Challenge: 50 Books discussion

44. A Dog's Heart An Appalling Story by Mikhail Bulgakov

It is said that a dog is man's best friend. But what if that dog was given a human pituitary gland and suddenly turned human, the pituitary gland of a miscreant and a human of coarse behavior, a slightly grotesque human?

I'm still not sure why the doctor even bothered giving the dog the testicles of a man unless the doctor already figured out that most thinking stems from the lower regions. The dog did try to use his new testicles but Bulgakov left out the details.

I did like the narrative of the dog in the early chapter. Whoo-hoo-oo-hoo-oo-oo! The later shift to third-person narrative was subtle and well handled. And at the end we are brought back to the dog's point-of-view.

Bulgakov created a funny tale that was a metaphor, an analogy, a trope tale of Russia in the 1920's. Written in 1925 the book was immediately banned and only published in 1987. And in 1987 the book was still relevant because little had changed in Russia.

A fun little read. Now I'm off to lick myself.

45. Quicksand by Jun'ichiro Tanizaki

Ok, first the cast: one bored housewife, one timid husband, one impotent young man, and one gorgeous young girl.

A quick recap... bored housewife falls in love with gorgeous young girl but then finds out that she is seeing an impotent young man while the bored housewife's timid husband gets suspicious over everybody seeing everybody so he gets seen too and everyone is lying and scheming and then tears, threats of suicide pacts and general goofiness abounds.

Tanizaki wrote this book in the 1920's about a lesbian relationship. A bit like Fatal Attraction meets Brokeback Mountain meets Romeo & Juliet. Considering the time he wrote it, this was a pretty radical story that is still relevant today. It doesn't feel dated at all.

A good book. Tanizaki understood beauty... that comes through clearly in his writing. He made me really want to lay my eyes on that one gorgeous young girl. I think she could have turned me into a lesbian too.

I like how you give your opinion on them.

count down to 50!

...45...

46. The Code of the Woosters by P.G. Wodehouse

I want to say that this was a 'laugh out loud' kind of book but I'd be lying because I don't laugh out loud when reading a book nor have I seen many people laugh out loud while reading a book. I think there may be exceptions to this but have no explanations for this phenomena except maybe the possibility of drugs or the lack thereof. I do laugh inside my head pretty loudly and with this book the inside of my head was roaring. My brain was in tears.

Bertram Wooster and Jeeves are able to solve every problem that comes their way and problems come their way non-stop. I couldn't help but think of Fawlty Towers and Basil Fawlty. I'm pretty sure John Cleese must have read a bunch of Wodehouse. In fact I'd bet something of no value to me that Cleese was a huge Wodehouse fan... something of no value to me not because I don't feel strongly about the Cleese/Wodehouse connection but because I'm a lousy gambler.

It's a story about a cow-creamer, police hats, the formation and break-ups and reformations of marriages, and the enjoyment of a good brandy.

I l. until I c., inside my head that is.

My first Wodehouse. It will not be my last.

...46...

47. In the Miso Soup by Ryu Murakami

Yowza! What can I say about this book? What should I say? Kenji is a tour guide for foreigners visiting Tokyo, but not your ordinary tour guide; he's a sex industry tour guide specializing in providing excursions into the many different type of sex clubs and shops in the sleazy part of town. His American client, Frank, seems a bit off... let me reword that... His American client, Frank, is seriously fried, screwed up beyond repair! You can hear his brain sizzling like the neon lights in the city. The tour guide slowly becomes the tourist as Frank teaches him a thing or two or five about life.

Written in the first person, Kenji convincingly describes the city and the sleaze. And you really start to feel Kenji's uneasiness and confusion planted and nurtured tenderly by Frank. Ryu Murakami amazingly passes that uneasy feeling to you, the reader, and before you know it things happen, things that will shock you, things that will be hard to erase from your memory. You soon feel that you're a witness to a horrible crime and there's not one damn thing you can do about it.

Last year I read Zombie by Joyce Carol Oates, a book about a serial killer from the serial killer's point of view. Let me just say that reading In the Miso Soup is more unsettling and more distressing. Just know what you're getting into before you read this book.

As for the title... it's a metaphor and only explained on the last page. I can tell you though it will not take away from your pleasure of slurping up a hot bowl of the soup. But if you're in Tokyo, in the Kabuki-cho district, you might want to think twice about going into omiai pub, or matchmaking pub. Lessons learned there may be impossible to forget, especially if you see a big American sitting in the corner.

With this book I have now read all of Ryu Murakami's English translated books. Whew... I need a break.

"When you're a kid, getting lost isn't just an event or a situation, it's like a career move. You get this thrill of anxiety and fear and a feeling that you've done something that can never be undone. My sense of myself, of my body, would become very shaky, and I'd feel like I was going to melt into the gray fog all around me. A lot of times I'd start screaming. But adults never pay any attention to a a little kid alone on the street just screaming - crying, maybe, but not screaming On this day I was mostly just afraid but still really excited. And then Mama appeared. All of a sudden she pulled up beside me in the car and said: 'Goodness, it's my little boy!' I started bawling, not because I was happy or relieved to see her but because I was scared. I felt like Mama had merged with the Unknown and must therefore be a completely different person. I thought I somehow had to find a way back to the world I knew, and when Mama went to take me in her arms I shook her off and tried to run away. I wasn't supposed to meet up with Mama here, I was only supposed to see her back in the real world, and so this woman couldn't be my real Mama even though she looked just liker her. So when she grabbed me again I bit her on the wrist, so hard that my jaw went numb. I didn't think I had any choice, I didn't know what else to do. Mama was yelling her head off. I guess I bit right through the skin where there was an artery or something, because blood started gushing out into my mouth, lots of it, and I was biting so hard I couldn't breathe, so I gulped it all down, like a baby nursing at its mother's breast, just sucking up the blood. I felt like I had to, like if I didn't drink it all up I'd suffocate. Have you ever swallowed somebody else's blood, Kenji?"

