#95: The Woman in White

As you may have noticed, The Woman in White, by Wilkie Collins, nearly single-handedly destroyed my blog.  Okay, so maybe kids, work, house, pets, and an overgrown garden played their parts, but The Woman in White had her ghostly hands around the neck of The Book Club Book and squeezed.  Luckily, months later, I was able to pry her white fingers away and pump some life back into the nearly-dead, motionless body of this blog.

Why is The Woman in White so detrimental to The Book Club Book, you ask?  Well, because it’s just not that remarkable.  The prospect of filling a whole blog post with ramblings of a book that I don’t really care about, I knew, would do nothing more than lull the reader and the writer (me) to sleep.  And who wants to write about a boring book when there are so many other lovely, more exciting books to read!?  Let it die, I told myself.  If these are the kinds of books I’m going to have to write about, then I might as well let it die. 

But I’m just not the type to give up easily, albeit it may take me several months of dodging the battle before I decide to join the war.  I never forget, and darn that Woman in White!  I just could not let her win!  My revenge is to write as short of a review as possible, because honestly, I feel that is all this book deserves.  And Dear Reader, I feel much more of a commitment to entertain you than I do to give homage to poor Wilkie Collins.

Let me first add the disclaimer that I (gasp) have never really cared for mystery books.  So what if this book started a genre?  It reads just like most other mysteries (yawn).  Woman is wronged, man outwits and defeats the bad guy, right after his diabolical plan is revealed.  People die along the way.  Blah, blah, blah.  If you like mysteries, in which the outcome always, always is assured, you will like this book.  If you don’t, well, then, don’t bother—unless you want to be well-read and brag to your friends that you’ve read “One of The Greatest Classics of All Time”, you arrogant shrew.

What's Next?

Truthfully, I’ve read The Woman in White twice now, straining to gather a deeper meaning to present to you, and I still cannot garner anything worthwhile.  I couldn’t even muster together a witty quiz to salvage it all.  Hopefully, my next book, The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger will fare better in my estimation.  Don’t worry, Dear Reader, I’ve already read it.  And I promise you, my next review will not be filled with complaints.  Sorry, no preview for this one.  Rumors of film adaptations of this book have been circulated for years and years, but so far, none have come into fruition.

#96: The Good Soldier Svejk

If I had to explain The Good Soldier Svejk in one sentence, I couldn't do it. It's dark comedy (in fact, a comic strip at one point).  It's political, and it's tragic.  It's historical fiction that spotlights a slice of military relations during the first World War.  If irony and comedy and horror combined, The Good Soldier Svejk would surely be the offspring.

Even the main character, Josef Svejk (last name pronounced "Shvayk") cannot be pinned by a single representation. At times, he appears as a hopeless idiot while at other times, he proves himself to be completely intelligent and adept.  From what I've read, this book is as confused and unfinished as its writer, Jaroslav Hasek, who went from being a scholar to a bum to an anarchist to a writer to a soldier to a communist and back to an anarchist and writer.

How, then, can such a book make it on the list of the best 100 novels of all time?  O ho, my friends, only a person who has not read it would ask such a question!  It's popular because it's powerful.  The Good Soldier Svejk was almost unknown during the writer's lifetime (he died before finishing it).  Unsurprisingly, many did not take kindly to the fact that Jaroslav Hasek was quick to poke fun at the horrors for which they had all so recently endured.  Furthermore, the imbecilic character of Svejk did little to promote the esteem of the Czech countrymen, but even worse was his representation of the Austrio-Hungarian military. 

It would be like if someone wrote a funny story about the incompetent U.S. forces in Iraq and Afghanistan and made the common soldier look like he was one step away from institutionalization.  We can laugh now, but I wonder if die-hard Czech patriots aren't still cursing the name of Jaroslav Hasek!

Jaroslav Hasek took a blight on his country's history and he exploited it for all its possibilities.  He wasn't afraid of controversy, and because of it, he lived much of his lifetime in drunkenness, shame, and poverty.  Ah, well.  Such is the sacrifice for good literature, right friends?

