Light in August by William Faulkner

I took what was supposed to be a brief break from my strict regimen of short stories to read this. However, this sucker (along with the weird hours I work) bogged me down for something like a month, maybe it was more.
Faulkner was a genius. No passable argument I can imagine could persuade me otherwise. However, this book (which is consistently ranked among his best) did not really do it for me. It was too long for one thing, and a lot of the metaphysical passages were just kind of banal and self-indulgent.
Don't get me wrong. There are some really great, really astonishing parts to this book. But overall, it's just weighty and slow. I felt buried by it. The Sound and the Fury is a far superior work (and I hear its greatness is multiplied a hundredfold when followed by Absalom! Absalom!), and As I Lay Dying is one of the best novels I've ever read.
In these latter two, the metaphysics are even more present than they are in the book in question. The difference is that the musings in As I Lay Dying and The Sound and the Fury ring true and knock you out, instead of just piling it on.
I think that some of this may be due simply to structure and point of view. The Sound and the Fury is broken up into four parts, all in first person, and As I Lay Dying is made up of several chapters, once again all in first person and from the point of view of characters, but this time shifting around between all the major characters and some of the minor ones. Light in August is in a weird cousin of third-person omniscient: the narrative voice simply cannot make up its mind whether or not it is inside the heads of the characters. It tells you exactly what they ARE thinking sometimes, other times what they MAY be thinking, and still other times what they are APPARENTLY thinking. I think that something like this could conceivably work if there were a purpose to it, but the narrator's level of character access changes so much and so suddenly that it feels completely indiscriminate, like a movie made up entirely of jump cuts, aerial shots, and close-ups: interesting for a while, then completely insufferable.
This odd narrator talks a lot about the difference between knowledge and memory. Some of this is very cool, and may justify some of the narrative jumble. But after a while the knowledge and memory passages get a bit dreary, and the novel's structure goes down with the ship.

All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy

Remember when I said that Roth was the best living American author? McCarthy knows I shouldn’t have said that. The proof is in this book. Right on page 59. “I dont see how you can say somebody is just flat out the best.” The man must be watching me. And that scares the crap out of me knowing all the sheer terror he arouses in me just reading his words. He creates a lot of black-souled characters (e.g. Chigurh from No Country; The Judge from Blood Meridian) who really curdle your blood or else good people who experience truly horrifying things (The Road), which curdles your blood as well. He’s good at that. He’s also good at other things: winning awards, being reclusive, slouching during an interview (suck on that body language, OPRAH), and not graduating from the University of Tennessee.

But this book, let’s talk about this book. Teenage cowhands, John Grady Cole and Lacy Rawlins decide to venture out on their own and cross the border into Mexico to find work at a hacienda. John Grady starts fancying the owner’s daughter, and although I haven’t seen the movie, I think the movie really romanticizes this relationship, but in the book, it’s not the biggest part of the plot but rather just one aspect. John Grady and Rawlins eventually have to part ways and it is, in a word, heartbreaking. John Grady then finds himself in a Mexican prison and this is where classic McCarthy shows himself and we see the horrible measures John Grady has to take to exonerate himself by force.

One of the many things I liked so much about The Road was the deep and caring filial affection the man showed for the boy. Given the circumstances, I think it was a father-son relationship at its best with the man showing a hardy resolve and not expecting his son to be any older than he was. Without being cloying, McCarthy makes John Grady and Rawlins’ friendship much of the same and it is fun to see them tackle difficult situations, especially as young men, together.

The writing is also incredible. It’s so minimalist and again reminded me of Carver of the west, although McCarthy does take more liberties with his talent and will occasionally type up long descriptive sentences that are usually breathtaking. I highly recommend this book to anybody and I stress anybody because I can’t picture anybody not liking it. It’s amazing and the best part is that it’s the first book of the Border Trilogy so there’s plenty more gold to mine.

No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy

Somewhere out there is a true and living prophet of destruction and I dont want to confront him. I know he’s real. I have seen his work. I walked in front of those eyes once. I wont do it again. I wont push my chips forward and stand up and go out to meet him.

You might recognize some of the quote above from the beginning of the awesome movie for this book. Tommy Lee Jones narrates a shortened and slightly modified version of the start of the book at the start of the movie. Interspersed throughout the book are other ruminations like this one by one of the three main characters, Bell, the sheriff, who realizes more and more that times are changing and the bad guys are getting badder. That’s the clear theme that gets acknowledged much more in the book than the movie. Both of these works are beautiful pieces in their own fields, but I think seeing the movie first really handicaps the book. Going through each of the scenes in the book, I already had images in my mind from the movie, and I think this precludes one from fully enjoying a book. Conceiving your own images from reading a book is a lot of the fun.

But this book is still really good in its own right. It’s notorious for being a quick read but I found that I had to slow down my pace because McCarthy could be real vague at times and lose you if you weren’t careful. But this minimalist style is what makes him so great. He reminds me a lot of Carver in this book, and I’m not sure if that comparison has been made a lot by literary critics or not at all but this kept recurring to me. I do know, though, thanks to Jon, that McCarthy is considered the successor to Faulkner, but I can’t speak to that because I’ve yet to read him. I really like how McCarthy will make his characters have some pretty deep conversations but using simple, colloquial language that’s true to their personalities. These discussions can range from the nature of life to how God works to what a girl really wants. And they’re so good.

