Money, Money, Money. A Novel by Martin Amis

Money is the fantastically intricate and brutally inclusive study of a very, very extravagant consumer, viz. one Mr. John Self. This roguish protagonist dedicates himself body and soul to the ideal of the dissolute modern hedonist, leaves a tremendous trail of pornography, drugs, and violence in his wake, and yet still possesses enough vim to make the reader cry for laughing. Aspiring ascetics and disapproving Aristotleans would be very well advised to stay away from Money and the radically (radically) epicurean John Self, on pain of moralistic mortification; this is no mild adventure. With Money, Martin Amis has crafted a spectacular and shameless ‘psychodrama’ that penetrates right to the core of an utterly perverse and inexplicably lovable personality. The journey to that center is gritty shitty, masterfully layered, and extraordinarily amusing.

The cleverly charming narrative wraps itself around the misadventures of Mr. Self as he meanders and rampages in the inner city urban playgrounds of London and New York. What is distinctive about Mr. Self, aside from his inane physical afflictions and chronic alcholism, is the astounding way he handles his cash. Hence, the title of the book, and the centrifugal force that binds the plot together. Money primarily concerns itself with the diverse channels through which currency can be exchanged for pleasures, favours, and entire lifestyles. In the process of this indefinite spending spree, John encounters new, old, and enigmatic friends, works his way through a troublesome pornography production, and wrestles with personal and psychological problems. All this, however, falls into a progression that is neither linear nor straightforward, with the (good) result being that at least a third of the novel is dedicated to digressions and episodes. The plot of the text is a fairly simple chronicle of a (busy) period in a life; but the embellishments do more than enough to flesh out the characters and settings, and further provide the basis for much of the raw and overwhelming humour that is so indispensable to the book’s success.

Wry, dry, and hysterical wit is an ingredient Money is certainly not lacking. At times I absolutely exploded from laughter, with my screams echoing from the walls; at other times I imploded instead. The comic turns are beautifully crafted, declining both mindless slapstick and abstruse sophistication, and settling instead for a refreshing dose of grey realism. Further, this unreserved down-to-earth humour neatly partners the pragmatic and vernacular tone. Money, thank goodness, is as unpretentious as plain steamed rice, and suffers not a jot from this general lack of euphemism or design.

To be sure, the colloquial language does nothing to compromise the complexity of Amis’ ideas. Far from it; the slanging excellence and memorably alternative expressions enhance the ingenious clash of scenes and themes. Money will have you swallowing a whole series of paradoxes in a savagely modern lexicon; I laughed uproariously at rape, sympathized excessively with a thoroughly debauched and uncaring protagonist, and adoringly savoured the most callous and indiscreet kinds of conversation. Though deceptively clothed in a quality of prose that seems satisfying at best (and monotonous at worst), Money holds in its depths immense quantities of charm, thought, pathos, and, let us admit it, modern literary genius.

With that said, then, what could halt a prospective reader like yourself? A difficult question, and a difficult answer. The problem, at times unavoidable and at other times irrelevant, is that Money seems to lack a significant point or purpose. That is, the underlying point, message, or meaning of the novel is elusive and trying to grasp. Elsewhere on this site Ted has quoted a wise remark that can serve as an apt analogy: ‘Love life, and not the meaning of it.’ It may similarly be the case that with Money, one has to love the book, and not the meaning of it. And though at times this lack of a ‘deeper meaning’ (to use a dreadful and blunt expression) is positively uplifting, in the long term the upshot is that Money lacks the resonance with ageless and universal themes that marks all truly ‘great’ or ‘classic’ literature. (I use the quotation marks deliberately because I mistrust these designators; I use the designators because they best convey my meaning.) To the best of my knowledge, there isn’t an intrinsic moral lesson, a telling social or historical comment, or an intelligent and coherent argument, wrapped beneath the spirals of this seductive and engaging tale; and this subtextual void is often not a little disturbing. If I may stretch myself slightly; Money is all skin, no spine, an exterior without an interior. A difficult answer, I say, because this so-called flaw may in fact leap across the chasm of taste and be defended as the novel’s essential virtue, at least by some; aesthetes seeking entertainment (and by no means is this meant pejoratively) will surely entertain the dense, sensual, and vivacious prose, unburdened by pretentious ‘messages’. As for myself, however, and like-minded readers desiring something a little more from their fiction (a personal edification or spiritual growth, perhaps?), Money’s stubborn reluctance to yield up some nourishing gravity and dimenson comes as an unfortunate blemish.

This criticism, however, is very far from potent enough to justify a denunciation of Money. Psychotically funny, endlessly cool, and with enough plot weaving to keep you enthralled for weeks, Money is damn good fiction, from a talented innovator – make no mistake. Suffused with a heady and endearing tone that is a joyous reproof of facile nihilism and cynicism (common enough with such a topic), the novel offers a clear and intriguing glimpse of what it means to be a glamorous modern hedonist, in a style that is as down-to-earth as the mantle. Money, to be short, is some good, funny, and slightly fucked up shit. Read it. 

