I will try not to read any Cliffs or Spark notes or reviews of any of the books I read before I start them. I reserve the right to change and add comments after posting the first time. So far, I have here: Wuthering Heights, The Metamorphosis, The Sound and the Fury, and The Stranger.
August 31, 2017: Done with school and did have a class at the end of the first year in which the professor included a week on how to write book reviews. These "binge raps" are not book reviews. The ones posted here under "The Condor" were written before I attended school for the MFA.
While in school, I read mostly what they told me to read. So, I placed an assignment here that I wrote in accordance to a class. This is a fiction experiment called "The Condor" in the style of a Kafka parable. (It was that week's assignment after the assigned reading of "The Shorter Stories" by Kafka.):
"The Condor," by Ann Marie Falcone [geez Louise, revised July 29, 2017 & Nov. 19, 2020. I'd screwed up the verb tenses a lot, and it needed polish. School was tiring but helped.]
A man awakens in the middle of the night and cannot see in the pitch black. He feels a weight on his chest.
A condor speaks. “If you can answer three questions for me, I will let you live.”
The man is not aware the weight upon him is a bird of prey. He asks, “Who are you?”
The condor flaps his wings.
The man feels the air blow into his face. “Are you a bird?”
The condor pushes a talon into the man’s flesh and rips an earlobe from the man’s head.
The man screams in pain and says, "I'll listen."
The condor asks, “How many toes do I have?”
The man thinks. He says, “If you are a bird, you don’t have any toes, exactly."
The condor asks, "Then, is 'none' your answer?"
The man says, "I can’t feel any of mine, and I believe you ate them."
"Then, is 'ten' your answer?"
The man feels dizzy and thinks, 'Talons are toenails?' He concentrates on his chest and the talons he feels against it. "You have my ten toes in your stomach plus six of your own.”
The condor screeches and sinks another talon into the man’s chest. “You guessed the first answer, but I am hungry.” The condor bites off the other earlobe.
The man wriggles and shakes.
“Well then, how many fingers do I have?” asks the condor.
The man wiggles his fingers. He can't feel them all. He says, “You have wings and have eaten one of my fingers. You have one finger in your stomach.”
The condor ruffles his feathers and is disgruntled with how the man figured out his answers. But he keeps his word and asks the third question. “How many eyeballs do I have?”
The man again thinks this through: If the man-eating bird has two eyeballs, and I cannot see, then, the bird may have eaten my eyeballs and has four. If the bird does not have both eyeballs left, for possibly fighting with another animal left him without one or both, then my answer will be wrong, and I will definitely die. “And what if I do not answer?”
The condor tightens his grip on the man's chest.
Blood oozes from many parts of the man's body. He knows he has to answer. “You have three eyeballs: your two and one of mine. The other bird whose breath I can feel on my forehead has eaten my other one.”
The condor rises off the man and says, “I’m keeping my word and am leaving you."
"The Condor," by Ann Marie Falcone [geez Louise, revised July 29, 2017 & Nov. 19, 2020. I'd screwed up the verb tenses a lot, and it needed polish. School was tiring but helped.]
A man awakens in the middle of the night and cannot see in the pitch black. He feels a weight on his chest.
A condor speaks. “If you can answer three questions for me, I will let you live.”
The man is not aware the weight upon him is a bird of prey. He asks, “Who are you?”
The condor flaps his wings.
The man feels the air blow into his face. “Are you a bird?”
The condor pushes a talon into the man’s flesh and rips an earlobe from the man’s head.
The man screams in pain and says, "I'll listen."
The condor asks, “How many toes do I have?”
The man thinks. He says, “If you are a bird, you don’t have any toes, exactly."
The condor asks, "Then, is 'none' your answer?"
The man says, "I can’t feel any of mine, and I believe you ate them."
"Then, is 'ten' your answer?"
The man feels dizzy and thinks, 'Talons are toenails?' He concentrates on his chest and the talons he feels against it. "You have my ten toes in your stomach plus six of your own.”
The condor screeches and sinks another talon into the man’s chest. “You guessed the first answer, but I am hungry.” The condor bites off the other earlobe.
The man wriggles and shakes.
“Well then, how many fingers do I have?” asks the condor.
The man wiggles his fingers. He can't feel them all. He says, “You have wings and have eaten one of my fingers. You have one finger in your stomach.”