48. Fire Ants by Gerald Duff

There is no stopping point of advantage between the two parts of your life, the before and that which is coming. All that is is now, a little word and a narrow place where you must stand and one which crumbles off beneath your feet on both sides, of what was and what will be. You cannot reach either place from here.
from the story Texas Wherever You Look

This book of 15 short stories is a real gem. Gerald Duff captures the southern voice honestly without the stereotyped southern drawl and the "you come back now, you hear?" phrases... his words cover you like a worn quilt on a cool, humid southern night. Slipping into this book is effortless and more than a little welcoming. His people are real. Some are slightly damaged, broken by hard use over long years, or hungry for something lacking in their environment, or just plain damaged. I couldn't help but think of Faulkner while reading this book, especially when visiting with the Holt family (on three separate occasions).

Some of the characters are loosely linked through the stories. The different times and narratives foster a familiarity with their history.

In Duff's stories you will meet an old lady who lies down with fire ants, a preacher who looks for God during a hunt, a man who is determined to make his dream come true, an aspiring poet confused with dating practices, and a blind man who once saw a skinned rabbit. And you will meet the Holt family.

"Yeah. People will tell you anything when they want something from you. I learned that years ago." I was in no position then to doubt anything she said, so I nodded a lot to show I was in agreement with what she'd just told me, though the fact was at that point in my life nobody had yet to want anything from me enough to lie to me to get it. I had a lot to look forward to.
from the story The Bliss of Solitude

49. The End of the Affair by Graham Greene

Bendrix loves Sarah. Bendrix hates Sarah. Sarah loves Bendrix. Sarah is married but doesn't love Henry. Sarah thinks she believes in God. Sarah loves God. Sarah Hates God. Sarah loves God. Bendrix doesn't believe in God. But Bendrix hates God. Bendrix Hates Henry. Bendrix thinks maybe there is a God. Bendrix hates himself. Bendrix hates Smythe. Bendrix loves Sarah...

That is the story in a nutshell. I found this book tedious and it started trying my patience. I didn't like any of the characters in the book. They were all stupid and pathetic except for Sylvia Black but she only made a cameo appearance for a couple of pages. Brian loved those few pages.

Brian loved Sylvia Black. Brian hated Bendrix. Brian hated Sarah. Brian hated Henry. Brian hated Smythe. Brian hated Parkis. Brian liked Parkis.

Greene is a masterful writer. The craft is all there nice and shiny, word after word. The question, 'Is there a God?', was the common thread throughout the book as was the thin line separating love from hate. This book just didn't connect much with me. Brian likes Greene. Brian didn't like The End of the Affair.

...48...49

50. Diary of a Bad Year by J.M. Coetzee

An old writer is commissioned to write a series of opinions for a German publication. He hires a hot little typist, hot being a young, sexy, female from the same apartment building. This young typist, though living with a loser Australian 'Warren Buffet' wannabe, is not dumb. And this is where the story, or stories, take off.

Each page is divided into three sections and the story is told from the perspective of each character. I started by reading each page from top to bottom then switched to reading the opinion or essay piece of each chapter, then flipping back to catch up on the typist and writer's relationship, and then flipping back yet again to read about the relationship between the typist and her lover idiot. Sounds tedious and frustrating, but it's really not. The sections are generally only 2 to 3 pages long. The connections of the three separate narratives are sometimes subtle, follow slightly different time lines, and weave together beautifully to create a new way of telling a story.

What I found interesting is how the old writer's opinions were slowly influenced by the opinions of the young typist. The interactions between these two became an enriching influence to each live. The Australian 'Warren Buffet' wannabe remained a loser throughout the book.

Thanks to the final opinion, I now feel compelled to read Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, and soon.

WOO HOO 50!!!!!!!!!!!!!

51. Broken April by Ismail Kadare

What an eye-opener of a book. I never realized that something like the vendetta existed in such a serious and organized fashion. On the high plateaus of northern Albania, the north country rrafsh, the people live by the code, by the Kanun. This is a written set of codes that covers all aspects of living, and dying. The Gjakmarrja, blood feud, is the focus of this book.

When Gjorg's brother is killed by a neighbor, it becomes Gjorg's duty to avenge his death. This immediately marks the end of Gjorg's life because the Gjakmarrja is never ending. The book begins with the narrative following Gjorg then shifts to a honeymooning couple from the city of Tirana visiting the plateau region and then to the steward of the blood, the man in charge of receiving the blood tax. The alternating narratives provide differing perspectives on the land of the rrafsh and the Kanun.

The mountain regions are believed to be the home of the gods and the people living there are like titans.

It is a sad, brutal little book and a great starting point for reading Ismail Kadare... one of my favorite books by this Albanian writer.

52. Chronicle of a Death Foretold by Gabriel García Márquez

Loss of honor, loss of virtue, loss of innocence, loss of life, loss of the facts... much was lost in this little book.

Bayardo marries Angela. Bayardo on his honeymoon night realizes that Angela is no Angel, pure and simple, pun intended. Angela names her violator, poor Santiago. And poor Santiago gets butchered.

And don't worry, these are not spoilers. You learn all of this in the first few pages.

Told by an old friend years after the event took place, this is the chronicle of a death foretold... as the title of the book might suggest.

Seems everyone in town knew who, where, why, when, and how Santiago was going to get it... except for poor Santiago.