Arms and the Man by Bernard Shaw

Arms and the Man is a play that self-consciously intends to explode the abstract images and ideals of common romanticism. Pity, then, that at best the tale only manages to defuse these inherently fragile myths, and relegates them to entertainment, rather than derision or scorn. Undoubtedly, the drama’s impact was more visible and unconventional in its original habitat of fin-de-siècle Victorian England, and the influence the work exerted over subsequent texts should probably not be underestimated. Yet in spite of its undeniable wit, blunt precision, and skilful dramatic design, Arms and the Man samples to this modern reader more like a pleasant and light chocolate cream than a provocative and memorable disenchantment. Far from eliciting excessive sympathy for its pragmatism, the satire is perhaps the (energetic) first in a series of literary sighs that harp upon themes uncomfortably close to the border of cynicism. Not to say that cynicism is a prohibited aesthetic territority, for it obviously isn’t; only, it may be the case that that particular soil has been recently overworked. So, as thrilling as the text might have been upon publication, its incessant concern with demystification and downsizing is in a sense tiresome to modern readers.

Assuredly, though, this conjectured fatigue is a fairly macroscopic and thematic grievance. Shaw’s invention is not in the least tiresome when it comes to the enactment of his scenes or the craft of his dialogue. The compact size of the cast and the dexterous use of dramatic space and symbol ensure that the episodes are positive delights, complemented by telling and likeable personalities. Neither can Shaw’s dialogue be justly slighted. Infused with a taseful mix of hyperbole, humour, and pure theatrical vitality, the individual words and phrases are the essential ingredients that animate the story and weight it with both sobriety and absurdity. It is the dialogue of Arms and the Man, more than its significant thematic point or definite unconvention, that makes the play a valuable and stimulating read.

Unfortunately, however, it is doubly the dialogue that destorys a portion of the play’s potential. Its nimble pace renders the exposition of the characters unsatisfyingly incomplete at times, and discourages the release of an especially developed and thoughtful speech. Wit and ingenuity are spread diffusely throughout the text, in a manner that one might even call egalitarian; and consequently the play lacks a particulary distinct, incisive, or climatic address. Instead, the confused convergence of Act III produces an abrupt conclusion that appears to be neither here nor there, and accordingly the reader is left with an uncertain and helpless taste in his mouth as Shaw triumphantly concludes. To be sure, the greatest flaw of Arms and the Man is the fact that its initial underlying convictions are never channelled into clear and focused conceptions; and so the play withers, consumed by its own energy, before it can articulate or establish an effective resolution.

These structural flaws, though, are again somewhat macroscopic. The effervescent and engaging dialogue for the most part compensates for the effete overall direction, and only the most distant and detached of critics would fail to be seduced by Shaw’s ecstatic lines. So, despite its feeble attempt at iconoclasm, Arms and the Man remains an invigorating and sharp read. I think the best approximation to the truth and the fairest judgement would be to say that there are many books that deserve to be read before Arms and the Man, and just as many that deserve to be read afterwards.

One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich: A Second Opinion

Contrary, perhaps, to expectations aroused by the historical and political baggage of the novel, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich offers neither a stimulating political discourse nor an especially historical awareness. There is a distinct lack of political edification or argumentation, and the historical span of the sketch unequivocally excludes the wider (and interesting) historical narrative of the period, being indeed limited to a single day. For a sketch that deals with the sensitive subject of Soviet labour camps, this gap is curious and conspicuous, although I think that there is an obvious and laudable explanation. The conscious omission simply makes Solzehenitsyn’s prose that much more captivating, capacious, and reflective. This fragment extracted from the daily toils of a typical zek (Russian slang for prisoner) enchants not because it intellectually englightens or attacks, but rather because it exposes, like a meticulous impassive lens, the fasincating mode of human nature imprisoned. Psychology and aesthetics, and not history and politics; Stoicism, intersubjectivity, mental exhausation and transformation, in compliment to the austere landscape and the vivid treatment of bodies; these themes and motifs dominate the composition and render any explicit inclusion of Stalin or the Cold War quite definitely unnecessary.

The upshot of the aforementioned elision, then, is a novel abundant in incisive images, commanding anecdotes, psychological maxims, and playful personalities and scenes. The fleeting impressions and succint phrases together generate a collection of captivating fragments that mirror the concept of the novel itself. (The work embodies but one day, an indiscriminate fragment, of the stretch of incarceration.) True, the discrete and colourful episodes of the narrative allow little space for effective continuity or thematic unity; but they do permit Solzhenitsyn to touch upon several disparate elements of Shukov’s (Denisovich’s moniker) experience. To phrase it more comfortably, the quick and flowing narrative style opens access to an intriguing diversity of emotions, characters, and events. This refusal to mould the story into a bleak and tedious progressum (N.B. — not actually a word) of misery constitutes Solzhenitsyn’s greatest victory in this work. Here even misery comes in different shades. It is not the implied uniformity of Shukov’s days that comes to light in the novel; rather, the startling subtleties, the small successes, and the ambivalent attitudes invest the setting with vitality and colour. Difference and identity, pleasure and disgust, corporeality and spirituality, unity and egoism; these dualistic undertones and undercurrents enrich the winter landscape and end by successfully rendering prison a truly interesting place. (Whether Solzenhitsyn is here absolutely faithful to his historical experience is an interesting question.) The true value of this work is not its historical veracity, political potential, or literary dexterity, but instead its charming, tortuous, brutal, and unreserved illumination of life and men in prison. It is hardly necessary to see the account as a falsification or reproduction of the labour camp; but I suspect on balance that the reality is embellished and invigorated in Solzhenitsyn’s easy prose.

