Archive for the ‘books’ Category

a fraud

Wednesday, July 4th, 2007

The Great GatsbyThis was a quick read. Starting sometime on an easy-going Saturday and finishing during a lazy Sunday morning. The language is as captivating for me as that of Waugh (and his prose is a pure delight for me to read!). And even though I find the very English Brideshead more captivating and closer to my own skin I think I saw for the first time the charm of the very American Long Island in Fitzgerald’s story.

I knew that with shutting of the covers, after finishing the last page I will not loose the feeling of sadness. Here is a story of a fraud. The great life-excuse: love, is not sufficient and the story does not end happily ever after. Here is a story of a solitary pursuit of a dream which vanishes upon closer inspection. The dream is too much of an illusion to survive the reality check. And the Great Gatsby sells his identity to become, or rather to pretend he is, someone who will win the prize. And hence the impossible choice: either he is not himself, he acts, and then cannot get close enough, real enough, to win and enjoy the prize. Or he stretches out his hand for the prize, but then he cannot keep his mask on and is disqualified. An impossible choice. A loose-loose situation.

What a privilege it is to be true to oneself.

F Scott Fitzgerald The Great Gatsby

taken, blessed, broken and given

Saturday, May 26th, 2007

Life of the BelovedFew evenings ago I read, more less in one sitting, a book that Henryk recommended to me long time ago. Life of the Beloved by Henri Nouwen. The genesis of the book is in itself a story; a story of a remarkable friendship between a catholic priest and a secular jew. The challenge that birthed the text was posed by Fred: write about the faith in a way that would be relevant and communicative for secular (‘unchurched’) New Yorkers.

Nouwen starts in a very similar place where Kenny Borthwick (thanks to David for this introduction) starts one of his talks: who we are in God’s eyes. The very basis, indisputable fabric of our identity. Kenny talks about unconditional father-love, Nouwen about being chosen, blessed. Nouwen uses the wonderful symbolism of eucharist – the bread and wine are taken, blessed, broken/shed and then given. And through these symbols we can observe and talk about our own life.

When I read this text I was ever so powerfully reminded of both how difficult it is for us, for me, to grasp and accept this and how utterly transforming this message is. Understanding this makes us revise what we think about suffering (being broken) and living – it makes us live for others (being given).

Starting with our identity being intimately rooted in the total undeserved unquivering acceptance. Ending with us delighting when we can truly invest, without calculating or hoping for any return, in lives of other people.

Henri J M Nouwen: Life of the Beloved

close to the dirt of earth

Thursday, May 24th, 2007

Nights at the CircusCouple of days ago I have finished reading Angela Carter’s Nights at the Circus. Despite it being Bella’s recommendation the book did not delight me, maybe it did entertain. Yes, I am not the greatest fan of magical realism (it is very much hit and miss with me, Satanic Verses being a miss and Ground beneath her feet a hit).

The text is skillful. Which, in truth, I think is damnation rather than praise on my lips. Just like lighting in a theater; when you notice it, something went wrong. The author changes the style and picks and mixes her literary tools. Skillful – yes. But I am reminded of Kill Bill – were there too many gadgets to use and the artists could not make their mind up?

This said there were some great passages, so one cannot deny – she writes well. I was just slightly nauseated. And alongside gripping, ornate paragraphs I found ones that were … dirty. I don’t mean that in a prudish way – rather, they were earthy, made of dust. Reading them brought a shadow of exhaustion (I felt similarly when I read Money by Martin Amis, but to a much lesser extent with Carter’s text).

Having re-read my opinion I must stress it is exactly that – my very subjective account of how I received the text. And is far from any balanced view.

Fevvers for me was too heavy of a beast to take off and fly.

Angela Carter: Nights at the Circus

too much … a feast of emotions

Wednesday, April 18th, 2007

By Grand Central Station I sat Down and WeptPoetic prose is not a genre that I have tasted, sampled much. So not knowing what exactly to expect I have bravely read By Grand Central Station I Sat and Wept. The first two chapters overpower the reader like a most potent scent worn by a glamorous beauty. It is too much, by far. And yet one cannot help but to wish to be in the company of the text (and the beauty). And so locked in this companionship wonder if ever such passion can be encountered, and more, sustained on this side of the text. You see, the protagonist is truly consumed. Is it a hyperbole, or a mark to which we, mere mortals, should aspire?

In line with my somewhat misanthrope nature I was glad that the book was not an exponential involvement and consummation of the joyous love. If it were the story would be a ride into the stratosphere, adorned by beautiful metaphors (and there are many of them!) but leaving the reader in the end high in the air with no way of return but a lonely free-fall. The text however takes the reader down from the heights of exalted passion. Together with the protagonist we descend to a passionate but haunting place.

Elizabeth SmartIt left me shattered. The closest I could compare this state of exhaustion is with how I felt after watching von Tier’s Dancer in the Dark with Bjork.

I was also left with a question and an observation: is it truly worth to follow passions to their full depths? (I kept finding myself on the side with ‘realists’, ‘people who knew the life better’, thus answering ‘no’, but there is a creeping doubt in me about such a measured answer). The observation was that it is truly a most terrifying the amount of power that a man can hold over a woman, whether he realises it or not.

Elizabeth Smart: By Grand Central Station I Sat and Wept