An excellent little book by an excellent writer. Read it.

soory...I had company this weekend!

53. The Haunted Dolls' House by M.R. James

A creepy set of little short stories by a man who seemed to enjoy describing the appearances of houses and churches. I actually had to look this M.R. James up to see if he was an architect. He really does go on about the buildings. And, he uses funny antiquated words that aren't even in my dictionary.

But all of that aside, his stories were great. Fear is always just out of sight. You feel it but can't quite see it. Imagine the comfort of your pillow in your cozy bed. Now imagine stretching in bed and rolling over and sticking your hand under your pillow and into something that felt furry and had teeth... his stories are kind of like that... even with buildings and funny words.

54. The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy And Other Stories by Tim Burton

This is a strange book. It is very short. It is poetry by Tim Burton supported by little drawings by Tim Burton. I don't know what to say.

Most of the poems are about children who are different, mostly different in appearances, and most of these children have a hard time coping with these appearances. But if I was a kid drawn by Tim Burton I would definitely have issues. Some of the poems are slightly disturbing. Most are funny. Some are just bizarre. The artwork is great.

The Girl with Many Eyes

One day in the park
I had quite a surprise.
I met a girl
who had many eyes.

She was really quite pretty
(and also quite shocking!)
and I noticed she had a mouth,
so we ended up talking.

We talked about flowers,
and her poetry classes,
and the problem she'd have
if she ever wore glasses.

It's great to know a girl
who has so many eyes,
but you really get wet
when she breaks down and cries.

55. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

Tolstoy's book 'Levin'... I mean 'Anna Karenina' though large, seems small... though simple, is also complex. Over 800 pages for I love her, I despise her... he loves me, he despises me, I have a son, a daughter, he loves others? train tracks are great decision makers... why am I here?

My relationship with Anna started with infatuation, turned into indifference, then an extreme dislike bordering on hatred, and ended with pity... then I went and had a sandwich.

Levin on the other hand made me wonder if maybe in another life (if I believed in such things) I was a Russian farmer. Today I'm a Landscape Architect (not related to farming as much as I wished) with much the same questions and problems that troubled Levin throughout the book.

As with War and Peace, when I finished Part 7 and continued with Part 8, the last section of the book, I started to wonder if Tolstoy had problems with identifying that point where he should end a story. But as I read and reread parts of Part 8 I began to realize that it was my favorite part of the book... part, part, part... section!

Levin finds the answer to the question that had been bothering him... Why? And the answer he realized was with him all the time. He was just too busy looking around it.

I think I preferred 'War and Peace' to 'Levin'... I mean 'Anna Karenina'. But both books prove that Tolstoy was a master of transforming blank pages into many different lives... good stuff. good sandwich too.

56. Dreamtigers by Jorge Luis Borges

I read a book while sitting in 24C in a big metal flying tube. A book written by Borges or dreamed by Borges or maybe it was just my dream, a dream about Homer or Shakespeare. It may also have just been symbols that I glanced at that only I could decipher in my own simple way. Could be the symbols were just forgotten memories or the stripes of tigers or falling rain. I dreamed this book. And I dreamed that I saw the face of Borges.

"A man sets himself the task of portraying the world. Through the years he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms instruments, stars, horses, and people. Shortly before his death, he discovers that that patient labyrinth of lives traces the image of his face."

I touched a face sitting in 24C in a big metal flying tube...

57. Natasha And Other Stories by David Bezmozgis

This was a collection of short stories loosely related (some looser than others) about Russian Jewish immigrants living in Toronto and how they adjust to Canadian life... eh.

Bezmozgis, as is the case with many 'new' writers, is compared to just about every living and dead writer that has made their mark in the literary world... well, forget about the comparisons. Bezmozgis speaks his own voice... oy, eh.

Short story collections are hard for me to rate. Some of these stories deserve 5 stars some 3. So if my math is correct, I give the book a 4. The title story 'Natasha' is probably my favorite story in the book and I'm assuming Mr Bezmozgis was partial to this one too since he stuck the name on the cover... although I like the title 'Roman Berman, Massage Therapist' better.

58. Daudet Lettres de Mon Moulin by Alphonse Daudet

Reading this book is like taking a little vacation in southern France in the mid 1800's. Not a bad place or time to be. Daudet had the ability to make the countryside come alive in his pages. His descriptions of the environment and his surroundings were beautifully rendered. This is a book of observations, folk tales, daily comings and goings as told from his windmill.

If you have ever passed the night in the open under the stars, you will know that while we are sleeping a mysterious world awakens in the solitude and in the silence. Then the streams sing even more clearly, and on their pools dance little lights like flames. All the spirits of the mountains come and go as they will, and the air is filled with faint rustlings, imperceptible sounds, as if one were hearing the branches burgeoning and the grass growing. The day gives life to the world of humans and animals, but the night gives life to the world of things.

59. The Bread of Those Early Years by Heinrich Böll

So this guy really likes bread because during or right after WWII he was poor and hungry. And he really hates his job. He fixes washing machines. And he likes the boss' daughter. Then he meets a girl he used to know when he was younger and he goes crazy with love. He really likes bread. He really hates his job. He doesn't like his boss' daughter anymore. And he remembers things. I think he should die. The dying part is how I ended the book.

Böll does interesting things with weaving color throughout his description. Green is a good color. And he kept the book short. And he made me want to eat bread. That's 3 things... so three stars.