The condor ruffles his feathers and is disgruntled with how the man figured out his answers. But he keeps his word and asks the third question. “How many eyeballs do I have?”
The man again thinks this through: If the man-eating bird has two eyeballs, and I cannot see, then, the bird may have eaten my eyeballs and has four. If the bird does not have both eyeballs left, for possibly fighting with another animal left him without one or both, then my answer will be wrong, and I will definitely die. “And what if I do not answer?”
The condor tightens his grip on the man's chest.
Blood oozes from many parts of the man's body. He knows he has to answer. “You have three eyeballs: your two and one of mine. The other bird whose breath I can feel on my forehead has eaten my other one.”
The condor rises off the man and says, “I’m keeping my word and am leaving you."
Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë
June 9, 2015, before attending school for the M.F.A.------ SPOILERS AHEAD
Catherine Earnshaw’s voice is loud. As she is the end all be all of all humans, it suits the book, perfectly. Over all, as I said in the previous post, I wanted to slap every character. Wuthering Heights was always so dreary and unhappy, and that is definitely what the author wanted, and she achieved it. I give her credit for that, then. This book like some of the others in my list transformed me into the characters, but my irritable side is easily awakened, and I’d rather read The Notebook first before ever reading Wuthering Heights, again. I’ve only seen the movie of The Notebook and always need a box of tissues nearby for that. The initial miserableness of all the characters is Heathcliff’s fault. Why run off for years and then come back? How about run off for a day and then talk to Catherine about what he heard? Either stay or go and don’t come back. If he had stayed, it might have been Blooming Heights, but not every fiction book needs brightness, as real life needs at least a glimmer. [Yet, my sister felt I had to read Why Men Love Bitches in 2012, but since, I don’t remember a thing about why men love bitches. My neural pathways were hammered into submissive sweetness very early on; I’ll have to read that book, again. Thankfully, I have awakened out of my aloofness a little bit over the years.]
With my own grumpiness achieved while reading Wuthering Heights, a twang of pity was evoked, almost like the pity I had for the fellow in Lolita. In college, a friend of mine was repulsed that I had raised my hand in literature class and had admitted this in front of everyone. She thought I was disgusting. I wonder if she ever did find some sort of love and have it be returned? If the love was not reciprocated or death had taken it away, I wonder if she sits in a garden and pricks herself with thorny roses.
In any case, Emily Brontë brought these homes and characters to life, and if I didn’t have any reaction to the book, then, I would hate it. I’m bringing up the word narcissism, again, in a rap, but Heathcliff is kind of like a covert narcissist. These people have been only recently discovered in the psychiatric world. They need to be in literature to show how people can deal with them. It doesn’t matter if I felt grumpy while reading [Grumpy Land]. She achieved describing a world with ugly characters and people who want love but don’t know how to love. The so-called love story between Heathcliff and Catherine is frightful. I suppose people could learn from this book that healthy love should be so much better than what they had. Maybe Heathcliff deserved to live the way he did, without her; maybe he was a glutton for punishment. He ran away, was passive-aggressive, making his own life and young Catherine’s and Hareton’s lives difficult with his aggressiveness, and his non-relationship with Catherine a ghost story, really. I mean the passion IS laudable. However, they may or may not be roaming together, believing that their love as ghosts is more important than getting to heaven or a next life. They may think they are more important than love, itself, or maybe not.
I still want to slap them all; however, I am hopeful that Hareton and young Catherine will make theirs a more beautiful story as Hareton is helped through his past influences.
Some people find that vinegar is very tasty, and in small doses, it can be good for you.
