leopold and Henrietta.  Leopold’s strange personality and his relationship to the adults in the novel is the crux of the story, and what becomes revealed as the story progresses.  Henrietta has a chance meeting with the boy during a brief delay at Mme. Fisher’s house in Paris (surprise!).  Though the novel is told in the third-person, it seems that the story would not have come to be had Henrietta not met Leopold – as this is the window through which we begin to look in on the other characters, both past and present.  The middle portion of the novel is “The Past,” in which the story of Leopold’s “coming to be” is told, and the other characters – Leopold’s mysterious mother, Mme and Miss Fisher, and Leopold’s absent father – are all identified and explained. 

The Good 
 Bowen’s House in Paris reminds me of a classic Romantic novel – beautiful language, powerful emotion, heroic relationships, and even a bit of gothic terror/mystery.  What makes the novel even more enjoyable, in some ways, is that Bowen manages to include all of these elements, but incorporate contemporary prose, so the reader need not wade through 19th century language.  Also, Bowen, while descriptive, does not saturate the novel with lengthy imagery.  This too proves to benefit the novel overall, because a reader does not get distracted by pages and pages of description about a tree or a meadow (though, admittedly, sometimes this can be fun) and, instead, gets to focus on the touching story, the interpersonal relationships, and the intense friendships.  The novel was also filled with short, meaningful moments, such as the tête-à-têtes between Leopold and Henrietta in Miss Fisher’s sitting room.  The narrator aptly describes their almost flippant abuses of one another (typically Leopold toward Henrietta) as such:  “There is no end to the violations committed by children on children, quietly talking alone.”   

The Bad 
While, on the whole, I found the novel interesting and enjoyable  – a fast, relaxing but meaningful read – I was still underwhelmed.  I found the subject matter and characters so very interesting, but something was lacking in the final execution.  When the novel concluded, I couldn’t help but feel just a bit gypped.  Leopold’s future – even immediate future – is only hinted at, but is impossible to tell what will really happen.  Miss Fisher and Madame Fisher are left unresolved.  The poor Italian family, Leopold’s guardians, are completely thrown overboard.  We never see Leopold’s mother, Karen, during “The Present” which, while in some ways masterful, is also extremely frustrating – where’s the momentous meeting between mother and child?  How does the family move on?  And, in “The Past” we witness Max’s fatal decision, but we’re expected to believe that the friendship between Naomi Fisher and Karen would surmount this – even strenuously?  While so much is said by so little – I fear too much is left out.  I had a generally good experience with the novel, and could certainly recommend it to interested readers – but not emphatically.
   
The Final Verdict: 3.5 Out of 5.0
Overall, I did enjoy this novel and I was intrigued by the Romantic elements being delivered through contemporary prose.  I found the characters incredibly intriguing, if not always believable.  

Review: Lust for Life by Irving Stone

Posted on March 19, 2010 by

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Summary:

Irving Stone’s Lust for Life is a biographical novelization of the life of Vincent van Gogh. The novel is based on the many letters (approximately 700) written between Vincent van Gogh and his younger brother, Theo. Stone takes author’s creative license and invents dialogue, situations, etc. but many of the characters, places, and events are based on events which really happened and which were described in the brothers’ letters. The novel spans approximately ten years, from the time van Gogh leaves home to become a missionary, to his death in Auvers-sur-Oise. Stone appropriately captures van Gogh’s temperament, as well as his passion for art, though never quite having been accepted as an artist in his lifetime, by critics or peers.

The Good:

Where to begin? Essentially, almost any and every aspect of this novel is “good.” The novel is written so well, so fluidly and vividly, that for much of the novel I truly felt like I was watching a movie. The characters – many of them historically familiar- came to life for me, were distinguishable from one another and were eerily true to the impression I had of many of these people (at least the ones I had heard of prior to reading this book). I appreciated especially that Stone recreated such a believable, seamless biography from letters composed between the two van Gogh brothers. It would have been simple to present this in epistolary form, but I think the beauty and connection between the reader and the characters (aka historical figures) is greatly enhanced by being presented in the biographical novel form. Not only was the novel entertaining and beautifully written, but as someone not too familiar with art history and the “schools” or relationships between these artists (Manet, Cezanne, Gauguin, Pissarro, Seurat, Degas, etc) I was pleased to have been able to learn so much and to appreciate the life and works of these men (and women) without necessarily feeling overwhelmed by all of the new information. I was impressed by the attention paid to each of the major artists and their particular artistic style: Seurat’s scientific/intellectual approach; Gauguin’s love of color; Rousseau’s imagination. I found myself running to my cell phone or laptop many, many times so I could look up examples of the artists’ paintings (sometimes specifically referenced, sometimes particularly styles – like pointillism – mentioned in dialogue) and this greatly enhanced the novel for me, in terms of connectivity and imagery. The minor characters, too, such as the miners, the weavers, the peasants, and van Gogh’s many “women” were also well established – something I found particularly endearing as van Gogh himself spent his greatest energies on representing beauty in the “real” people, and not the typical interpretations of the beautiful. I felt this was one of many ways in which Stone paid homage to the work and character of van Gogh, while telling his life story. I was quite impressed by the author’s desire to remain honest and respectful – Stone presents the reader with the good and bad, the instability and the romance – and he lets the reader make his own judgments (as van Gogh would strive to represent the spirit of the painting, without putting his own moral judgment on the model).