60. Trout Fishing in America by Richard Brautigan

This is the first time I've met Trout Fishing in America. And although I fished almost everyday in my youth and caught hundreds of Trout, I never realized that the guy with me was Trout Fishing in America. We'd always stop at Ledet's Supermarket and buy bread, ham, and a small jar of mayonnaise on our way to the trout rooms. We'd sit in our small boat with corks bobbing in the room and eat ham sandwiches. We'd look at the sky and see rabbits, angels, or toaster ovens in the clouds. And we'd appreciate the freedom to sit in a little boat with corks bobbing and eating ham sandwiches... with mayonnaise.

This book is a travel book of sorts. It reintroduced me to America. And streams. With trout. In another time. Trout Fishing in America is alright.

I remember mistaking and old woman for a trout stream in Vermont, and I had to beg her pardon.

'Excuse me,' I said. 'I thought you were a trout stream.'

'I'm not,' she said.

61. Aimez-vous Brahms by Françoise Sagan

I've read two romance novels in my lifetime. The first, A Prescription for Love or STDs, was about a bunch of physically challenged people with weird eyes that sparkled, flaring nostrils and hair that was unruly. This, the second, was about a bunch of French lovers. And the French really know how to screw up and complicate love. Or maybe I just don't appreciate love's complexity. Or maybe I just don't give a shit. Anyway, the lady is old (39 years old! My goodness she's on death's bed). Her stupid and thoughtless lover that sleeps with young girls is 41 and the lady's new lover and cause of her confusion is 25. I'm not sure why I state the ages. Maybe because it's just mentioned in the book a million times.

I really must have enough of her, he thought; when I start worrying about a woman's vocabulary, the end is in sight.

What a riot!

So... the French, Paris, love... I'm going back to the crazy Japanese now.

62. Salmonella Men on Planet Porno Stories by Yasutaka Tsutsui

I've often thought that if I placed my left foot forward first instead of my right or sneezed 3 times in a row and held in the 4th or hiccuped and coughed just right, reality would probably shift a little to the side revealing a parallel reality, a reality that would at first appear slightly screwed and skewed but then would feel just like any another humdrum reality. I often think of such silly things. I often get the hiccups.

Tsutsui evidently hiccuped and coughed just right. This book of stories may at first seem absurd but when you stop and think about it, they could be the real thing. Isn't our reality absurd? Some of the stories though totally outlandish seemed familiar. Like any book of short stories some fall flat and some are just brilliant. The title story falls in between.

And now as my little fingers peck at this keyboard creating symbols that appear as insults to a tribe of people living in the remote jungles of Borneo I'm thinking I should have released that 4th sneeze.

63. The Eye by Vladimir Nabokov

After reading a crazy Japanese book of short stories I jumped into this Nabokov and sputtered and paused and reread sections just to get my mind on the right track. Nabokov is a genius when it comes to stringing words together and I didn't want to skim over them. His words deserved my utmost attention. I loved some of his sentences.

The story was interesting. As I type this I'm wondering who I am, who I really am. The Brian that people see. I know what I see but I'm biased. I liked the idea that one continues to live through the memories of others and when that last person who remembers you dies, well, so do you... unless of course you wrote a bunch of books that bear your name in big letters on the front cover or you wrote and performed 'Purple Haze' or you just never die.

My favorite part of the story was in the end when the narrator visited the florist and looked into the mirror. I thought that what Nabokov did in those few pages was brilliant. If I say anymore I'll spoil it...

Guess I'm putting off Lolita so should get to that soon.

64. Novel without a Name by Duong Thu Huong

This novel needs no name although I guess Novel without a Name is officially a name. It's about war, the Vietnam war, from the north Vietnamese perspective. The Americans are the bad guys... so are the south Vietnamese. The north won. But everyone lost. This is not a book of propaganda. It's a sorrowful tale of a society lost in the machine.

This is a brutal book. It's not filled with gruesome images of war but with pictures of a life lost. The narrator joined the war to fight for glory. Ten years later he realizes not only his mistake, but the mistake of a country that bought the ideals of dead men named Marx and Lenin with the blood of innocent people. His reminiscences of childhood life contrast starkly with his present situation. But it is these memories that keep him alive.

The tenor of the book was sluggish, hazy, muddy... the pace fast. You could feel the oppression in the jungles, the hunger and fatigue.

Duong Thu Huong is an excellent writer. Vietnam does not like her. Her books are banned.

65. Detective Story by Imre Kertész

1. A man is escorted into a building. The security camera captures him entering. He is questioned over some sort of alleged corruption in the government. Questioning is physical process. Early the next morning he is found dead. The security camera did not capture his death.

2. A blogger writes about the government's wrong doing and backs it up with documentation. In the early morning hours the secret police enter his house and he is thrown in jail. No trial. No questions.

3. A young man, son of a prominent businessman, is frustrated with his life. He feels trapped in a police state. He wants to change things. The secret police believe that there is an impending atrocity. Everyone is guilty but not everyone can be questioned. They hone in on the young man and his father. One thing leads to another. One can only move forward. It's destiny, and destiny is the leader of the secret police.

The first two situations are real. They happened recently on the planet I live on. The third situation takes place in Imre Kertész's Detective Story. This is a book that is probably more relevant today than when it was first published in Budapest in 1977. The current situations in the world have made everyone a little paranoid. We've all become a little neurotic, some severely psychotic. Unfortunately, it is the latter that generally rule our domains.

Detective Story is part horrific and part heartwarming. It is a comedy of errors. It is also a more enjoyable read than Liquidation. Plus, Kertész uses the word 'thingy' often. You just have to love a Nobel Prize winner that uses the word 'thingy'. I highly recommend this book to anyone who hasn't read any Kertész.

I'll be quiet now. I've probably talked too much...

66. Willard and His Bowling Trophies by Richard Brautigan

Strangers would come into the room and say, "My God, what's that?" pointing at Willard and his bowling trophies.