BRAVO - BRAVO - BRAVO
May 26, 2015:
Trying to get done with Wuthering Heights. Always a possibility of a spoiler! It is my best friend's favorite book. She plopped it in my hands with another book a while back; I had to put it in the list to read. I had read it or most of it in high school, but I only remembered some of the grumpiness of the characters. This time around, I want to slap all of them including Nelly, 'Ohhhh, she won't go far. She won't dare jump the bushes. . . . oh crap, she jumped the bushes! . . . . Nooooo, she won't wander past the Grange. . . oh Hell, she fell outside of the Grange! Of course, there is Mr. Heathcliff, right there, waiting to take her to grumpy land.' Sometimes, I want to throw the book out the window, but I'm afraid an icy hand might throw it back at me. I have lived in the Heights for something like sixteen years, and it has been difficult at times to not feel like I am withering in them. (Yes, I know that wuthering is not withering, just was reminded of withering is all.) TMI, yeah, well, reading this book is easily bringing out my grouchy, it's freezing, it's scorching, the whole town is snoring partially influenced personality. [Influenced, yes, how about that Hareton? Damn dar-n habits. I've read The Art of Happiness TWICE, and that might be the one I go to next or a book about requited hugs.] And this town does not snore, artistically, but I am obscure; my sister told me many years ago to stop acting like Emily Dickinson. Well, she's fond of crowded parties on New Year's, and I only want to visit Rabbit. Oddly, Emily's middle name is my sister's name, and if I could have half of Emily Dickinson's talent or some of Emily Brontë's, I'd shave my hair and parade about with my words written on my scalp and my music singing through the air waiting for rats to follow it to happiness, with great revelations of peace and love, and a chocolate factory where nobody drowns or gets fat. Thankfully, I'm almost done with grumpy land, and I've already written a more objective paragraph that I will post soon, unless I feel like the rap wants to be left sour. [Was gonna say vinegarish, but ya know, I found that one in the Thesaurus. Oh, and I wrote this on two hours of sleep. I'll blame the vinegar on that.]
June 9, 2015, before attending school for the M.F.A.------ SPOILERS AHEAD
Catherine Earnshaw’s voice is loud. As she is the end all be all of all humans, it suits the book, perfectly. Over all, as I said in the previous post, I wanted to slap every character. Wuthering Heights was always so dreary and unhappy, and that is definitely what the author wanted, and she achieved it. I give her credit for that, then. This book like some of the others in my list transformed me into the characters, but my irritable side is easily awakened, and I’d rather read The Notebook first before ever reading Wuthering Heights, again. I’ve only seen the movie of The Notebook and always need a box of tissues nearby for that. The initial miserableness of all the characters is Heathcliff’s fault. Why run off for years and then come back? How about run off for a day and then talk to Catherine about what he heard? Either stay or go and don’t come back. If he had stayed, it might have been Blooming Heights, but not every fiction book needs brightness, as real life needs at least a glimmer. [Yet, my sister felt I had to read Why Men Love Bitches in 2012, but since, I don’t remember a thing about why men love bitches. My neural pathways were hammered into submissive sweetness very early on; I’ll have to read that book, again. Thankfully, I have awakened out of my aloofness a little bit over the years.]
With my own grumpiness achieved while reading Wuthering Heights, a twang of pity was evoked, almost like the pity I had for the fellow in Lolita. In college, a friend of mine was repulsed that I had raised my hand in literature class and had admitted this in front of everyone. She thought I was disgusting. I wonder if she ever did find some sort of love and have it be returned? If the love was not reciprocated or death had taken it away, I wonder if she sits in a garden and pricks herself with thorny roses.
In any case, Emily Brontë brought these homes and characters to life, and if I didn’t have any reaction to the book, then, I would hate it. I’m bringing up the word narcissism, again, in a rap, but Heathcliff is kind of like a covert narcissist. These people have been only recently discovered in the psychiatric world. They need to be in literature to show how people can deal with them. It doesn’t matter if I felt grumpy while reading [Grumpy Land]. She achieved describing a world with ugly characters and people who want love but don’t know how to love. The so-called love story between Heathcliff and Catherine is frightful. I suppose people could learn from this book that healthy love should be so much better than what they had. Maybe Heathcliff deserved to live the way he did, without her; maybe he was a glutton for punishment. He ran away, was passive-aggressive, making his own life and young Catherine’s and Hareton’s lives difficult with his aggressiveness, and his non-relationship with Catherine a ghost story, really. I mean the passion IS laudable. However, they may or may not be roaming together, believing that their love as ghosts is more important than getting to heaven or a next life. They may think they are more important than love, itself, or maybe not.
I still want to slap them all; however, I am hopeful that Hareton and young Catherine will make theirs a more beautiful story as Hareton is helped through his past influences.
Some people find that vinegar is very tasty, and in small doses, it can be good for you.