The movie was a faithful adaptation save for one character being condensed in her role. Chigurh comes across as much darker and more ruthless in the book. Also, all of the funny parts in the movie came from the genius of McCarthy, who apparently has a good sense of humor. A lot of the dialogue in the movie comes verbatim from the book. Cormac’s the man.

The Plot Against America by Philip Roth

And I couldn’t just go and sign one out from the playground back of the school unless we were going to use it right there, so what I did—I who’d not stolen anything so far other than some change from my parents’ pockets—what I did without a moment’s hesitation was to stroll down Kerr avenue to where there were one-family houses with front and back lawns and case every driveway until I saw what I was after—a football to steal, a real leather Wilson football, scuffed from the pavement, with worn leather lacing and a bladder you inflated, that some kid with money had left unattended. I tucked it under my arm and tuck off, tearing all the way up the hill to Summit Avenue as if I were returning a kickoff for old Notre Dame.

Mmm… Philip Roth. I love Philip Roth. Just looking at that cover image makes me froth with joy. The Plot Against America. How corny is that? If somebody told me they were reading a book called this, I’d think, Oh you read those types of books. But then below the title is the bold, almost protruding, ROTH—a freaking monosyllabic force—and then you know this book is about to punch you in the stomach. If you’ve read the novel you’ll know that that actually doesn’t make any sense and I don’t know where all this worthless rambling is coming from but “I already typed it so it’s staying.”

In the book, Charles Lindbergh, aviation hero, is elected President in 1940 instead of FDR. Lindbergh ran on a “keep America out of the European war” platform, and, when he won, scared the crap out of American Jews for it appeared that he was an Anti-Semite, albeit much more subtler than Hitler. This is all set up in the beginning of the book and it’s extremely interesting and then we are introduced to the Roth family (the fictional version), who are the microcosm of all Jewish families in America at the time, and eventually a little civil war breaks out in the home. The first third of the book is absolutely incredible. I really can’t understate how much I liked it. The rest is still good but is more frantic. A lot more people involved in the “plot” are introduced and Roth seems to really be tying up all the loose ends of his mastermind hypothetical history and I think this makes the book less tragic. But, like I said, it’s still really good; it’s just that the first hundred twenty some pages are especially amazing.

The writing, of course, is top shelf. Roth’s command of his story is beautiful. It’s so incisive and sharp that the words seem to exist on their own, without a creator, and that, my friends, is the pinnacle of good writing. It reads so effortlessly and you can tell that this is a mature author writing at his most comfortable. I think the best word to describe the writing is lucid. It’s definitely the most clear and articulate stuff I’ve read this year.

This and American Pastoral make me want to scream high above the mountaintops: Philip Roth is the best living author publishing in the English language. Now you might say, “But Zach, how can you make such a bold proclamation unless you’ve read every book by every author?” And after shoving my groin in your face, I would probably say, first of all, What have YOU read? and second, the proof is in the pudding—once you’ve tasted the best, you know it can’t be topped. “But Zaaccchhhh.” “But Zach nothing, Roth cannot and will not be beat. It’s gotta be either him or McCarthy… Mary McCarthy that is.” (I’m obviously kidding. I always see her books beside Cormac’s and although she’s renowned she’ll always be the lesser McCarthy.)

Seriously, folks, I really recommend this. You might try American Pastoral first but either way you’re winning the lottery.

The Mysteries of Pittsburgh by Michael Chabon

On the heels of the last sentence of my last post, I decided to read something lighter and fun. The Mysteries of Pittsburgh was just that—a real feel good story—while still possessing some serious matters. It takes place entirely in the summer, between school years for the main character Arthur. Arthur is pretty typical for his age—callow and living solely for the moment. He has a father whose line of work is incredibly dubious, yet never fully explained, a best friend, also weirdly named Arthur (I guess Chabon really likes that particular name and also American cities—hence the title and another B character named Cleveland), and he picks up a sort-of girlfriend, named Phlox, during the book.

In a nutshell, the book is all about growing up and growing into yourself. Arthur eventually succumbs to his best friend’s sexual advances even after starting to date Phlox and he can’t ever seem to figure out which flavor of ice cream he really likes. His relationship with his father is also intriguing. His father seems sincere in wanting to care for Arthur but never really lets him get too close because of his career; maybe to protect his son but maybe not. Consequently, Arthur knows father but he doesn’t really know him.

So yes, this book was fun and easy to relate to (apparently there's a film adaptation as well). The writing is sharp and witty and especially impressive considering it was written when Chabon was only 24. He’s also a pretty good friend of Franzen’s and I think they are considered among the top of American letters for their generation. The title is pretty gay, but take this book to the beach and I think you'll like it.