"That's Willard and his bowling trophies," was always the reply.

"Willard and his what?"

"Bowling trophies."

"You mean bowling trophies?"

"Yeah, bowling trophies."

"What's he doing with them?"

"Why not?"

Constance and Bob live upstairs. Bob likes reading ancient Greek poetry and while reenacting scenes from The Story of O with Constance. Pat and John live downstairs. They live with Willard, a papier-maché bird that lords over a room full of bowling trophies.

That's one of the strange things about people living in apartment buildings. They barely know what anybody else is doing. The doors are made out of mystery.

The Logan brothers were good American boys who lived at home where mom baked cakes, pies and cookies and dad worked on transmissions.

If his wife were a transmission there would be a lot less cookies and pies and cakes in the house.

The Logan brothers were also bowling fanatics and won many trophies. But one night the trophies went missing.

Thus the book, Willard and His Bowling Trophies.

Oh, and the Logan brothers had three sisters. They did strange things. But you have to wait until the last chapter to find out about them.

Brautigan puts words together you wouldn't expect to see together but it works wonderfully and paints a little picture of Americana circa 1970's.

67. The Hunting Gun by Yasushi Inoue

This was a beautiful little book that took me by surprise. It is poetry in prose form... touching and sad.

A man is seen walking up a mountain with a pipe in his mouth and a gun strapped across his back. He is seen by the narrator as the personification of loneliness and writes a short poem about him that's published in a hunting magazine. The man recognizes himself in the poem and mails the narrator 3 letters to explain his cloak of emptiness and possibly share his burdens... and the story begins... a story of infidelity, sorrow, and loneliness.

The first letter is from the lonely man's mistress' daughter, the second from his wife, and the third from the mistress.

These three letters are enough to drive anyone up into the mountains on an early autumn morning with a gun.


"I and Misugi too will be sinners. And since it is impossible for us not to be sinners, let us be great sinners."

68. The Izu Dancer & Other Stories by Yasumari Kawabata and Yasushi Inoue

A book of short stories that offers a sampling of two great writers, Yasunari Kawabata and Yasushi Inoue.

The title story, The Izu Dancer is by Kawabata and is about a small troupe of traveling performers and a student infatuated with their young drummer girl. A beautiful little piece.

Inoue's contributions include The Counterfeiter, Obasute, and The Full Moon. All three stories deal with separation, loneliness, and alienation. Inoue takes the isolation, the loneliness of the character... a minor chord... and strokes it into the beautiful riff of nature. If he were a musician, he'd be singing the blues... with a smile as he looked out in his mind's eye over the mountains in the early autumn.

Kawabata is no stranger to me and I love his work. Inoue is fast becoming my newest friend in reading.

69. The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches by Matsuo Basho

Matsuo Basho was a poet. He traveled throughout Japan. He wrote poems about it... and short essays. Prose and poetry mix. It is a beautiful thing when the two meet seamlessly.


...it was a great pleasure to see the marvelous beauties of nature, rare scenes in the mountains or along the coast, or to visit the sites of temporary abodes of ancient sages where they had spent secluded lives, or better still, to meet people who had entirely devoted themselves to the search for artistic truth. Since I had nowhere permanent to stay, I had no interest whatever in keeping treasures, and since I was empty-handed, I had no fear of being robbed on the way. I walked at full ease, scorning the pleasure of riding in a palanquin, and filled my hungry stomach with coarse food, shunning the luxury of meat. I bent my steps in whatever direction I wished, having no itinerary to follow. My only mundane concerns were whether I would be able to find a suitable place to sleep at night and whether the straw sandals were the right size for my feet. Every turn of the road brought me new thoughts and every sunrise gave me fresh emotions. My joy was great when I encountered anyone with the slightest understanding of artistic elegance. Even those whom I had long hated for being antiquated and stubborn sometimes proved to be pleasant companions on my wandering journey. Indeed, one of the greatest pleasures of traveling was to find a genius hidden among weeds and bushes, a treasure lost in broken tiles, a mass of gold buried in clay, and when I did find such a person, I always kept a record with the hope that I might be able to show it to my friends.

To talk casually
About an iris flower
Is one of the pleasures
Of the wandering journey.

Regardless of weather,
The moon shines the same;
It is the drifting clouds
That make it seem different
On different nights. written by a priest

Autumn air whispers
A fallen leaf speaks gently
Basho is with us. Brian

70. Nine by Andrzej Stasiuk

She wanted them to come back, to open the door and talk to her and touch her, because human pain is better than inhuman fear.

I've had this book for a while. Bought it because I liked the cover and the big red number '9' for a title was cool. I like the number '9'. But about the book...

I won't even attempt to pronounce this writer's name and compared to the street and neighborhood names in the book his name is as easy to say as 'Bob'. The book was originally written in Polish. The English translation was beautiful.

Stasiuk, or 'Bob' as I called him, writes like a poet. The prose is a bit stream-of-conscience like. Reading '9' is like being a wraith floating around the streets of Warsaw bumping into some of the seedy characters trying to get by in a new capitalistic society. It's a simple story. Pawel owes money to a loan shark. They are after him. He runs around the city and mixes with drug dealers and low lifers. But Stasiuk holds this simple tale together by introducing the main protagonist, the city of Warsaw in the 90's.

The book is dark. It is dismal. There are some light moments (the crippled cat not being one). I'm glad this book wasn't called '3'... because I might not have bought it.

"A book like this makes most British and American writing seem so asinine." - Tom Tomaszewski, Independent on Sunday

Read the entire review here: http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-ent...

And the NY Times review is here: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/10/boo...