BRAVO - BRAVO - BRAVO
May 26, 2015:
Trying to get done with Wuthering Heights. Always a possibility of a spoiler! It is my best friend's favorite book. She plopped it in my hands with another book a while back; I had to put it in the list to read. I had read it or most of it in high school, but I only remembered some of the grumpiness of the characters. This time around, I want to slap all of them including Nelly, 'Ohhhh, she won't go far. She won't dare jump the bushes. . . . oh crap, she jumped the bushes! . . . . Nooooo, she won't wander past the Grange. . . oh Hell, she fell outside of the Grange! Of course, there is Mr. Heathcliff, right there, waiting to take her to grumpy land.' Sometimes, I want to throw the book out the window, but I'm afraid an icy hand might throw it back at me. I have lived in the Heights for something like sixteen years, and it has been difficult at times to not feel like I am withering in them. (Yes, I know that wuthering is not withering, just was reminded of withering is all.) TMI, yeah, well, reading this book is easily bringing out my grouchy, it's freezing, it's scorching, the whole town is snoring partially influenced personality. [Influenced, yes, how about that Hareton? Damn dar-n habits. I've read The Art of Happiness TWICE, and that might be the one I go to next or a book about requited hugs.] And this town does not snore, artistically, but I am obscure; my sister told me many years ago to stop acting like Emily Dickinson. Well, she's fond of crowded parties on New Year's, and I only want to visit Rabbit. Oddly, Emily's middle name is my sister's name, and if I could have half of Emily Dickinson's talent or some of Emily Brontë's, I'd shave my hair and parade about with my words written on my scalp and my music singing through the air waiting for rats to follow it to happiness, with great revelations of peace and love, and a chocolate factory where nobody drowns or gets fat. Thankfully, I'm almost done with grumpy land, and I've already written a more objective paragraph that I will post soon, unless I feel like the rap wants to be left sour. [Was gonna say vinegarish, but ya know, I found that one in the Thesaurus. Oh, and I wrote this on two hours of sleep. I'll blame the vinegar on that.]
"The Metamorphosis," Franz Kafka
April 14, 2015
Silly adolescent tears rolled down my face. This is why I have quickly, within thirty minutes at 2 am, written my own ending for The Metamorphosis. Here it is for my own relief, hopefully not offending anyone:
"The Metamorphosis"—An Alternate Ending [AMF]
p. 63 . . . “Well,” the cleaning woman answered, for good-natured laughter could not immediately go on, [“Might you come again to the room and have a look?” Mr. Samsa could not contain himself as his patience had been caught in the beards of the men that had just left. Was this cleaning woman pretending to be the remnants of Gregor’s annoyances without the common courtesy of backing away? Her smile lingered well past Grete’s minutes of searching for her violin. “Well then, what will it take for all ye to drag your duffs to the room?” Mr. Samsa rolled up his newspaper and told her to leave, but she stood still with her teeth still showing.
Grete despairingly picked up her bow and turned to her mother, but just then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw her violin. Mrs. Samsa jumped to her feet and ran toward it apologizing that she had dropped it to the floor the night before. She knelt down as tears dripped from her eyes, noticing there was a crack in the backside that had split open when it had hit the floor. Then, she saw a pair of eyes peeking through the crack. Because his mother sat down upon the rug next to him, Gregor forced his head up through the violin's fissure. “Make him some food,” she cried. “He’s found a new shell.”
Mr. Samsa’s eyes were red from crying as he lifted his fists and shook them to the air. He then gave his wife a look of deadly wrath, but his lips began to quiver, “We will feed him well, then.” Grete shouted that she must have her violin back but as she ran toward Gregor, her mother blocked her from him. Grete fell to her knees, ashamed. “Is he a turtle, then?” The cleaning lady shook her head and dismissed herself through the front door. “I’ll be back in the morning, though none of you know your own son.”
Grete extended her hand toward Gregor’s head and gave it a little pat. “We thought you were dead,” she said. Gregor rolled his eyes at her, pushed himself up with the last strength he had in his little legs and unfortunately relieved himself upon the rug. His legs were shaking, and his mother gently picked him up by the sides of the violin. “I will sew you a comfortable neck brace of terry cloth so that the jutting wood does not leave you a cut.”