What I Loved...
was the comedy.  Svejk possesses a bumbling curiosity and proudly declares himself a half-wit.  The fact that he is in the army at all is apt to induce humor.  He is a likable dude, and his storytelling skills are exemplary.  But there are times when he is amazingly clever.  The police become desperate to trap Svejk into committing treason.  Since Svejk is a dog trader in civilian life, they try to make friends with him and buy his dogs.

      The St. Bernard was a mixture of mongrel poodle and a common street cur; the fox-terrier had the ears of a dachshund and was the size of a butcher's dog, with bandy legs as though it had suffered from rickets.  The head of the Leonberger recalled the hairy muzzle of a stable pinscher.  It had a stubbed tail, was the height of a dachshund and had bare hindquarters like the famous naked American dogs.
     Later detective Kalous came to buy a dog and returned with a wildly staring monster which was reminiscent of a spotted hyena with the mane of a collie...

And then, things just seem to work themselves out for Svejk:

     And that was the end of the famous detective Bretschneider.  When he had seven monsters of this kind in his flat, he shut himself up with them in the back room and starved them so long that they finally gobbled him up.

Svejk and his cronies are hilarious. There is so much humor worthy of showing you here that all I can say is that you have to read the book.  Sadly, another aspect of the book that I can only talk about and not fully portray are the pictures!  Didn't I mention that The Good Soldier Svejk was turned into a comic strip?  Due to Czech copyright laws, I can't show any of the pictures here even if I critique them, so all I can do is repeat:  you have to get the book.

And I think we all know how much I love history!  I gobbled up every page that profiled the trials of the Austrio-Hungarian military during World War I...and I sometimes got a good chuckle out of it, which is rare for historical fiction.  Like when the soldiers are given a motivational speech, Svejk makes his assessment:

     "Won't it be marvelous when, like the chaplain said, the day draws to its close, the sun with its golden beams sets behind the mountains, and on the battlefields are heard, as he told us, the last breath of the dying, the death-rattle of the fallen horses, the groans of the wounded and wailing of the population, as their cottages burn over their heads."

I don't know how to react to that.  Should I laugh or cry?  I think it depends on whether or not you see the glass as half-empty or half-full.

What I Hated...
was the drunken rambling.  My copy of The Good Soldier Svejk is 800 pages long.  I'm estimating that a good 15% of it is nonsense--and that is a conservative figure.  While entertaining, there are times when the writer's vices (Hasek was an alcoholic) show itself clearly on these pages.  Frankly, we could trim this book back by quite a bit and not lose a shred of significance.  Here is just one example of a character who is clearly as drunk as the writer:

     "It doesn't burn," he said despondently, when he had used up a whole box of matches.  "You're blowing it."
     But at that moment he lost the thread again and started to laugh: "This is a lark.  We're alone in the tram, aren't we, my dear colleague?"  He began to rummage in his pockets.
     "I've lost my ticket," he shouted.  "Stop, I must find my ticket!"
     He waved his hand resignedly:  "All right, let's go on..."
     He then began to wander:  "In the vast majority of cases...Yes, all right...In all cases...You're quite wrong...Second floor?...That's just an excuse...It's not my concern, but yours, my dear madam...Bill, please...I had a black coffee!"

And it goes on like this for six pages.  From what I can discern, there are no purposes for these moments except that the writer was wasted off his butt, thought he was hilarious, and wanted to fill pages.

But the worst part about this book is that it is unfinished.  Jaroslav Hasek was an interesting character who lived hard.  He possessed an inherent hatred for authority and alternated between being respectable and being repugnant.  He was a lawless drunk who, for much of his life, was forced to live under the radar and among the homeless.  He didn't necessarily take care of his health.  So, it happens that the writer dies and The Good Soldier Svejk ends abruptly before Svejk's battalion even makes it to the battlefront.  What would we have seen there, I wonder.  What piece of history will never be shown because the writer did not live long enough?

What's Next?

Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White.  I know next to nothing about this book except that it supposedly started the whole genre of mystery fiction.  Just think, Sherlock Holmes may have never existed had it not been for this book.  Let's get a preview and check out the trailer:

#97: Dracula

I want to be Dracula...on one condition.  Yeah, I don't want to turn evil and drink people's blood.  But who wouldn't want to fly, see in the dark, turn into a mist or bring on lightning, direct animals, mind read, slip through cracks in doors, and wield the strength of 20 men?  This guy is almost a super hero!