This is not to say that the work comes without flaws. The frugal economy of the phrasing and the abruptness of certain scenes (see Alyosha’s incongruous outburst towards the end) at times renders the text just shy of a satisfying development. Sometimes, too, Shukov’s wry, sagacious observations ring of repetition and drive the same point home too often. Finally, the constant austerity and frankness of the style may seem rudely unaesthetic to some, and hardly worth a Nobel prize; and though I think this objection is somewhat reductive and positivist, I can (at a stretch) sympathize with the charge of formal monotony.

The final verdict, though, is hardly negative. As a deliberate and nuanced sketch, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich deserves genuine praise. Grimly gripping, comfortably accessible, and admittedly entertaining, the story need not plunge the reader into waves of commiseration and despair, and will probably instead refine an appreciation of human subtlety and complexity, whilst doubly offering an instructive glimpse into (altered) history.

A nonsensical account of an equally nonsensical piece of prose (fire wood), “Girl with a Pearl Earring”, by Tracy Chevalier

Girl with a Pearl earring is one of the titles that has been attributed to Dutch 17^th century painter Jan Vermeer’s painting of a young girl, wearing a turban and, of course, a pearl earring. The painting has been called “The Mona Lisa of the North”, and is remarkable for its enigmatic history and nature. The book with the same title is Tracy Chevalier’s completely fictional account of what could have been the story behind the making of this widely recognized portrait.

Griet is a sixteen year old girl who in the beginning of the book receives the news that she will be working as a maid in the household of the Vermeer’s. Griet’s family is poor; her father has recently lost his eye sight after an working accident, and they desperately need any money that they can get hold of.

Griet is set to do the most normal and mundane of daily tasks, like washing clothes, grocery shopping and so on, but also, she is supposed to clean in the artist Vermeer’s working room. Throughout the book, it is described how the relationship between the maid and the artist grows more intimate and complex, and a secret but very silent bond is created between the two. She is awarded with more responsibility, and learns to help the painter with the preparation of colours and pigments, while in the meantime, he teaches her to view objects and paintings with the eyes of an artist. Not to be forgotten, is the role played by the painters jealous wife, who from the very beginning despises Griet’s presence in the house.

Besides the main intrigue – the relationship between the two central figures, and how he one day is forced to paint her – the family of Griet’s is important, as well as the relationship she develops with the butcher’s son.

“Girl with a Pearl Earring” is described by The Wall Street Journal as a work of triumph, and a lovely story. Time refers to it as a jewel of a novel. All in all, it has been praised as a wonderful love story.

Bollocks.

This book is a pathetic attempt at a love story and portrait. Though the roughly 250 pages of this book is written in a first persona narrative, the insight and understanding of the psyche of the main character that we receive as readers isn’t exactly in-depth. The devastating monotony of first person Griet’s “I and I and me” might just have disturbed my mental health so much as to actually have brought upon me the cough that currently bothers me. Griet is a stupid chick, rendered dreadfully obvious as what can seemingly fit into the lenghty and dull monologues of hers, is narrowed down to laundry, how she can’t understand her masters art, and how she still somehow fancies him for it. Griet is a nonsensical character, and I wish to cleanse her off my mind forever as soon as I’ve finished tearing this book apart; she is the one literary character, described in first person, who is actually more of a tabula rasa (clean slate) AFTER I’ve read the book, than before.

What regards the element of love in this story, I don’t know where to begin. Supposedly, there is something like a secretive, loving tenderness, intangible, between Griet and Vermeer, though I was late to in fact acknowledge it at all. And as Griet describes it to us, it seems that Vermeer himself didn’t recognize it; “Now when the painting had been finished, he didn’t need me any longer”, after which she cries. Supposedly, Vermeer had touched Griet once – something that would prove, seeing the fragility of a master/servant relationship – that there was something more than mere professionalism between the two. Heartbreaking. Try Romeo and Juliet.

I can’t go on about this book any longer. If you have nothing else to read, or you simply just want something that reads quickly (Chevalier is about as stylistically sophisticated as sheep), read Girl with a Pearl Earring.

The youth in “Sweet Bird of Youth”, by Tennessee Williams

‘Sweet Bird of Youth’ is play that was written in 1959; at the time of its release on theatres, it was partly acclaimed, partly rejected by contemporary critics, some who claimed that the drama was another masterpiece from the hand of Williams, other who asserted that the aforementioned were losing his touch.