It happened that Mrs. Samsa had just invented the first pet scarf, and her business did very well to help the family buy a new violin and a new home, one with a room big enough for Gregor to crawl around as much as he wanted.] THE END
BRAVO - BRAVO - BRAVOH, poor Gregor
April 14, 2015
Silly adolescent tears rolled down my face. This is why I have quickly, within thirty minutes at 2 am, written my own ending for The Metamorphosis. Here it is for my own relief, hopefully not offending anyone:
"The Metamorphosis"—An Alternate Ending [AMF]
p. 63 . . . “Well,” the cleaning woman answered, for good-natured laughter could not immediately go on, [“Might you come again to the room and have a look?” Mr. Samsa could not contain himself as his patience had been caught in the beards of the men that had just left. Was this cleaning woman pretending to be the remnants of Gregor’s annoyances without the common courtesy of backing away? Her smile lingered well past Grete’s minutes of searching for her violin. “Well then, what will it take for all ye to drag your duffs to the room?” Mr. Samsa rolled up his newspaper and told her to leave, but she stood still with her teeth still showing.
Grete despairingly picked up her bow and turned to her mother, but just then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw her violin. Mrs. Samsa jumped to her feet and ran toward it apologizing that she had dropped it to the floor the night before. She knelt down as tears dripped from her eyes, noticing there was a crack in the backside that had split open when it had hit the floor. Then, she saw a pair of eyes peeking through the crack. Because his mother sat down upon the rug next to him, Gregor forced his head up through the violin's fissure. “Make him some food,” she cried. “He’s found a new shell.”
Mr. Samsa’s eyes were red from crying as he lifted his fists and shook them to the air. He then gave his wife a look of deadly wrath, but his lips began to quiver, “We will feed him well, then.” Grete shouted that she must have her violin back but as she ran toward Gregor, her mother blocked her from him. Grete fell to her knees, ashamed. “Is he a turtle, then?” The cleaning lady shook her head and dismissed herself through the front door. “I’ll be back in the morning, though none of you know your own son.”
Grete extended her hand toward Gregor’s head and gave it a little pat. “We thought you were dead,” she said. Gregor rolled his eyes at her, pushed himself up with the last strength he had in his little legs and unfortunately relieved himself upon the rug. His legs were shaking, and his mother gently picked him up by the sides of the violin. “I will sew you a comfortable neck brace of terry cloth so that the jutting wood does not leave you a cut.”
It happened that Mrs. Samsa had just invented the first pet scarf, and her business did very well to help the family buy a new violin and a new home, one with a room big enough for Gregor to crawl around as much as he wanted.] THE END
BRAVO - BRAVO - BRAVOH, poor Gregor
The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner
April 5, 2015 [Easter Sunday to some people; I love coincidences.]
These characters process like living humans.
Faulkner in this book defies many of the rules I’ve read about how one is supposed to write fiction. There is plenty of dialogue from the get go, and each section is from a different character’s point of view. It was published in 1929, but today, it seems as though books with chapters from different points of view are still rare and frowned upon. Yet, I also recently read The Story of Beautiful Girl, and the sections are coincidentally from different characters’ POV’s, too. Mr. Faulkner, whoa man; I thought I must have an intellectual disability while reading the first part and even into the second part. I had decided not to read any Cliffs or Spark notes or reviews of the book before I read it, and while I was reading The Sound and the Fury, I felt sure that if Faulkner is a genius, I am a dunce. Then, I berated myself for thinking that about myself when I realized, after at least fifty pages, that to berate anyone's intelligences is mean.
As soon as I thought I had a handle on the style and felt I was conquering what seemed like an entangled puzzle of words, I began the second section and felt lost, again. If the book starts in 1928 and then the second section is in 1910, but Quentin seems older in the second section than Quentin did in 1928, what is going on here? I called my best friend and told her it was the most confusing book I have ever read. Then, I thought, I should go back and reread all of section one, (but somebody was waiting for this book through the library online system, and I didn’t want to make them wait any longer.) AND in the first section, I didn’t know if Quentin was a boy or a girl. I was thinking that maybe this is what the story is ultimately about, Quentin is a girl wanting to turn boy. Then, I decided Quentin was a boy later in the second section for sure and actually thought the editors and Faulkner himself had missed a mistake at the end of the first section. It was a challenge, but I caught on, finally.