But seriously, Dracula terrifies me.  When I was a kid, I was certain that Dracula planned to creep into my room while I slept alone in my bed.  To ward him off, I could not rest unless I had a blanket covering my throat--even on the hottest of nights.  It isn't that I thought a flimsy ol' blanket would stop Dracula, but I knew he would have to move it out of the way to expose my neck, and I would wake up and have a chance to defend myself.  How I would fight him, once awake, did not ever seem to enter my mind.

Take the Can You Defeat Dracula? Quiz.

There's just something about sleep that can be so terrifying (especially to a young, imaginative child).  In sleep, we lie amongst our universe completely comatose and unaware to all the evil that may hide in the shadows and surprise us at any moment.  I wonder how many cases of somniphobia Bram Stoker's creation has induced since Dracula was first published in 1897.

Sadly, people began losing sleep long before Dracula ever entered the scene.  The idea of vampires didn't originate with Bram Stoker.  The legends and folklore of the nasferatu were passed around before time was even recorded, most notably in Eastern Europe.  Consequently, it provides the perfect backdrop for Castle Dracula.

What I Loved...
was the gore!  Nothing is more disgusting to me than open, gushing veins, twisted and splintered limbs, unraveled intestines, or severed spinal cords.  I am shivering just to write the very words!  So, why do I love to torture myself by reading Jonathan's assessment of Count Dracula after a meal?

There lay the Count, but looking as if his youth had been half restored. For the white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey. The cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath. The mouth was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran down over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion.

Doesn't that make you want to throw up?  But also, don't you just want to read more?  Of course you do, and Bram Stoker will not disappoint you.  You are sure to feel nauseous several times while reading this book, and yet, I can't get enough!  I have no explanation for my sick fascination and love affair with horror fiction, but chances are, you love it just as much as I do, or Dracula wouldn't be so popular today.

I also loved Van Helsing's speeches.  He wasn't always the most straightforward fellow, but you've got to admire the means by which he makes his point.

‘My friend John, when the corn is grown, even before it has ripened, while the milk of its mother earth is in him, and the sunshine has not yet begun to paint him with his gold, the husbandman he pull the ear and rub him between his rough hands, and blow away the green chaff, and say to you, ‘Look! He’s good corn, he will make a good crop when the time comes.’

Dr. John Seward spends a good portion of the book in confusion because Van Helsing speaks by way of  quaint, little riddles.  Some trouble may have been prevented had he been clearer.  But how does one tell another of something they know to be true, but of which they know their friend will not believe?  Bram Stoker may have uncovered the true motivation for the metaphor!

What I Hated...
was the ending! (Beware: If you haven't read it, or seen the movie, or realized that Dracula dies, I am posting the ending, and I don't want you to cry that I am giving it away, so stop reading now!)


As I looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of hate in them turned to triumph.
But, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of Jonathan’s great knife. I shrieked as I saw it shear through the throat. Whilst at the same moment Mr. Morris’s bowie knife plunged into the heart. It was like a miracle, but before our very eyes, and almost in the drawing of a breath, the whole body crumbled into dust and passed from our sight. I shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of final dissolution, there was in the face a look of peace, such as I never could have imagined might have rested there.

Yeah, that's it.  No last struggle.  No flowery description.  No dying scream or threatening words to drag them all to Hell with him.  They simply find Count Dracula in his box, stab him, and he turns to dust.  Superhuman Dracula's reign was brought down in 2.3 seconds.  It is too disappointing on so many levels!  It's like when you find out your favorite athlete has been taking steroids.  It's like Popeye before he chugs a can of spinach!  It would have been much more exciting if the sun had set, and they had been forced to hunt down Dracula at the height of his power.  Had things turned out differently, I may have been reading  this book much later in the year when I will get to the very, very best on the top 100 list!

See if you can kill Dracula so easily in the Can You Defeat Dracula? Quiz!

What's Next?
It turns out that the Czechs are pretty protective of their books, and you can't find an ebook of the The Good Soldier Svejk anywhere.  Oh, thank you, Amazon, for your easy access to bookstores throughout the world for I now hold in my grubby hands an excellent-condition hardcover.  It isn't loaded with pictures, but the pictures it has give it the appearance of a comic book.  I'm excited for some light, Czechoslovakian military humor, circa 1923.  I couldn't get through Dracula fast enough!  