 

Independently of whatever critics have had to say about this drama in comparison with other works of Williams’, and its status as a literary text, it is hard to deny that this is a highly engaging read. The play is divided in to three acts, sets mainly in two different environments in the town of St Cloud’s, and takes place in modern time. It begins with the main character, Chance Wayne, waking up next to the Princess Kosmonopolis, also known as Miss Alexandra Del Lagos, a former movie star. Chance is a twenty-nine year old, handsome man, who in his early youth showed off a remarkable talent for acting, but who in the end never quite made it to the big screens, and now moves around living like a washed-up no-body, earning his wage as a gigolo for older women. He has returned to St Cloud to meet his teenage girlfriend, Heavenly Finley, the daughter of a prominent politician.

Miss Del Lago is at the very end of her career as a star in the film industry, and is when she meets with Chance running away from a Hollywood that she’s losing touch with, and under a false name.

 

The main intrigue of the play is revealed early on, as the first scene does a good job to unravel the complex nature of Williams’ story. Chance has picked up the close-to lunatic Miss Del Lago in order to blackmail her into signing him under a film label; he also wants Miss Del Lago to stage a talent competition, in which Heavenly Finley will participate, and eventually win, earning herself a deal with mentioned film label. Chance will then have his career, and also, the upper class girlfriend he could never have had earlier.

 

In ‘Sweet Bird of Youth’, all main characters are in some way looking back at their respective youths, and with sadness and gloom, they regret all the chances they once missed, or alternatively, miss the times they can never have back. In desperation, Chance Wayne, a man who when he lost the glory of his youth, attempts to retrieve and win back the girl who he still loves, who to him symbolizes prosperity and hope. It is revealed early on, however, that Chance’s attempts will be in vain, as Heavenly, too, having been infected with a malicious venereal disease (many years ago, by Chance himself – remember the gigolo part), has had to go through an operation to cure herself, and has since lost touch with that inside of her which was once pure and noble, a kind of innocent youthfulness. Miss Del Lago is only with Chance, because his relative youth, compared to her age, works to satisfy her ego, and boost a belief in herself that is, in essence, a false one. Heavenly’s father, a corrupt and racist southern state politician, nevertheless a successful one, does his best to dissociate her daughter with the peasant scum he thinks that Chance is, and has his daughter marry a doctor for the money and status that it will bring. The father, too, however, tries to maintain a sincere and down to earth personality as a man to lead a people, but has since his wife’s death only been moving in a downward spiral, and does little to adhere to moral and legal standards, given that it will give him another vote.

 

In the same vein follows the spirit of the subset of characters in this play, which is one of many inherently complicated intrigues. Despite the depth these, which to some extent makes this play seem slightly disorganised, Williams manages to pull all the strings together, and present an ending that makes sense and which seems to follow logically. The author, one of America’s reputedly greatest playwrights, seems a master of dramas, for the text never becomes boring or tiring to read, but on the contrary, never fails to engage and provoke sincere interest from the reader. The plot feels at times to be a bit too weird, in plain terms, to actually be taken seriously, but seeing as the theme of youth is so vehemently focused on, a clear sense of revelation and satisfaction is brought upon us by the end of the text, as we then receive a vivid explanation of the thoughts that inspired this work of writing:

 

“CHANCE [rising and advancing to the forestage]: I don’t ask for your pity, but just for your understanding – not even that – no. Just for your recognition of me in you, and the enemy, time, in us all.”

 

The play hereafter ends, but what remains is the feeling of what Chance just pointed out. None of the characters in the play, once the intrigues have been solved and ridden, managed to secure and win back that which they all had been looking for, namely parts of their youth. Despite their ardent attempts, they all failed; Chance not being able to go back to the days when his career could still have blossomed, and Miss Del Lago to a time when she was the brightest shining star, the most beautiful actress in Hollywood, and so on… All that remained, was a sense of doom, and the impending loneliness that these people had brought to themselves.

 

In Williams’ story, there are in fact no winners, besides those who never dreamt of ever winning anything. Characters of lesser significance, those described by Chance as normal people, who settled down with regular jobs, who satisfied with what they had. All characters that in some way seems to have expressed hope in accomplishing anything of importance, go home feeling sorry, or always wanting more. The plays is, perhaps, in extension a meditation on the matter of death, and how life is a lane leading us right to it. The nature of our destiny’s aside, what we are all progressing towards is nothingness, for which reason, no-one can ever win – for which reason, in yet another extension, life seems utterly pointless. If time’s the enemy, then we must beat it to the end, and choose battle before it is too late to do anything.

Poorly written notes on ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’, by Truman Capote

Breakfast at Tiffany’s is one of Truman Capote’s most famous works of literature; according to established literary critics, second only to his non-fictional novel In Cold Blood.

Breakfast at Tiffany’s tells the story of Holly Golightly. It is told through the narrator, who is a nameless character, and supposedly Truman Capote himself.