Unfortunately, then I caved and looked up short descriptions of three characters. Then, I berated myself, again, because the descriptions told a little too much, and I wanted to figure things out FROM THE BOOK.
Here it is, the third section that has made me think of this book as genius for the development of humanity. Literally, for three sentences on p. 225 down near the bottom, I felt sympathy for the character from whose POV this section is. I couldn’t believe it, but he does something at a job that I have done for my job. Onward I am reading, and I’m being lead along to think a character is going to do one thing, as thankfully, my heart has decided on its own course, and then the character does a different thing, a pain shoots through my chest; I nearly have a heart attack, yell out loud, and feel like I have licked the remnants of the inside of an urn. Then, lucidity ensued.
I learned through this book that I become one with the characters as I am reading, as I hope that anybody else who reads this book will, also. Then, the reader will surely have a heart wrenching moment with which to contemplate upon. At first, I thought that this was not a book to read in the spring. I started it in the winter and finished it the day before Easter. That was an interesting experience in and of itself.
William Faulkner has taught me a different way of thinking about how to write a novel; it's an impressive impact into the history of humanity. Why is it taking humans so long to change? When will narcissism be denied and reformed? How humans perceive material in books can equate to what types of people we truly are and can become.
Dilsey for President!
BRAVO - BRAVO - BRAVO - BRAVO
3-20-2015 Next up, The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner
I'm only halfway through it, and I sat and wrote about the first half, but I won't post until I am done reading all of it. I went to a top 100 fiction book list, and this was in the top ten. So, I picked it. Holy headache, why did I pick this one right now? Someone is waiting for it, says the library online system. Well, ya better put your feet up, because it seems I'm no reading genius. Faulkner is kicking my BLEEEEP, but my brain is slowly figuring it out. It's like a puzzle, and I didn't want to read any review or CliffNotes. I wanted to make my brain work. However, I CAVED IN, and found only a short description of a FEW of the characters. After I read the description of three, I got mad at myself, deleted the page, and went back to work.
April 5, 2015 [Easter Sunday to some people; I love coincidences.]
These characters process like living humans.
Faulkner in this book defies many of the rules I’ve read about how one is supposed to write fiction. There is plenty of dialogue from the get go, and each section is from a different character’s point of view. It was published in 1929, but today, it seems as though books with chapters from different points of view are still rare and frowned upon. Yet, I also recently read The Story of Beautiful Girl, and the sections are coincidentally from different characters’ POV’s, too. Mr. Faulkner, whoa man; I thought I must have an intellectual disability while reading the first part and even into the second part. I had decided not to read any Cliffs or Spark notes or reviews of the book before I read it, and while I was reading The Sound and the Fury, I felt sure that if Faulkner is a genius, I am a dunce. Then, I berated myself for thinking that about myself when I realized, after at least fifty pages, that to berate anyone's intelligences is mean.
As soon as I thought I had a handle on the style and felt I was conquering what seemed like an entangled puzzle of words, I began the second section and felt lost, again. If the book starts in 1928 and then the second section is in 1910, but Quentin seems older in the second section than Quentin did in 1928, what is going on here? I called my best friend and told her it was the most confusing book I have ever read. Then, I thought, I should go back and reread all of section one, (but somebody was waiting for this book through the library online system, and I didn’t want to make them wait any longer.) AND in the first section, I didn’t know if Quentin was a boy or a girl. I was thinking that maybe this is what the story is ultimately about, Quentin is a girl wanting to turn boy. Then, I decided Quentin was a boy later in the second section for sure and actually thought the editors and Faulkner himself had missed a mistake at the end of the first section. It was a challenge, but I caught on, finally.
Unfortunately, then I caved and looked up short descriptions of three characters. Then, I berated myself, again, because the descriptions told a little too much, and I wanted to figure things out FROM THE BOOK.
Here it is, the third section that has made me think of this book as genius for the development of humanity. Literally, for three sentences on p. 225 down near the bottom, I felt sympathy for the character from whose POV this section is. I couldn’t believe it, but he does something at a job that I have done for my job. Onward I am reading, and I’m being lead along to think a character is going to do one thing, as thankfully, my heart has decided on its own course, and then the character does a different thing, a pain shoots through my chest; I nearly have a heart attack, yell out loud, and feel like I have licked the remnants of the inside of an urn. Then, lucidity ensued.