Get a sneak peak and watch a trailer for The Good Soldier Shweik!

#98: The Three Musketeers

I was wrong.  This was my first time reading The Three Musketeers.  I recognized my mistake right away.  For instance, if you haven't read the book, but have only seen crappy reconstructions in various forms, did you know that d'Artagnan, the main character, is not even a member of "The Three Musketeers"?!   What crack was Alexandre Dumas smoking when he came up with his title?  Talk about misleading!  But you want to know what isn't misleading?  The fact that this book has been applauded for over a century and is #98 on the list of the best novels of all time.  I can see why.

(Check out The Book Club Book's new quiz, Which Musketeer Are You? )

What I Loved...
was the villain.  No, not Cardinal Richelieu.  He's a sad puppy dog compared to the real star of this book, the evil Milady Clarik de Winter.  Beautiful, seductive, brilliant, and with a soul as black as onyx, her vengeance was her downfall.  Like everyone else, I was as drawn to her as I was repulsed.  Watch her stalk her prey:
  
Then Milady collected all her energies, murmuring in the depths of her soul the name of Felton--the only beam of light that penetrated to her in the hell into which she had fallen; and like a serpent which folds and unfolds its rings to ascertain its strength, she enveloped Felton beforehand in the thousand meshes of her inventive imagination.
 
I was disappointed when she met her end with the Musketeers' revenge.  C'mon, don't lie!  You wanted the coyote to catch the roadrunner just as much as I did!

Aside from enjoying Milady's escapades, I also loved the lackeys, particularly d'Artagnan's lackey, Planchet.  Poor, 17th century lackeys.  The most they could ever hope for in life was to be the lowly servant of a great man, and in the (four) Musketeers, they could not have hoped for better.  But still, wouldn't it suck to stand on the sidelines, forever faithful, and never receive a bit of notoriety for the part you play in your master's successes?  And I'm not sure their treatment deserves so much devotedness.

D'Artagnan did reflect, and resolved to thrash Planchet provisionally; which he did with the conscientiousness that d'Artagnan carried into everything. After having well beaten him, he forbade him to leave his service without his permission.

Geez, let's tone it down a little.  This apparently took place before the Lackey's Union reformed the industry and ensured safe working conditions for lackeys everywhere.

What I Hated...
was Porthos.  Seriously, Dumas, you could have kept the title, "The Three Musketeers".  All you had to do was ditch Porthos from the story forever.  Let us ask ourselves, did he ever do anything to advance the plot of this story, was he necessary, cunning, useful in any way???  No, no, no, and no.  Ditch him.  Milady knows, just ask her:

"...tell him that among these four men two only are to be feared--d'Artagnan and Athos; tell him that the third, Aramis, is the lover of Madame de Chevreuse--he may be left alone, we know his secret, and it may be useful; as to the fourth, Porthos, he is a fool, a simpleton, a blustering booby, not worth troubling himself about." 

Well said, Milady.  I knew I liked you!  By the way, if you take the Which Musketeer Are You? quiz, and you get Porthos, I am truly sorry.  It isn't that you're a bad person  It's just...maybe "musketeering" isn't the best profession for you.

And then, being that I don't hate myself or my gender, I had a problem with the sexism.  Sure, The Three Musketeers made its appearance in the mid-1800's.  It was a different world, as they tell me.  That doesn't mean my blood doesn't run a little hot when I read things like this:

It is with valets as with wives, they must be placed at once upon the footing in which you wish them to remain. 

Hmm, I don't have to wonder as to why so many married women had lovers.  It wasn't a crime to bully your wife back then.  Laissez-faire?  I say, lasso their ass up and put them in jail!

What's Next?
I'm now reading Bram Stoker's Dracula, and I'm not much excited.  This will be the third time I've read this book, the first being when I was eight-years-old, and the last being just two years ago.  Ugh!  I detest to read a book more than once!  Isn't it enough that I've already broken that rule, but now, I'm going so far as to read it for a third time?  Well, I will do it, and do you know why?  Because I made a commitment, and I would not want to disappoint you, Dear Reader.  Undoubtedly, I will speed-read through this one.  There isn't much risk of missing anything.  I'll be surprised if I don't have the book memorized by the time I'm done!