Stasiuk on Beckett's face: "I would like to go to Ireland. I'm a great Van Morrison fan. And Samuel Beckett is a first-degree star. Of all writers in the world, his face is the most beautiful. I have written two essays about his face. His way of ageing was just so much in tune with the way minerals and trees age."

The complete Guardian article is here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2001/...

71. Magnetic Field by Ron Loewinsohn

This book starts off like a crime novel with a couple of brutal scenes and some really screwed up characters. Then it's not.

Being violated... being the violator...

If this book is like a house and you just walked through the front door you would expect to be in the foyer or living room. You know that the door to the right will be a kitchen but when you look inside it's a porch. What you thought would be the bathroom turns out to be the garage... this book kind of does that to you. Nothing is quite what you expect but it's exactly what you thought it would be. The story appears to shift directions but then you realize that it really didn't.

It's not a philosophical book but it does make you think about 'where' you are and 'who' you are (sorry for the apostrophes... and now the parenthesizes). Think a bit Calvino but not as meta. Loewinsohn uses repetition and coincidence beautifully. Walls and mirrors will never be the same... I think I might prefer a room in the deserts of the West where the horizon is out of reach and there are no surfaces to hang a Dick Tracy print. My house no longer feels right.

Kind of hard for me to articulate my feelings about this book. Just read it. It is good.



"Lots of beautiful things," he went on, "are filled with pain and darkness. This house, next door."

Brian wrote: "71. Magnetic Field by Ron Loewinsohn

This book starts off like a crime novel with a couple of brutal scenes and some really screwed up characters. Then it's not.

Bei..."

Sounds intriguing enough to give it a shot.

72. The Following Story by Cees Nooteboom

An instant can last a long time. It can last as long as this short novel. If it were a long novel it could last that long. I don't think you can apply time to an instant.

Time is measured by our physical contact with the world... and with clocks. I think our soul measures time differently. Nooteboom is good with words. And he is great with ideas. When he puts the two together you get something like this book. It's short, in a physical sense, and long in a soulful way.

Herman Mussert goes to sleep in Amsterdam and wakes up in Lisbon and he talks about his life and then you realize what's going on.

I believe the mind could recall every detail of our life in a second but because we're still living in this shell of a body we wouldn't be able to understand it. Our mind is too smart for us.

Clocks served two purposes, in my opinion. The first was to tell people the time, and the second to impress upon me that time is an enigma, an intractable measureless phenomenon into which, out of sheer helplessness, we have introduced a semblance of order. "Time is the system that must prevent everything from happening at once."

-----

If one is immortal oneself, the stench emanating from mortals must be intolerable.

73. The Wasp Factory A Novel by Iain Banks

Something howled. Some animal - my God, I hoped it wasn't a human making that noise - screamed in torment. It was a rising, anguished wail, the note produced only by an animal in extremis, the noise you hope no living thing ever has to make.

-----

What a delightful little book. It should have been a favorite pick in the 'beach reading' category since most of the story takes place on the dunes and shores of a small island in Scotland. Oh... but it is macabre and slightly offensive to animal lovers, what with burning dogs, catapulting hamsters wearing shuttlecock skirts, and homemade bombs and bunnies, it certainly is the SPCA's biggest nightmare. But there is a story here, an interesting story of growing up different. I guess you could call it one of those 'coming of age' books... with a twist.

Two years after I killed Blyth I murdered my young brother Paul, for quite different and more fundamental reasons than I'd disposed of Blyth, and then a year after that I did for my young cousin Esmerelda, more or less on a whim.

That's my score to date. Three. I haven't killed anybody for years, and don't intend to ever again.

It was just a stage I was going through.

This is a book you would either love or hate. 'The Times (London) called it "Rubbish". 'The Scotsman' says "There's nothing to force you, having been warned, to read it; nor do I recommend it."

'The Independent' calls it "One of the top 100 novels of the century" and 'The New York Times' says "Brilliant... irresistible... compelling."

Brian says "ask the Wasp Factory and pray before the alter of Old Saul for guidance on whether you should pick up this book. It is a delightful read if you find delight in dark, twisted minds".

74. The Uncommon Reader A Novella by Alan Bennett

'Once I start a book I finish it. That was the way one was brought up. Books, bread and butter, mashed potato - one finishes what's on one's plate. That's always been my philosophy.'

... so says the queen... and I concur, for good or bad.

'At eighty things do not occur; they recur.'

... I'll have to wait a few years to validate that last quote...

One day (and I really think this book should start with 'Once upon a time...') the queen picked up a book from a mobile library... purely by chance, you see. It was not an exciting book... rather dry... a book by Ivy Compton-Burnett. But the act of reading proved interesting. So she got another and another and the queen became an avid reader and a less enthused queen. Such was the power of words.

The Uncommon Reader is a short novella... or witty fable. And although it is a light and fun read, it does offer interesting insights into what a reader is and how an involved prolific reader might just want to take that next step and pick up a pen and paper...

'Am I alone', she wrote, 'in wanting to give Henry James a good talking-to?'

It was Henry James she was reading one teatime when she said out loud, 'Oh, do get on.'

hehe... that was funny; so is the book.

This 50 books thing was certainly no challenge for you my friend!

Yeah Dan... it's been a good year for reading a bad one for productivity.

75. Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino

Marco Polo describes the many cities he's visited to Kublai Khan. Between the city descriptions Polo and Khan talk. This is Invisible Cities. If you're looking for story, if you're looking for character, if you're looking for lost symbols conjured up by a certain Brown... you won't find it here. You will find wonderful ideas and beautiful descriptions of cities and people. This was a little book that required a slow reading to enjoy the dense writing of Calvino.

One day I hope to look up at the city of Baucis and wave.