I learned through this book that I become one with the characters as I am reading, as I hope that anybody else who reads this book will, also. Then, the reader will surely have a heart wrenching moment with which to contemplate upon. At first, I thought that this was not a book to read in the spring. I started it in the winter and finished it the day before Easter. That was an interesting experience in and of itself.
William Faulkner has taught me a different way of thinking about how to write a novel; it's an impressive impact into the history of humanity. Why is it taking humans so long to change? When will narcissism be denied and reformed? How humans perceive material in books can equate to what types of people we truly are and can become.
Dilsey for President!
BRAVO - BRAVO - BRAVO - BRAVO
3-20-2015 Next up, The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner
I'm only halfway through it, and I sat and wrote about the first half, but I won't post until I am done reading all of it. I went to a top 100 fiction book list, and this was in the top ten. So, I picked it. Holy headache, why did I pick this one right now? Someone is waiting for it, says the library online system. Well, ya better put your feet up, because it seems I'm no reading genius. Faulkner is kicking my BLEEEEP, but my brain is slowly figuring it out. It's like a puzzle, and I didn't want to read any review or CliffNotes. I wanted to make my brain work. However, I CAVED IN, and found only a short description of a FEW of the characters. After I read the description of three, I got mad at myself, deleted the page, and went back to work.
The Stranger, Albert Camus [additional comment 3-20-2015]
I read the Matthew Ward translation. For a brief period in the book, I felt as though I was reading something a grade school child had written. The sentences were simple, and because I had read “The Translator’s Note” in the beginning, I thought Matthew Ward had dumbed down the French for us Americans. “Camus acknowledged employing an ‘American method’ in writing The Stranger, in the first half of the book in particular: the short, precise sentences . . ..” I studied four years of French many years ago, and one day, I might try to tackle some of this in the French. As I progressed through the book, the simple sentences didn’t detract from the complexity of the main character, Meursault; although, the settings could have benefited from more description. However, the character of Meursault brings the meaning to this book, not what the reader imagines as the setting around him.
POSSIBLE SPOILER AHEAD
Meursault pissed me off when he went along with his friend the first time, when he supported him in his abusiveness. I hated Meursault from that moment on. I didn’t much care that he smoked or drank coffee at his mother’s funeral, but I’m living in a different time and country. Even so, I wanted Marie and Meursault to marry. He seemed like a gentle enough person, although partially a dimwit.
That’s why in the end I didn’t want him fried, and that was confusing, because I wanted somebody to shake him when he supported his friend who had treated another human with abuse.
It’s a book that does bring awareness about the death penalty to the human reading it. The reaction of every reader to this book from the community in which the reader lives could be a measurement of the amount of compassion there is within that community.
The Outsider is a much better title for this book. (Somebody else translated it that way.)
BRAVO - BRAVO
I read the Matthew Ward translation. For a brief period in the book, I felt as though I was reading something a grade school child had written. The sentences were simple, and because I had read “The Translator’s Note” in the beginning, I thought Matthew Ward had dumbed down the French for us Americans. “Camus acknowledged employing an ‘American method’ in writing The Stranger, in the first half of the book in particular: the short, precise sentences . . ..” I studied four years of French many years ago, and one day, I might try to tackle some of this in the French. As I progressed through the book, the simple sentences didn’t detract from the complexity of the main character, Meursault; although, the settings could have benefited from more description. However, the character of Meursault brings the meaning to this book, not what the reader imagines as the setting around him.
POSSIBLE SPOILER AHEAD
Meursault pissed me off when he went along with his friend the first time, when he supported him in his abusiveness. I hated Meursault from that moment on. I didn’t much care that he smoked or drank coffee at his mother’s funeral, but I’m living in a different time and country. Even so, I wanted Marie and Meursault to marry. He seemed like a gentle enough person, although partially a dimwit.
That’s why in the end I didn’t want him fried, and that was confusing, because I wanted somebody to shake him when he supported his friend who had treated another human with abuse.
It’s a book that does bring awareness about the death penalty to the human reading it. The reaction of every reader to this book from the community in which the reader lives could be a measurement of the amount of compassion there is within that community.
The Outsider is a much better title for this book. (Somebody else translated it that way.)
BRAVO - BRAVO