#99: The Hound of the Baskervilles

Sherlock Holmes!  Who doesn't love him?  His first chronicled mystery appeared in 1887 and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle thereafter featured his famous creation in 55 short stories and four novels, the third novel being The Hound of the Baskervilles.  Even today, Holmes' infamy lives on in Hollywood (though I still think Robert Downey, Jr. is an odd choice to the play the lead).  But what makes this famous detective so intriguing, so apart from the rest?  Well, The Hound of the Baskervilles will do little to enlighten you.  With so many publications behind him, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle must have felt that repetition of Holmes' past successes, habits, and personality were unnecessary.  In fact, I could not find one single, clear description of the detective in the entire book!  You are merely left with the impression, mainly from Watson, that Sherlock Holmes is a great man, worthy of respect in every way.

And oh, it was such a fun, chilling mystery!  The mystery of Holmes' character, however, must stay unresolved...for now.

What I Loved...
was the scenery.  Forget the hell hound, with descriptions like this, who wouldn't suspect that sinister, supernatural forces were afoot?

From the end of it a small wand planted here and there showed where the path zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those greenscummed pits and foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while a false step plunged us more than once thighdeep into the dark, quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft undulations around our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as we walked, and when we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was tugging us down into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was the clutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that someone had passed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of cotton grass which bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting. 

 And then, when we do finally meet the infamous hound, what a fiendish creature!

 A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish be conceived than that dark form and savage face which broke upon us out of the wall of fog.

And we can't forget my dear, Watson.  At least in this Sherlock Holmes' mystery--in which Holmes' presence was felt more than seen--Watson is my favorite!  Even Sherlock Holmes holds him in the highest esteem:

‘If my friend would undertake it there is no man who is better worth having at your side when you are in a tight place. No one can say so more confidently than I.’

What I Hated...
was the fact that Holmes and Watson had little evidence that the diabolical Mr. Stapleton met his demise in a quagmire, yet they accept this theory without hesitation.  This is the first and only Holmes' mystery I have read, but I would be disappointed to find that Mr. Stapleton does not make another appearance to enact his revenge somewhere down the road.  If he does, then all is forgiven.  If not, I'm disappointed, Holmes.  I'm afraid we have a mass murderer on the loose.  What was it that Stapleton said?  

‘That is the great Grimpen Mire,’ said he. ‘A false step yonder means death to man or beast. Only yesterday I saw one of the moor ponies wander into it. He never came out. I saw his head for quite a long time craning out of the boghole, but it sucked him down at last. Even in dry seasons it is a danger to cross it, but after these autumn rains it is an awful place. And yet I can find my way to the very heart of it and return alive.'

 Yes, that's right.  He's an expert at finding his way through the mire...You let the villain escape, Holmes!!

What's Next?
Alexandre Dumas' The Three Musketeers.  Isn't it sad when you've read so many books that you aren't certain if you have already read something?  I have a fairly decent knowledge of the plot, but this could be because I actually have read the book, or because I have seen these characters parodied in everything from cartoons to sitcoms.  Oh well, I will be sure to give you the verdict in about four days!

#100: Gone with the Wind

Well, I made it.  I just spent eight days in Civil War-torn Georgia with Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler.  I'm tired, I'm downtrodden, and I'm heartbroken.  I'm so upset that I almost don't want to talk about it and just cast this post aside with a flip of my hair and a promise to think of everything tomorrow.  But I'm no "Scarlett".


What I Loved... 
was the incredibly rich, historical detail.  If you have only seen the movie, you haven't come close to revealing the true historical significance of Gone With the Wind.  It was published in 1936, and author Margaret Mitchell wasn't even born until almost 40 years after the setting for this book, so one wonders:  How did she get her information?  Well, it's rumored that she spent seven years writing the book and a further eight months just on research.  She was also raised in Georgia amid a hoard of Civil War veterans.  I'm guessing she picked up a thing or two.  