The narrator lives in an apartment block in New York, and right under him, lives Holly. Holly’s name greatly chracterises her personality; her life is a holiday, and she walks through it with light steps, not caring too much about what her next day will be like. She is the kind of beautiful young woman, that men find it difficult to resist; our narrator, too, falls in love with her, during the short period of time that she gets to know her.

The story starts out in something like the late 1950’s, fifteen years after the narrator last saw Holly. In Joe Bell’s bar, the narrator is reminded of Holly who he hasn’t seen for so long, and from thereon, a dreamlike account for his story commences; how they first met by random chance, Holly having climbed up from her room up to his, via a fire ladder, and how they get to know each other better. The narrator, a young and aspiring writer, is bewildered and enchanted by Holly’s extravagant life style, the dubious way through which she makes a living, and the many men who plays a role in her life.
Though Holly makes a joke out of life, being as she says herself, a kind of wild and free animal, her person is nevertheless coloured by sadness and gloom; she reveals little about herself, but it is obvious that she is running away from her past. This becomes clear and evident late on in the book, when Holly’s older husband suddenly appears, having travelled to New York from the south to find her.

Breakfast at Tiffany’s is written in a style and manner that is exceptional. Norman Mailer is known to have said, that he wouldn’t have changed a single word in the entire text, and with this, I am willing to agree. Truman Capote meant that if a story is told in a way that the reader would not be able to conjure up any better way of telling it, or if he couldn’t imagine how the story could possibly look differently, it would be a success. Breakfast at Tiffany’s is very much a story just like that; it is accessible for all readers, it is captivating and most of all, it is brilliantly tied together. The story says everything it wants to say, and nothing else; there are no red herrings, nothing excessive, no psychological meditations that doesn’t contribute to the story. It tells the tale of a next door young girl in New York, living just after the second World War: Holly, a relentless force that never ceases to surprise, to spellbind and charm, but who is perhaps, to herself, a no-one, an angsty young girl without a spiritual home and direction, and who is ready to live today, and die tomorrow.

Contrary to what it may seem, given that you’ve read and understood the above, Breakfast at Tiffany’s fails to be an interesting story. It was to me all what I have mentioned above, for sure; but given that one isn’t reading this story for mere literary inspiration, for having a manual in how to write a perfect story – brilliant structure, adequate and stylish character descriptions, overall elegant narration and so on – the story avoids to enchant on more levels. It is made what it is because of Capote being an excellent writer – that is to say, a beautiful piece of text; perhaps, the way I see it, what would happen if you’d take Dylan’s ‘Like a rolling stone’, and make a lenghty extension out of it.

On the Road by Jack Kerouac

Written on a scroll, in the span of three weeks, Kerouac’s perhaps most well-renowned piece is a journey not only through America, but the human mind. It does the latter with little pretence and displays basic human emotions with a down to earth touch I believe many would like to possess themselves.

Spontaneously travelling all around America, and also delving into Mexico, visiting anything from San Fransisco and New York City to a nook on the way to Abilene, Texas, the novel, Dean Moriarty, Sal Paradise; they all add up to a wonderful combination of hedonistic pursuit and a satisfaction with very little; yet very much. As they and their varying peers travel anywhere and everywhere they seek not material luxury, instead they are pleased with the luxury of life; being alive and all the experiences that simple fact entails.

Of course the 300 and something pages weren’t actually written in three weeks. The information Kerouac had gathered throughout years of travelling, the notes he had taken and so forth, were compiled in three weeks; this by no means belittling the feat itself. It is just worth to notice that writing some 300 arguably well written pages in only three weeks, just as they came along in one’s mind, would be too much to swallow for even the supernatural.

Without a doubt, On the Road has had a large cultural impact. With this book and many others by Kerouac’s contemporaries, the Beat generation became manifested, and a culture that would grow and reach even into our time was born. On the Road is said to be particularly constitutional for this generation, which is quite apparent throughout the reading; not only from the frequent actual use of the word beat as an adjective or anything else, really, but the entire atmosphere created by Kerouac’s stream of consciousness way of writing, consistent from start to end. (A little note from me here: I usually mark at least some places in the book which I when reading found especially interesting/good/whatever. Upon picking up On the Road however, there are no such marks, which I think you can safely take as a sign of just how captivating the writing is).

I would normally include some examples of sentences and such, to complete the portrait of the book I indeed am trying to accomplish; however: The very last paragraph of the book will prove more than enough to show exactly how entrancing Kerouac’s writing can be; and there is no need to explain further, the text does it all:

“So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.”
When a book ends like this it’s hard to stop thinking. This end leaves the reader with such a vast expanse of possible thoughts that one doesn’t even have time to think them all. Where is Dean? What’s going to become of Sal?

Kerouac’s book is perhaps the hardest book to describe that I have attempted to do so with. He has written so grippingly about the small pleasures in life; how they can be the largest pleasure, he has written about how money is nothing, how money has no value if one sees the value in everything; then money becomes just what it is; paper and metal.