The Bad:

The one singular fault I could find with this novel is that, though I came to understand van Gogh’s life and time quite well, I don’t know that I particularly understand van Gogh much better. I certainly know more about his painting style, his relationships, his general character and family life. I learned much about his devotion to his brother and his respect for his parents. Yet, for instance, when van Gogh begins to go a bit mad (we get the impression this is induced by sun stroke) and that madness ultimately leads to his suicide, I don’t get a clear understanding of the “why?” What was really going on with van Gogh? He would have his episodes every three months, like clockwork, but does any real ailment actually happen like that? It seems, almost, that these episodes/fits were self-induced, but this is something the author does not hypothesize about – possibly because he means to speak strictly from the van Gogh letters and not put any of his own interpretations of the situation into the work. Still, I would have appreciated a better understanding of why, for instance, van Gogh was so disturbing to women – he had no wealth, no real income, and a boisterous character, certainly, but that the only woman he could claim as a wife (in name, not legality) was a prostitute, and even she left him – this seems, too, to say something about van Gogh’s personality that is conspicuously absent from the novel. Vincent van Gogh also had no real friends – many people are said to be frightened of him, even. I am left with the impression that van Gogh’s temperament may have been unstable for much of his life, but only became more pronounced in his later years – the inability to stay in one place, to go into passions over an idea (such as the artist’s commune) and then suddenly, without warning or reason, drop and dismiss the passions entirely. The sun stroke and the isolation in Arles perhaps further subjected van Gogh to his own mental instability. It is interesting that in Arles and St. Remy, where he begins to lose his wits (and is committed to an insane asylum), is also where he paints his acclaimed masterpieces: “The Cafe Terrace on the Place du Forum”, the “Sunflowers” series, and “Starry Night Over the Rhone.” It’s almost as if van Gogh needed to work himself to mental exhaustion, to starve his body and rack his mind to its limits in order to create his very best work. While some of these episodes are well written, and the decline is indicated clearly and orderly, I still found the reasoning, the underlying cause, missing.

Final Verdict: 4.5/5.0
Upon reflection and review, I find Lust for Life to be an almost perfect novel. It is well-written. It is, as far as I can tell, honest to history and the historical figures it represents. Stone does a masterful and delicate job of re-telling the life story of one of history’s greatest and most well-known artists. Though I would have appreciated more time having been spent on van Gogh’s mental decline, I did find the decline easy to follow and to witness. Some other elements, like van Gogh’s infamous alcoholism and “smoker’s cough” were left out (there was plenty of drinking – but a “problem” was not implied) which, perhaps, Stone did not find necessary, but I believe it detracts from some of the underlying problems (does a sober man really cut off his ear?). Still, though, the language, the relevance, the relationships, the characterization and emotion are all brilliant. Stone even makes an effort to present his characters in the manner which van Gogh would paint his own models and landscapes, an ingenious and, I’m sure, incredibly difficult task to accomplish. This has been one of the best pieces of biographical fiction I’ve ever read, and even one of the best novels I’ve enjoyed in my rather large reading history. I eagerly await the chance to read Stone’s “masterpiece,” The Agony and the Ecstasy which is another biographical novel, this one about Michelangelo.