Being aYankee myself, it's easy for me to take the Civil War's impact for granted.  Our history textbooks say we freed the slaves and a war was fought, which appears momentous enough.  It seems a charming one-liner to justify a good cause.  But ugh, wars are so much uglier when you start looking at them more closely!  Worse, the lines of wrong and right, instead of getting clearer, just tend to become blurrier when examined under a microscope.  Yes!  The South needed to give up its slaves!  But did the North really have to crush them, ground them into the red dirt that they loved so much?  If the North was 100% pure in its motivations for war, why did the blacks still face so much discrimination in the northern territories?  Maybe Rhett Butler was right when he said,

“It isn’t the darkies, Scarlett. They’re just the excuse. There’ll always be wars because men love wars. Women don’t, but men do--yea, passing the love of women.” 

But maybe Scarlett was right:

When she looked at Tara she could understand, in part, why wars were fought. Rhett was wrong when he said men fought wars for money. No, they fought for swelling acres, softly furrowed by the plow, for pastures green with stubby cropped grass, for lazy yellow rivers and white houses that were cool amid magnolias. These were the only things worth fighting for, the red earth which was theirs and would be their sons’, the red earth which would bear cotton for their sons and their sons’ sons.

What I Hated...
was the obvious, prevailing racism in the book.  Like when Scarlett's old friend, Tony Fontaine says:


“But the worst thing was the way he kept the darkies stirred up. If anybody had told me I’d ever live to see the day when I’d hate darkies! Damn their black souls, they believe anything those scoundrels tell them and forget every living thing we’ve done for them. Now the Yankees are talking about letting the darkies vote. And they won’t let us vote. Why, there’s hardly a handful of Democrats in the whole County who aren’t barred from voting, now that they’ve ruled out every man who fought in the Confederate Army. And if they give the negroes the vote, it’s the end of us. Damn it, it’s our state! It doesn’t belong to the Yankees! By God, Scarlett, it isn’t to be borne! And it won’t be borne! We’ll do something about it if it means another war. Soon we’ll be having nigger judges, nigger legislators--black apes out of the jungle--”

It makes my skin crawl.  But then I remember, Margaret Mitchell isn't telling me that I should be racist, she is merely giving us a reflection of the South during the Civil War and wrong as it may be, that's how it was and to gloss it over is to be ignorant. 

In addition to racism, another thing that bothered me was Scarlett's complete disinterest in others (with the exception of Ashley) and more importantly, her lack of feeling toward her children.  Like when her "favorite" child dies, Scarlett says that she wishes it was her other daughter!  What kind of mother wishes that?  The memory of her unloved children will haunt me.


And then, of course, there was Rhett's complete disrespect and meanness.  Yes, I felt the customary sadness at the end when he vows to leave and says he doesn't love her anymore, but through the majority of the book, I was appalled at how he treated her!  It serves him right that he got his heart broken, if you ask me.  And why did the book end like it did?  Because Scarlett always gets what she wants and of course, we know that they will reconcile, with time, and live a boring, happy life from that moment forward.  At least, that's what I'm telling myself. :)

What's Next?
Sir Aruthur Conan Doyle's The Hound of the Baskervilles, and I couldn't be more relieved.  After spending eight days breaking my heart with Scarlett O'Hara in Gone with the Wind, I really need a Sherlock Holmes mystery, with an ensured happy ending, to brighten my mood.  Mysteries always end well, don't they?  Don't they??

The Great Gatsby

About books, there is a rule that I have always followed:  If I remember it, it's good.  Most books, while they may engross you in the moment, seem to blend together with the others as soon as you place them on the shelf.  Plots have been redone so many times that some argue that no writer is even capable of having an original storyline anymore.  While I do not pretend that I have read every book in existence, I still continue to be surprised by the occasional, original idea.  F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, which I first read when I was sixteen, is one of those memorable books, and for this, I celebrate Fitzgerald's genius.  That does not mean I like it.

Don't get excited.  I did not say I hate it.  Fitzgerald has a way of writing that makes you feel as if everything is beautiful, even the ugly.  He makes me want to slip into the body of even the horrid Myrtle Wilson just so that I could be a character that intrigued him.  The way he writes, it seems that he would have been a man with whom women often fell in love because they would long to be one of his female characters and know that, no matter the woman's flaws, he would also uncover the beauty.  It is said that his wife, Zelda Sayre, was his muse.  I wonder how closely she resembles Daisy.  I read that Zelda refused Fitzgerald's first proposal of marriage because he she did not want to be poor as a writer's wife.  Hmmm...