Feelings are conveyed similarly. The sadness Sal feels at times is so genuine it has no problems in leaping out of the pages and engulfing the reader; and the same goes for happiness; I found myself going ecstatic when they were the same, even though their party was more than 50 years ago, the latter which just shows how valid On the Road is today, was then and will always be.

Sadly there is so much to say about On the Road that just cannot be said here. Much of what could be said lies in reading the novel; devouring it page for page and acquiring that feeling of sitting on the bonnet of the car they are racing across the Nebraskan plains. More of what there is to say lies in reading it again, and again, and again. Personally I have only read it once; through writing this however I can’t wait to read it again.

Conclusively taking into view that On the Road is semi-autobiographical, I must say, Kerouac is a great source of inspiration, even today. If I were to invite one person over for dinner, it would be Kerouac. His values, his On the Road, his whole philosophy, if one is permitted to call it that, is mildly put, astounding. On the Road is definitely a must read of American writing.

Overall comment on ‘Death in Midsummer’ by Yukio Mishima

Pages: 180
Nationality: Japanese
Language: English
Published in: 1966
Yukio Mishima is one Japan’s foremost novelists and playwrights. He was active for apprx 20-25 years, between the 1940’s and 1960′. Already as a young boy, he displayed a prodigious talent for writing, and was first published when he was twenty-three years old. Mishima committed suicide in 1970, by performing a hara-kiri/seppukku on himself (auto-disembowelment with the use of a sword).

‘Death in Midsummer’ is a collection of nine short stories and one play. The back fo the book reads, that these ten short texts “represent Mishima’s extraordinary ability to depict, with deftness and penetration, a variety in human beings in moments of significance’, which in brilliantly sums up the essence of this book, as I have understood it. The text on the back cover picks up however, and adds that “Mishima’s characters are often young, sophisticated Japanese who turn out to be not so liberated from their past as they had thought”.

It is, I assume, primarily my through and through European heritage, and also, my, to some extent, ignorance of Asian history and culture, that I find it difficult to read this book on more than a very shallow level.
It appears to me, that too much of Mishima’s intentions and meaning has been lost in the english translation. Language must necessarily entail culture and ways of being and thinking, and so henceforth, some of the meaning in a literary work is presumably always lost in translation. When a reader is not only not Japanese, but not East-Asian or even Asian, the normal losses in translation appear to be amplified by powers of ten.

Mishima depicts a variety of human beings that are going through, or have gone through, something that in various ways will alter their lives; always, the events told are inherently linked to current societal standings. Mishima is brilliant at describing nuances in the human psyche, and with merely a few strokes of the pen is he able to bring imaginary people to brimming life. In an indescribable way, his stories reach a climax very early on, but contrary to normal conduct, it is reluctant to fade away; every sentence in Mishima’s stories seem a vital point for the entire text, and given that one doesn’t read carefully, it will be even more tricky to decipher the point of it, than it is if one does.

Mishima is in my opionion as much of an aesthete as he is an ingeneer; his style is captivating, beautiful – sometimes enchanting – but he constantly leaves the reader wondering, asking, hesitating. In the story “The Great Priest of Shiga and his Love”, Mishima tells the story of a most accomplished buddhist priest, who at the end of his life is waiting for the eternal rest, entrance to the Pure Land, beyond death. One day, as he sees the Great Imperial Concubine passing by, a woman who’s beauty has no likes in the world, the Great Priest is unable to retain his indifference towards that which is merely physical. However much he concentrates on the rational, the pure, the non-wordly, he cannot forget the face of the Great Imperial Concubine. The Priest perishes, because he now knows that he cannot be allowed entrance to pure land; his sin has been too great already, to not to have rid his mind of his love for the Concubine. The priest goes to visit the Concubine, an evident sign on that he has given up his faith, on that he cannot reconcile with the physical worlds effects on his body, and his will to reach Nirvana. The Concubine lets the Priest touch her hand, which he strokes over his face; he then turns around and leaves, and then dies, in full peace.

Initially, I thought that Mishima had directed a criticism against Buddhism with this text, for being indifferent to all the beauty of which life offers, and that to live life with one’s back turned against it, is foolish and ridiculous. Supplied with the ending however, I was caught surprised, and I don’t know quite what to make out it. Mishima had seemingly argued human forgetfulness, the invevitability of physical attraction, and the meaninglessness in simply awaiting salvation in quietism, when he with the last ten or more sentences turns the dagger around.

Seeing as this book is not quite my forte in literature, I will refrain from commenting much more on it, and so avoiding to make any clumsy misinterpretations of the actual stories in the book. I much enjoyed reading Mishima’s text, but not being very well read up on him and his life, or Japanese culture, I am hesitant to making detailed assertions about his work. What is for sure is that the texts are interesting; they portray the most fundamental of human emotions, but are also full of insightful symbols and, more, cultural references that are beyond my grasp. Reading ‘Death in Midsummer’, one will most surely be moved by the stories: and envious of Mishima’s delicate writing. One will towards the end most surely be thinking of the texts, asking questions about the texts, and be going back to them for re-reads.

the curious incident of the dog in the night-time, Mark Haddon

Pages: 226, including appendix
Language: English
Nationality: English
First published: 2003

“As a young man, Mark Haddon worked with autistic individuals” it says as part of a little author-introduction before the actual text begins. Having read the book, I can’t possibly find myself doubting this statement.