Review: Dangerous Laughter by Steven Millhauser

Posted on March 7, 2010 by

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Summary:
Steven Millhauser’s Dangerous Laughter is a collection of 13 short stories, separated into 3 “categories” or “studies:” 1) Vanishing Acts 2) Impossible Architecture and 3) Heretical Histories.  The collection also begins with a short story called “Cat and Mouse,” which Millhauser classifies as his “Opening Cartoon.”  The whole effect of this sub-divided compilation with cartoony introduction is to make the collection come across similarly to a 1950s late-night Hitchcockian television series.  The first category, Vanishing Acts, contains four stories which attempt a discussion on unhappiness and loneliness, the result of these feelings being the slow disappearance of someone (the self).  The second category, Impossible Architecture, contains another four stories and, while the idea of smallness and invisibility still registers, the main theme here is this idea of creating amazing, masterful designs – impossible scientific feats – which, rather than satisfy the creators’ appetite, instead leave them feeling less satisfied than they were before they started.  There is a constant need for “more” and “better.”  The final category, Heretical Histories, contains four stories which take an alternative approach and view of the study of history – history in general, fashion/social culture history, art and cinema history, and scientific history.   
The Good:
What I like most about these stories is that they border on terror.  There is something strange and disturbing about each story, even though many seem to be simple stories about a different time or place, or a different sort of people.  There is a sense of “something wrong” in each of the stories.  For instance, in the cover-story, “Dangerous Laughter,” we see a group of teenagers who meet to have “laughing parties.”  A safe, even cute idea, at first, but one begins to wonder what these children lack, what are they missing that they must seek each other out and force themselves to laugh themselves almost into insanity?  These laughing parties turn into crying parties, which become the new vogue, and the shy girl who was forced to “come out” at a laughing party, and who became the reigning champion of the laughers, gets left behind.  It is the eerie touches to everyday life that I find most intriguing.  The girl in “The Room in the Attic” who may or may not be whom we are expected to believe she is – and, if she is not, what does that say about her entire family?  The pioneering families and communities in “The Dome” who, by seeking to make their lives just a bit easier, just a bit better, come to isolate themselves completely from one another, to exist in a world unknown and unidentifiable, where even the grandest schemes of nature become playthings.  And the poor villagers in “The Tower,” who become so disillusioned by their great adventure into the Heavens that they actually begin to seek the only opposing adventure, into the depths of Hell.  The idea behind each short story in this collection is truly inspired and wonderful.  I imagine someone like Hitchcock or Poe or even Dennis Cooper could push these stories into the stratosphere, but Millhauser holds back.  Millhauser explains just enough, describes just enough.  Is it enough? 
The Bad: 
While each of these stories is inspired, as I said above, I couldn’t help but to be left feeling slighted.  I imagine these visions in the head and hands of Edgar Allan Poe, for instance, and the horror I imagine, the true sense of terror – and not just the anticlimactic tease the reader is allowed here – is almost unimaginable.  I can’t determine whether Millhauser held back on purpose or not.  If he did, I could understand reasons for doing so.  Many of these stories are believable in many ways and the slight creepiness, the eerie but unidentifiable makes it all the more real because, in life, some things do just “weird us out.”  We find ourselves in situations that make us uncomfortable, with people who make our skin crawl, and there may not always be evidential reason for it, but the feeling remains.  This could be what is happening with Dangerous Laughter.  Still, I can’t shake the part of me which feels that, brilliant ideas are here, but the story-telling prowess is just lacking.  The brilliance with which this collection could shine is dimmed by the fact that, when it comes down to the language, the words, well, the beauty of the stories just aren’t translating.  I also think Millhauser left too many loose ends, where nothing gets explained.  Who is the girl in “The Room in the Attic?”  What happened to Earnshaw in “The Wizard of West Orange” to change his disposition so drastically?  How can one really just disappear, even with practice, as the main character eventually does in “History of a Disturbance?”  So much wonder, such brilliant places Millhauser doth go – but it’s almost as if he wipes out the path to and from, and we’re left standing a crossroads, with no street sign to indicate the way.  
The Final Verdict: 3.5 Out of 5.0
While I was underwhelmed by the majority of these stories, I was also intrigued by most.  The writing did not necessarily inspire or move me, but many of the themes and ideas did.  I found Millhauser to be echoing Poe and Hawthorne on many levels, though his mastery of story-telling and the written word are not quite in the same league.   There is an element of terror to these exploratory/fantastical stories that could have been greatly developed but which were ultimately underdeveloped and, therefore, left me feeling a bit detached and cold.  Still, a part of me can’t help wondering if this was intentional, as much as I want to stray from this inquiry (because I would be disappointed if it were the case).  Yet, Millhauser writes in “History of a Disturbance” these words: “Always I had the sense that words concealed something, that if only I could abolish them I would discover what was actually there.”  Perhaps this is Millhauser’s point, after all.  That the words don’t matter so much as the story does – the “what happened,” “how did it happen,” and the why did it happen?”  I would tend to agree, except that, in written form, stories and words tend to need one another equally, and Millhauser makes a habit of leaving out the “how” and the “why” altogether in Dangerous Laughter.