Not just the characters, but The Great Gatsby excels in its scenery and innuendos.  The eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg clearly represent the eyes of God, seeing all but without interference.  To Gatsby, the green light at the end of Daisy's dock represents Daisy herself.  His every action is an effort to win her affection and love in the same way that a ship at sea is guided by its lighthouse.  Furthermore, Gatsby was so obsessed with Daisy that I wonder if his "last swim" wasn't really just a suicide attempt.  Perhaps he and Wilson had a nice little chat, became fast friends, and Wilson did him a favor.  Like the lost ship out of sight of the lighthouse, neither man could have existed without the woman he loved.  (How ironic that of the two other central male characters, Nick seemed unable to love any woman while Tom appeared able to love them all!)  Regardless, every page seems to add another layer to hidden nuances.  Although his phrases may appear frivolous on the first reading, further examination reveals that Fitzgerald was a writer who wasted few words, for he intended significance in every line.  While reading The Great Gatsby, I underlined descriptions and constantly reread pages--not because the book is difficult to understand, but because I did not want to miss anything.      

Another credit to the book is the era.  F. Scott Fitzgerald was fortunate to produce this book in the 1920's, and yet, I wonder, could The Great Gatsby have been centered in any other time?  Was there another moment in history that offered the same opportunities of fortune and carelessness?  Here in the early 21st century, do those with long histories of wealth cling to rigid, societal rules (although they hypocritically defy them in private), and snobbily refrain from association with the "newly rich", the celebrities, the poor, and the non-Aryan?  Maybe so, but from what I gather, the "Daisy"s of the 21st century resemble Paris Hiltons.  Less conservative and, certainly, less dependent on men. 

Let's face it, if Fitzgerald wrote the book today, Daisy would have either run off with Gatsby when he was young and poor and told her parents to screw off, or she would have divorced Tom years ago and bought her own mansion with the settlement money.  Then, when she did cross Gatsby's path again, and he told her about his obsession for her for five years, she would have slapped him with a restraining order.  Women today are a lot more cynical, and Gatsby is clearly not in his right mind.

Every time I read one of F. Scott Fitzgerald's books or short stories, I feel like there should have been more to it.  There are too many unsolved mysteries in The Great Gatsby:  What the hell did Gatsby do for a living? Did Daisy ever love Gatsby?  They seem so oddly matched, did Tom ever really love Myrtle?  At the end, was Tom buying jewelry for another woman? Whatever happened to Nick, or Jordan?  What happened to the dog in the apartment?  Who inherited Gatsby's fortune?  He was such a nice guy, why didn't anyone come to Gatsby's funeral?  I always feel like Fitzgerald opens plot lines that he never closes, but what repels me from a book, seems to also be its virtue.  Like I said, I didn't forget The Great Gatsby as soon as I turned the last page.  On the contrary, I will probably end up reading it again someday.  I'm sure all the answers are in there somewhere... 

 

Flowers for Algernon

My English teacher made us read this in high school, so I groaned inwardly (like a student receiving an assignment) when I picked this one up. In the introduction, I had to read the inserted quote from Plato’s The Republic three times before I had a theory to its meaning. Kinda ironic. Anyway, see for yourself:

Any one who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of the eyes are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind's eye, quite as much as of the bodily eye; and he who remembers this when he sees any one whose vision is perplexed and weak, will not be too ready to laugh; he will first ask whether that soul of man has come out of the brighter light, and is unable to see because unaccustomed to the dark, or having turned from darkness to the day is dazzled by excess of light. And he will count the one happy in his condition and state of being, and he will pity the other; or, if he have a mind to laugh at the soul which comes from below into the light, there will be more reason in this than in the laugh which greets him who returns from above out of the light into the den.

Yeah, it was the last part that got me, too. I think what he’s saying is that we shouldn’t laugh or feel pity for the blind man until we know his story. Maybe, being oblivious is a good thing. On the other hand, if he did have his sight at one point, and he lost it, how bad would that suck? The last thing in the world that he would want is your laughter or your pity.