Written from Christopher John Francis Boone’s perspective, in first person, he (Christopher) narrates how he finds his neighbour’s dog dead and wants to find out who did it. He likes animals and relates to their emotions well, whereas he can’t grasp human emotions, which is part of his wish to discover the canine murderer. There are several more things he doesn’t like, and where many people behave “normally” he has a specific preference; one type of food cannot touch another on his plate; yellow food must be coloured red before being consumed, as he detests yellow and so forth. Take all these complications, add a proletarian background and family with respective problems, a pleasant teacher and a lot of Christopher’s perspective on the world, and you have a crude approximation to the actual book.

Christopher is craving to be around. Not only is he portrayed this way in the book, Haddon has very aptly made it craving for the reader too. He hasn’t done this through cryptic language or the like, however, as that clearly would have defied the whole perspective of the book, namely that of Christopher. To exemplify; upon his father finding him in his room just after having discovered that his mum in fact isn’t dead:

“Then he said, “You read the letters.”
Then I could hear that he was crying because his breath sounded all bubbly and wet, like it does when someone has a cold and they have lots of snot in their nose.”

As stated earlier, Christopher has little or no understanding of human emotions, which is evident from this extract. When he sees his father crying, he perhaps knows it’s bad, but doesn’t understand that he is supposed to feel sad too, which all amounts to him being hard to handle for the reader as well, as it is simply quite aggravating to see such a display of complete ignorance.

Without knowing a lot about autism myself, I find this book rather enlightening. It very cleverly portrays the problems entailing an autistic child, and the immense wear raising such a child exerts on the family and people around him. In other words it’s not only Christopher’s story that’s touching, but his parents’ too, how they struggle, and how we would most probably struggle in the same situation. Speaking for myself at least, it is very strong how Christopher doesn’t understand that his parents love him to the same extent that someone else would, and how he renounces his father completely just because his father killed a dog, even after he explains why he did it; an explanation I would easily have been happy with.

The book is not written very complicatedly. It is in fact quite simple, the language plain and the structure uniform. It is a joy to read, and easy, as aforementioned; which is why I read it the same day I bought it. The language being as said contributes to the portrayal of Christopher’s simple but meaningful observations of his surroundings and to provide a feeling for just what happens inside his head. An example of this language would be the immanent usage of “then.” Starting paragraphs with “Then this and this” and also every time someone says something “Then he said:” is very useful in showing how Christopher is dependent on systems and such, and doesn’t really think very differently of the world; rather he categorises the events and list them systematically. This contributes to that same feeling Erlend Loe, my preferred Norwegian author, invokes with the protagonist of Naiv.Super. (Naïve.Super. in English).

I can safely suggest this book as a good book to read; however I would suggest to take it in smaller portions than the whole at once. At least I found this to be a bit tiring, and I found myself getting aggravated by Christopher in the end, because of his different schemes and ways. It is easy reading, very easy indeed, and being captivating as described above, I found it hard to put down. With this said I must also add that I found it simply quite enjoyable to read, and do believe all people with some sort of heart will also be moved by Christopher’s story.

Nietzschean themes in ‘Hemsöborna’ by August Strindberg (Free translation of title, The villagers of Hemsö)

Language and nationality: Swedish

Pages: 140

‘Hemsöborna’ is one of August Strindberg’s most famous works of prose; Strindberg himself being, perhaps, the finest of all Swedish authors.

‘Hemsöborna’ starts out with the story protagonist, Carlsson, arriving to the small archipelago community Hemsö, outside Stockholm. The book sets in what is perceived to be the the end of the 19th century, a time when Sweden is still, largely speaking, a strong monarchy with few signs of a wide spread and prospering parliament; that is to say, that Sweden is ruled by the privileged upper class. (As opposed to from the 1930’s and onwards, from when Swedish democracy has been coloured by a strong Social Democratic tendency.)
Carlsson is to be working as a farmhand on a farm estate; the farm has previously been in the hands of ‘old (Mr.) Floden’, but since his passing away, the state of the farm has been declining steadily, and an outsider leader, experienced with the business, has to be called in to bring the farm back to its previous order.
Head of the farm is, at the time of Carlsson’s arrival, Madam Flod – ‘old Floden’s’ widower – together with her young son, Gusten. Madam Flod immediatly takes a liking to Carlsson, though Gusten, the son, remains suspicious and questioning about the newcomer. He fears that Carlsson, who is of a lower class than Madam Flod and Gusten, will aspire to take over the farm – or rather, steal it away from them. Gusten is quite right in suspecting this, as becomes evident later on in the book.
Carlsson, a skilled handyman, raises the farm from its disorderly state, to becoming a small luxury summer resort for wealthy city-dwellers, to be gaining benefits from trade, and he manages to sustain good harvests throughout the years of his stay.
On an overall, Carlsson becomes an influential figure in the small community, and even gets voted to hold political office as the communal spokesman. In addition, he marries the old widower, Madam Flod, and in effect, tried to lay his hands on the ownership of the farm estate. The book does, however, come to a tragic defilation, when both Madam Flod and Carlsson dies; Madam Flod from symptoms of age, and Carlsson from being swallowed by the lake, after falling through the winter ice.