Review: A Season in Hell and The Drunken Boat by Arthur Rimbaud

Posted on February 17, 2010 by

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Summary:
A Season in Hell and The Drunken Boat is a collection of short prose poems, the title poem of which is perhaps one of the shortest (but most well-received).  “The Drunken Boat” is a longer (six pages) prose  poem, added to this collection for length, I’m assuming, and perhaps to afford the reader another view of Rimbaud the writer.  Though the poems are engaging and interesting – I admit, I tore through the fifty or so pages in just under 45 minutes – it is clear to tell why 1) Rimbaud wasn’t that well-respected in his day (though much of this really was personal, rather than professional, objective criticism) and 2) That Rimbaud’s writing was done at an early age, without time or chance to grow and develop. 
The Good:
Despite much incongruity or disconnection amongst the poems, there were still certain dominate themes present throughout the collection.  Sexuality, for instance, though rarely blatantly was touched upon.  The danger of engaging in homosexual relationships at the time, the agony of not wanting a sexual/familial partner of the opposite sex, so then being doomed to loneliness or unhappiness.  Gender roles and the marriage question – relationships built on dowries rather than love.  Christianity and religion, parenting, and – perhaps most obvious – the loss of romance to science.  Rimbaud’s pain at the scientific endeavors of man, the desire – the need – to have everything explained and re-explained until you are convinced a hundred times over of what is factual and not.  The loss of a type of innocence and humanity, though that innocence was resulted in Original Sin and the banishment of man from Eden.  Man’s descent into Hell, not because of sin, but because of this existence in mundane mediocrity – everyone feeling they know more than they do, think higher than they’re capable of thinking, express less than what they wish they were able to express.  Many times I was reminded of Dostoevsky’s own comments on mediocrity and mankind’s descent into a world of steam engines and science.  Also, I couldn’t help but draw on the Romantic elements and tensions present in Shelley or Stevenson.  These emotions, the fears and the disappointment, are certainly the best imagined moments of the poems, and the most enjoyable.  I was also particularly impressed with Rimbaud’s honesty – the struggles mentally, the disconnect he was feeling from the world around him, the phantoms haunting his memories and his imaginings.  These were the passages in which language and imagery were used most beautifully and effectively, though many of the poems were too brief or perhaps not quite focused enough to be consistent throughout.
The Bad:
Poetry has never been my forte, and I must admit this up front in order to do any justice to my critique of what I find to be the negative aspects of this collection.  While I found much of the language engaging, as previously mentioned, and the translation quite well done, I didn’t find much that was or will be particularly memorable.  “The Drunken Boat” was, for me, the more enjoyable of all the poems.  The best of the A Season in Hell collection was probably “Morning,” nearer to the end of the collection.  Aside from these two, though, I was not much enamored.  Rimbaud came across largely arrogant and often whiny.  His words and phrases were lofty, but he doesn’t seem to say much.  Again, I have to qualify this with a reiteration of the fact that, I just don’t “get” poetry most of the time; in this case, though, it feels different.  Great poetry – Shelley’s Mont Blanc, Keats’ Endymion or The Eve of St. Agnes, Wordsworth’s Tintern Abby, or Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner – they leave you with something.  Even if I couldn’t understand half the references, I understood the mood, the tone, the emotion.  The pitch, the fear, the anger.  In Whitman’s Song of Myself, I sense a universal connection of man, a unity and a sense of self in the “all.”  What makes poetry great for me, despite whether or not I truly like or enjoy it, or even understand much of it, is the permanent impression I’m left with at the end.  The power of the words and the language and the emotion.  The urgent sense I have to feel something, do something, understand something.  Rimbaud, while good and while enjoyable, left much to be desired, for me.  I was moved at times – but, ultimately, and in similarity to someone like, Poe, whose poetry was often interesting and even charming but never his strongest work (compared particularly to his Short Stories or Essays), Rimbaud too seems to have much to say and to express, but perhaps didn’t give himself enough time and confidence to do it right.  I imagine he could have made quite impression on me, as he was obviously talented, but he gave up too soon.
The Final Verdict: 3.0 out of 5.0
At first, I was going to give this collection a 2.5/5.0 but I decided that was unfair because, really, I did enjoy more than half the collection.  I respect what Rimbaud did do, and in such short time (and so young in life).  The things he did express, he expressed quite well.  I truly felt his frustration with the status quo and, simultaneously, his fear for the future of science and technology.  He demonstrated a disconnect and disdain, even, for his fellow man (and woman), yet also a painful realization that, all being in this boat together, we’re all equally doomed to a miserable (re: boring, pointless) fate.  Some of the language was quite beautiful, especially, I imagine, in the original French.  Ultimately, though, I’m not sure I walk away from the collection having learned or felt much.