Drawing on my apathetically-inspired memories of the book from high school and the crappy movie we watched afterwards, I remembered little. I knew Charlie Gordon was mentally-handicapped. He gets smart. There’s a mouse, Algernon. Charlie likes his teacher. Then something goes wrong, and he goes back to being his normal self again. Nothing else must have hit me as being very significant because that all I remembered.  It’s a weird experience when a wiser woman revisits the footsteps of the past. I know it sounds dramatic, but in a way it was. I rarely ever read books twice. To me, re-reading Flowers for Algernon was like stepping into those white K-Swiss sneakers I wore when I was fifteen.  I remembered my foolish interpretations and mocked my old self for themes in the book that I had completely missed before.  I even blushed a few times while reading sections that would have embarrassed the hell out of me as a kid.  In my own weird way, I identified with the smart Charlie who imagines his former self peering in from the shadows.  The handicapped Charlie (15-year-old me) yearns to find meaning in things he can't (I couldn't) understand, while the smarter Charlie (the present me) desires to reconnect and make sense with his (my) past and former self. And I thought about how stupid I was when I was 15, and how I sure as hell wouldn’t want to go back…or would I?

What are some of the things I missed when I read it the first time? Um, like how horrible Charlie's mother was to him, and how, as a mother, it tears me up inside to think about it. Charlie was a child who could barely care for himself. He was lonely in a world of people and things he couldn’t fully comprehend. All he needed in the world was someone to love him and to accept him and to guide him. That’s all he needed. It’s weird to think about it, but isn’t that the mother’s dream? To hold onto your child, never see them go out in the world and meet dangerous people and face dangerous situations, and just keep them by your side forever because all they'll ever need in the world is your love and caring and affection. Some would see it as a curse, and in a way, it is. What mother doesn’t want some independence every once in a while? I mean, c’mon. But to think that a mother could abuse and beat such a child, banish him from the house and wish for his death, ugh, it makes me sick! He cringed and whimpered when she came into the room. He expected beatings when he should have gotten kisses and hugs. She made him feel like he was always bad, never doing anything right, and a burden.  I know. I know. It’s just a fictional story. That would placate me if it weren’t for the fact that I know these things happen in the real world, too. It’s one of the afflictions of having the ability to see and decipher what goes on around me.

I found it amusing that Charlie became more depressed with each IQ point he gained. Like Plato suggested, maybe it isn’t so bad to not be able to see. Before the experiment, Charlie didn’t know that his “friends” were laughing at him and making fun of him. He didn’t know what a horrible person his mother really was or how she screwed with him mentally. His misinterpretations lead him to adopt a comfortable understanding of his experiences, and he seemed unable to recall anything truly unpleasant. It wasn’t until he became more aware that he saw that he really didn’t have any friends at all. His doctors weren’t the geniuses he imagined them to be. His mother and sister hated him while his dad never intervened enough to really make a difference. He was lonely, and as an added bonus, he became so smart at one point that people became unable to connect or speak to him at all.

There was a brief moment when he was going upwards in intelligence (and another when he was going down again) when he could relate to others, and it was during these times that a romance sparked between Charlie and his teacher, Alice Kinnian. Based on my school-girl memories, I expected it to be so much more gripping than it actually was. Honestly, this time, it was just hard to believe. I found myself wishing I could have a heart-to-heart with Alice and ask her if she had gone insane. Fall in love with someone who is as emotionally mature as an 8-year-old? Ewww. It makes me shudder to think of the confused images the not-smart Charlie holds in his memories.

To sum it up, I loved this book. It made me want to hug my children, to cherish what I have and know, to feel grateful for my past, and to pity myself a little bit because I can’t be so happily ignorant—not that I’m wishing for that or anything. Now that I know what I know, I’d always feel like I was missing something if I suddenly got hit by a bus and lost my senses. And I don't think I'd ever be fooled if someone tried to humor me.  I'd just want to be treated like everyone else.  Just as Charlie feels at the end of the book. Even though I love this book, I do have one warning about it: Do Not Read While Suicidal. It is quite depressing, but it’s worth it to have your eyes opened just a little more to a corner of the world so often cast in shadows. I have a feeling that, had Charlie retained his abilities, he would read it.