'After a seven days' march through woodland, the traveler directed toward Baucis cannot see the city and yet he has arrived. The slender stilts that rise from the ground at a a great distance from one another and are lost above the clouds support the city. You climb them with ladders. On the ground the inhabitants rarely show themselves: having already everything they need up there, they prefer not to come down. Nothing of the city touches the earth except those long flamingo legs on which it rests and, when the days are sunny, a pierced, angular shadow that falls on the foliage.

There are three hypotheses about the inhabitants of Baucis: that they hate the earth; that they respect it so much they avoid all contact; that they love it as it was before they existed and with spyglasses and telescopes aimed downward they never tire of examining it, leaf by leaf, stone by stone, ant by ant, contemplating with fascination their own absence.'

76. The Woman in Black by Susan Hill

This was a good old-fashioned ghost story, the kind of story that gets into your head, the kind that makes you lock the door... at least it was for me, especially that night, when reading about the noises coming from behind the locked door, and the dog was growling scared, and the noises didn't stop, and the lights went out...

Gothic, Victorian-like story of a woman in black in the northern coastal marshes of England. Trust me... you don't want to see her.

77. The Bells of Nagasaki by Takashi Nagai

"Go to the mountains and meditate! If you stay in the hurly-burly of this world, you'll run around in circles without ever finding your way. You'll become the kind of person who just stamps and screams. But the blue mountains are immovable and the white clouds come and go."

This was Takashi Nagai's advice a few weeks after the atomic bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. This book was non-fiction... unfortunately.

Takashi Nagai was a doctor, a nuclear physicist, and dean of the radiology department in the medical school of the University of Nagasaki and a devout Christian. On Thursday, August 9, 1945 at two minutes past eleven in the morning he was in his office about 700 meters from the epicenter of the blast. From first hand accounts he tells the story of life immediately before the blast, during the blast, and after the blast. That he survived is nothing short of miraculous.

The description of seeing up-close the results of colliding atoms is nightmarish. It starts with the sound of a plane and then... the blinding white light, darkness blacker than night caused by a cloud of debris covering the sun, the coming of a red tinted light, a drop in temperature, the invisible wind, the instant disappearance of a world known... and ends with the appearance of hell on earth.

"No. The sun must have exploded," said Choro.
"Maybe so... the temperature has suddenly dropped." Shiro's voice was thoughtful.
"If the sun explodes, what happens to the earth?" Now it was the anxious voice of Nurse Tsubakiyama.
"It's the end of the world," said Choro with resignation.
They remained silent and waited. No light returned. A minute passed. Someone's watch kept ticking in the darkness. Tick, tick, tick...

Takahi was a scholarly writer before the dropping of the bomb. Afterward, before his death in 1951, he became a poet, artist, humanist, and mystic and wrote over 20 books.

78. Savage Night by Jim Thompson

It's like this... whenever I read one of these 'hard-boiled' crime type novels I can't help but read it in a James Cagney's voice... you see. This I believe was my first Jim Thompson novel and I really did enjoy it. Carl Bigelow aka Charlie 'Little' Bigger arrives in a small town to take care of business for 'The Man' and runs into a little problem with the dames. Having bad teeth, damaged eyes, wearing platform shoes and suffering from consumption doesn't seem to stop him from getting the dames either.

Strange characters (including a hot dame with a baby foot), thrilling plot complete with twists, and an ending to die for... what more could you ask for?

"Sure there's a hell..." I could hear him saying it now, now, as I lay here in bed with her breath in my face, and her body squashed against me... "It is the drab desert where the sun sheds neither warmth nor light and Habit force-feeds senile Desire. It is the place where mortal Want dwells with immortal Necessity, and the night becomes hideous with the groans of one and the ecstatic shrieks of the other. Yes, there is a hell, my boy, and you do not have to dig for it..."

79. The Confusions of Young Törless by Robert Musil

Törless is confused. He goes to an all-boys school. He is confused. He thinks of women. He thinks of men. Things happen. One boy steals. Other boys find out about the theft. They take advantage of this knowledge. Törless is confused. He wants to see cruelty. He's indifferent. He cares. He doesn't care. Visits to the attic and sermons, sermons flavored by Kant, sermons flavored by Indian traditions and myths, sermons served from a confused Törless. Törless is confused. Brian was confused. When Törless started to understand, Brian started to understand. Too much philosophical talk gives me headaches. Then we had WWI, and because we didn't know, we had WWII. Musil evidently knew, but Musil confused me. It was the confusions of an older Brian.

Dying is only a consequence of the way we live. We live from one thought to another, from one feeling to the next. Because our thoughts and feelings do not flow peacefully like a stream, they "occur to us", they drop into us like stones. If you observe yourself very carefully, you will feel that the soul is not something that changes its colours in gradual transitions, but rather that thoughts leap forth from it like numbers from a black hole. One moment you have a thought or a feeling, and all of a sudden there's another one there, as though it had sprung from nowhere. If you pay attention, you can even sense the moment between two thoughts when everything is black. That moment - once we have grasped it - is nothing short of death for us.

Well, dammit... I went and confused myself again...

80. Poachers Stories by Tom Franklin

Man but I loved this book of short stories! I never imagined southern Alabama could be so dark and deadly but there are many things I haven't imagined... yet. I might have to go back to Mobile and visit the place.

Like the blurbs spew out all over the cover of this book... Raymond Carver's in the south... a world created by Cormac McCarthy... imagination of Faulkner... yeah, I could see all of that. And I would add a bit of Stephen King's creepiness to the mix.

The book's namesake is the longest short story and probably one of my favorites. Reading it made me feel all humid and I think moss started growing on me. I know I had mud and muck stuck to my shoes. And getting bit in the neck by a water moccasin really does suck.