Review: The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky

Posted on February 15, 2010 by

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Summary:
The Idiot is Dostoevsky’s attempt at writing down the essence of true beauty, in human form.  Prince Myshkin, the idiot himself, is meant to epitomize absolute goodness and fairness.  He is kind and generous, forgiving and intelligent.  He has money, yet does not covet it.  Still, he is naive.  He does not quite know how to have an opinion, nor how to assert it.  He mistakes pity and an intelligent decisiveness for love and loyalty.  He spites (though not intentionally) his true love, for the well-being of a lesser creature, a sad, fallen, lonely “coquette.”  The story takes us from Switzerland, to Russia, and back to Switzerland – spanning just a few months, but seeming to tell decades’ worth of story and to be packed with mountains of history, both Russian and human. 
The Good:
The translation, firstly, is excellent.  Dostoevsky’s beautiful prose comes across clearly and, though I always wish to be able to read primary texts in their original languages, I did not feel this time as if too much was lost.  The story itself is also quite good.  Overly ambitious, I think, and Dostoevsky himself acknowledged that his task was almost (if not absolutely) insurmountable.  How does one tell of true, complete, unblemished beauty?  Is it really possible?  I believe Dostoevsky may have gotten closer than any writer I’ve yet had the pleasure of reading.  Also, though there were a number of characters – possibly too many (as the 19th C. Russians were wont to include), still the characters seemed, for the most part, to be distinguishable from one another, even if their names often were not!  The ending has taken some time for me to digest.  I found it immensely exciting and pleasing, though rather incongruous to the rest of this novel.  For a novel which seemed more in the vain of the Romantic (capital R, my friends), it ended on rather a Gothic note.  I couldn’t help but wonder Jane Austen’s exasperation at such an absurd denouement, but still, I truly find myself satisfied – if not at all, really.  I think the reason I’ve embraced this dystopic unsatisfactory satisfaction is that, perhaps, that was the point.  To be happy – or at least to concede to – what is unacceptable.  Unexpected, unwanted, out of place.  Prince Myshkin was all of these things, and treated rather unjustly at times for being assumed so; still, he pressed on in goodness and friendship, never doubting that, ultimately, those around him would come to respect him.  That they do is not in question, is it worth it in the end?  Hard to say, given the conclusion.
The Bad:
Well, I would have to say, though I mentioned characterization as a plus above, I am also a bit disappointed by it.  I believe that the characters were, indeed, distinguishable from one another – which is excellent, considering how many players there were in this drama; however, I do not believe that enough time and attention was paid to those main players.  Indeed, the story was ultimately a love-triangle between Prince Myshkin, Aglaia, and Nastasya.  While enough time (perhaps) is spent on Myshkin and the development of his character, so that the reader can come to appreciate him and his purpose, not nearly enough time is spent with Aglaia or Nastasya.  It is hard to understand most of what they do, what they say, and how they act, because nothing is said, really, about where they come from, who they are, what they want.  It is an unfortunate lacking, I feel, on Dostoevsky’s part.  I believe he sacrificed some characterization in place of political and religious personifications – which came in the form of Ippolit and his hoodlums (the Nihilists and atheists).  Dostoevsky spent quite a bit of time mentioning the Nihilists, loathing the atheists and the devout Catholics (who are not Christian), yet it didn’t seem that Nihilism, atheism, religion, or politics of any sort ultimately played much part in the finale of the story.  Too much superficial ranting, I think, and not enough subtlety.  Finally, I found the story lagging at times.  Not much happened for pages and pages at a time – then, in the turn of a page, we’re reminded that all of the past 500 pages occurred in the course of just 5 weeks time.  That actually distracted me for a moment; I couldn’t believe that so much (and so little) had been said, done, and discussed in just over a month.  I’ve read lengthy novels which took place in a shorter period of time (a day, for instance) yet – they just didn’t seem to be as stagnant.
The Final Verdict: 4.0 out of 5.0
Weighing the pros and cons, I find myself in favor of The Idiot.  I think Dostoevsky’s intent was noble, and fairly well affected.  Prince Myshkin truly is a beautiful character, though it would be heartbreaking (and irritating) to know such an innocent, un-jaded man.  This was well addressed, though, in the attitude and actions of the people around him.  So many were annoyed to the point of wanting to do Myshkin harm, yet no one could.  Even cross words said to him, or jokes made at his expense, were soon looked on with regret.  This shows the good, and the bad, in human nature.  Dostoevsky could have, I think, spent more time on the story – and characterized his themes a bit better – but, in the end, I was moved and intrigued.  Even a bit inspired. 

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