The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen

On the surface level, The Corrections appears pretty commonplace and maybe even boring to some. It is the story of the Lamberts, Alfred and Enid, both elderly, and their three full-grown children. The book undertakes a big scope looking into the individual stories of each of the five members of the Lambert family, each possessing different sets of problems. Alfred is incorrigibly obstinate and suffers from Parkinson’s disease. Enid is, in a word, delusional, disbelieving anything bad can happen and is dead set on a fairy tale ending, which in this life is having the whole family together for one last Christmas. Gary is a successful broker but whose marriage is a daily battlefield. Chip, a former university professor has fled the country caught up in a scheme that defrauds American investors. And Denise is a coveted restaurant cook who struggles with her sexuality.

So there’s the plot. I liked this book but didn’t really love it. Each different part was interesting enough but when the book culminated with the last Christmas and everybody present, it didn’t equal the whole I was waiting for. Moreover, Franzen, at least in this book, has such an ostentatious way of writing that was annoying and hardly readable at times. It seemed as if he was trying to be too witty, too smart, and too clever with his phrasing, and the result were sentences and words that appeared forced. Sometimes Franzen’s turgidity could ramble on for a quarter of a page.

Still, many people love this book, and like I said, I didn’t hate it. At about a fourth in, I actually thought it was gonna end as a terrific book. Most people, I think though, will either love it or hate it. Which, at 650 pages, makes it a big risk to even begin reading. My suggestion: read it anyway. No matter what side you take, this book will engender much more perspective than any light read.

The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins

I will endeavor to remember what I can (under protest), and to write what I can (also under protest); and what I can’t remember and can’t write, Louis (his butler) must remember, and write for me. He is an ass, and I am an invalid: and we are likely to make all sorts of mistakes between us. How humiliating!

The above is a pretty sweet quote from the funniest of the book’s dozen different narrators. This one’s name is Mr. Fairlie and he really is an invalid, a very sarcastic, hilarious one that induces literal lol’s, so I’m guessing Louis really is an ass as well. But like I said this book is told through the eyes of its many different characters, but probably not in the interesting way you’re thinking, which is many people giving their perspective on one single situation. (Something akin to a very funny story concocted in sophomore English with Mr. Williams… “I passed by the window completely unnoticed.”… “I definitely just saw a man pass by the window.”) It’s more like the story being told by one character and then another character picking up the chain exactly where it was dropped. So as you can see this allows ol’ Wilkie get heavy in the plot all the while using the first person and different voices, which had to be fun, because, at one point, he got to write as an invalid.


This book is a solid archetype of the Victorian age, so you can imagine its proper prose and old words, but overall it’s beautifully written. The main kicker though is the plot, which was the main reason I picked up this handsome copy from a used bookshop. It’s loaded with twists and turns and gets a little complicated, attesting to how brilliantly it was orchestrated. That’s the main thing going for this thriller, so I can recommend this book if you’re into that, although it is a bit daunting at 650 pages.

What’s also kind of peculiar is that the text is subtly misogynistic, but never too offending (but who am I to say?), and actually pretty funny. The examples are mostly just one-line snippets and there were some really good ones in the first of the book but I only started dog-earing the pages about halfway through. Anyway, here’s one example:

“It holds with animals, it holds with children, and it holds with women, who are nothing but children grown up.”

I should add that while sentences like this are riddled throughout the book, Collins does make one of his female characters very strong, independent and sharp.

Where I'm Calling From by Raymond Carver

I started reading this when I first got to New Zealand and stored it in my host family’s living room for lonely minutes. A story here, a story there… and now, unfortunately, I’ve come to the end. Jon has covered Raymond Carver pretty thoroughly so I won’t restate our love for this man all over again but I guess I will offer a few thoughts.

I liked Jon’s metaphor on Carver’s writing and houses, and building on this (pun definitely intended!!!), there would be nothing in Mr. Carver’s house just because it looks pretty. While writers like Nabokov and Updike can go into long, beautifully descriptive paragraphs, Carver only gives us what is necessary to know. What he’s got inside his simple post and beam house may not drop your jaw, but it’s all working, all practical, and part of the plan. There’s nothing fancy here, folks, but you will indeed feel very comfortable.

What I also like so much about Carver, and I could probably think of a million sentences that start this way, is that it doesn’t even seem like he’s trying. While many authors draw up elaborate plots or explosive climaxes, Carver says, No, I think I’ll just write about a man going over to dinner at his coworker’s. And that’s it. And he gets us with that. And it’s brilliant because it’s a hyper-realistic portrait of ourselves. The light turns on, there is some minute action, and then the light turns off. Doesn’t get any more minimalist than the Carver pen. Now my sentences have become completely fragmentary. I’ll stop there and, keeping with the precedent, furnish this post with a handful of stories that I specially remember (but be it told: they’re all exceptional):

Nobody Said Anything
Fat
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
Fever
Distance
So Much Water So Close To Home
Cathedral
A Small, Good Thing
Menudo
Elephant

One more thing: I include this particular cover image not for the sake of variance but because this is what my old copy looks like and it is just ghastly hideous. Without a doubt the fugliest looking book on my shelf yet one of the most cherished.