What takes place in ‘Hemsöborna’ is, essentially, what I would call – with some arrogance, I am willing to admit – a Nietzschean drama. Nietzsche mentiones in one of his minor essays that he has pen correspondants all over Europe; correspondants of genius character; in this context, he mentions Stockholm. I am inclined to believe that this correspondant of Stockholm was Strindberg, seeing as the two were contemporary, and that Strindberg’s many works contains the same ideas that Nietzsche consistently expresses throughout his vast collection of works – this is to be seen, particularly, in Strindberg’s play Miss Julie.
Evident in ‘Hemsoborna’ is a power struggle; here, the subordinate working class, in the form of Carlsson, meet the upper class in the form of Madam Flod and her son, Gusten. Carlsson has learned many skills and knows how to run a farm, this in contrast to the farm’s real owners. Carlsson, almost on his own, makes the farm a good and prosperous one. On the other hand, Madam Flod and Gusten enjoys the privilege of being of a noble, or somewhat noble, trait. The books many smaller intrigues explores precisely this topic; how one who is willing to have power, may achieve it, but who those who truly have power, in the end always will be protecting it. Carlsson, desperatly wanting to achieve something, wanting to be cherished and praised, does his best to attain power and status, whereas Madam Flod and Gusten lazily sits back, and watches him bring money to the farm.
The way the book ends, with Carlsson facing death in the most horrible and painful of ways – by drowning in a frozen winter lake – and Gusten living (it suits to be mentioned here, that Gusten abandons Carlsson on the ice that is about the crack), in order to keep leading the farm as its rightful owner, clearly shows what Strindberg thinks of society’s current standings. In Sweden at the time when Strindberg wrote this work of literature, a good name meant more than personal excellence, ambition and success.

The same conflict, revolving around the power theme, occurs between men and women – this in particular between Carlsson and Madam Flod, but also between Carlsson and one the summer guests, a noble girl called Ida, whom Carlsson falls desperatly in love with. Strinberg does here again explore the same ideas that Nietzsche has been perceived to have done. Nietzsche writes in ‘Thus Spoke Zarathustra’, through the character of an old lady who speaks to Zarathustra, that ‘when you go to women, don’t forget the whip’. However sadomasochistic this may sound, and however much undeserved critique Nietzsche has received as for being misogynistic (as have Strindberg), this applies to something different than merely taking on a violent side when dealing with women. In life, men and women fight on equal terms, and nothing is to be said against that the two genders carry out an eternal fight in between them – for power. “A woman who wants to be equal to men lacks ambition”, someone is known to have said.
Carlsson marries Madam Flod in order to attain a higher level of class, and more status as a true owner of an estate, rather than being a mere farmhand. Madam Flod marries Carlsson for the reason that, as it seems, her flesh is aching for lust; in addition, she marries a strong man, a leader even, that is sure to make her farm prosperous for many years to come.
What seems to be Strindberg’s point in this drama, however, is that the women always appear to have the last word in an intrigue. Before her death, Madam Flod makes sure that her son, Gusten, burns the legal contract that makes Carlsson the rightful owner of the farm after marriage has been ended. Instead, Gusten will inherit the farm estate, and Carlsson will be left with nothing.
The small affair that Carlsson has with the noble Ida, before his marriage with Madam Flod, also ends in a way that is to Carlsson’s dismay. Over the summer, Carlsson and Ida has had an affair, but when Ida goes back to Stockolm over the winter, she scolds Carlsson in front of her friends, makes fun of him and his manners, and calls him a poor peasant. Here it is obvious that both class and gender issues are involved. Carlsson is of course no-one to defend himself – he is merely a farmhand, and more, he is not a man of the city and its ways.

There are numerous intrigues and problems in ‘Hemsoborna’ that is worth discussing, though at the moment, I will satisfy with having elaborated, if only just a bit, on the matters of gender and class in particular. What is most essential to mention is what an astonishingly excellent work of literature ‘Hemsoborna’ is. It is one those books that one can read five or ten times, and for each time find new problems, new intrigues and new ideas to discuss. It is not really one of those books that cathes your attention and makes you want to read and read until the book is finished, no – that would be another bullshit crime/mystery novel a la the Da Vince Code. This is a true masterwork of literature that explores our very central themes in life, and it teaches us of how to look at them, and perhaps, how to deal with them.