Interestingly I read a few reviews over at the Amazon site and the people who didn't like it didn't like it because of the cruelty portrayed to animals... um... what about the cruelty to the humans? What about the title 'Poachers'? Wasn't that sort of a clue as to what might be in the book?

One of the best southern pieces of literature I've read in a long time. It's not about mint juleps, and sisterly love, or making green fried tomatoes. It's about fighting to stay alive and staying alive to fight. It's the south I remember. It really is there.

81. VALIS by Philip K. Dick

I'm not sure how to rate this book. It was good, at times tedious (I'm really not into theological debates or philosophical musings)... but, I liked Horselover Fat aka Philip Dick aka the insane guy.

So take one crazy guy slightly twisted in the head due to taking too many 'uppers', let one of his girl friends jump out of a window, let his wife leave with the kid, kill off another one of his girl friends and then set the poor guy on a course trying to figure out just what we humans are and where are we going. Oh, and be sure to throw in a pink laser beam containing mysterious information and aim it at his brain, and surround him with a handful of other wacky characters. Dip into Greek mythology, gnosticism, Christianity, and an unexplained dead cat... well, it's explained how it died but not the why it died, well, according to little Sophia, the new messaih, the why is because it was stupid. Put all of this together, bring a sane, stable mind to the table (yourself I'm assuming, but I may be wrong) and watch yourself unravel.

It's fiction. It's partly autobiographical. It's a crazy new religion, if I were to use religion in a general sense that's defined as why we're here and where we're going and what we should do to go where we're going.

It confused me until Eric Lampton (Eric Clapton/Peter Frampton combination, name-wise with the mind of Jim Morrison??) and Mini (Brian Eno??) came into the picture and confirmed that all of this was indeed crazy. But then, Horselover Fat came back and I was confused again.

I really don't know what I'm saying here. I really don't know how to discuss this book. I do want to read The Chronicles of Narnia. Funny thing that this book would lead me to that book. But then nothing is really funny... except for Kevin's dead cat.

And one more thing... my number 714 was mentioned in this book. That's cool. Maybe I'll go to India now. Something needs to be found.

82. Zen in the Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury

... the failure to relax a particular tension can lead to madness.

That's probably my favorite line in this short little book about writing. Ray Bradbury put together a few essays about how he writes. He came across kind of nerdy, but hey, he did write The Illustrative Man, one of my favorite science fiction books. I could have done without the poems that ended the book but I read them too. This was my second reading and he said the same thing the second time around... word for word. Funny that.

83. Teatro Grottesco by Thomas Ligotti

If you're one that has nightmares (or daymares) this book will seem familiar. If you're one that usually dreams of fluffy bunnies and flowers that may change if you read this book. What is a nightmare but a familiar place or action that is intensified, put under a magnifying glass until it's presence is overwhelming? I enjoy my nightmares when I can get them because there's always the surety of waking up even if that option isn't evident during the action. Reading Ligotti is like having a waking nightmare... you can always close the book, but would you?

Thomas Ligotti creates people and places that appear just off the edge of what we might consider reality. Pegged as a horror writer, he doesn't build suspense and surprise you with sudden attacks from hideous beasts. He doesn't charge at you with ax brandishing crazy people. Forget the ghosts, spirits and vampires that lurk in other horror tomes. Ligotti's prose slowly wraps around you and pulls you down into places that appear believable, places that seem familiar, and peopled by characters that you may have met (most are of the artistic character). Before you know it, he has brought you into a town you'd rather not visit and introduced you to people you'd rather not know. The horror of Ligotti lies in the familiar that is just slightly skewed.

Outside the walls of the Crimson Cabaret was a world of rain and darkness. At intervals, whenever someone entered or exited through the front door of the club, one could actually see the steady rain and was allowed a brief glimpse of the darkness. Inside it was all amber light, tobacco smoke, and the sound of the raindrops hitting the windows, which were all painted black. On such nights, as I sat at one of the tables in that drab little place, I was always filled with an infernal merriment, as if I were waiting out the apocalypse and could not care less about it. I also like to imagine that I was in the cabin of an old ship during a really vicious storm at sea or in the club car of a luxury passenger train that was being rocked on its rails by ferocious winds and hammered by a demonic rain. Sometimes, I thought of myself as occupying a waiting room for the abyss (which of course was exactly what I was doing) and between sips from my glass of wine or cup of coffee I smiled sadly and touched the front pocket of my coat where I kept my imaginary ticket to oblivion.

84. Imperium in Imperio by Sutton Griggs

"The Bible which the white people gave us, teaches us that we are men. The Declaration of Independence, which we behold them wearing over their hearts, tells us that all men are created equal. If, as the Bible says, we are men; if, as Jefferson says, all men are equal..."

I don't even need to finish the above quote from Sutton Griggs' book Imperium in Imperio for one to see where that simple logic leads. It's clear, but all still so murky in practice.

This book was self-published in 1899 and sold door-to-door or revival tent-to-revival tent making it a best seller of its day. In this book Griggs, a Baptist minister and social activist, creates a scenario where African Americans start a government within a government complete with a mirror congress in Waco, Texas (Waco... so many strange things about that place).

He was a prolific writer, not a great writer... but greatness isn't necessary if the message is clearly conveyed. And it is... in this book.

Now considering the quote above I wonder what Griggs really thought of women, and whether their sex was included in Jefferson's famous quote...

Her pretty face bore the stamp of intellectuality, but the intellectuality of a beautiful woman, who was still every inch a women despite her intellectuality.

85. Quicksand by Nella Larsen

The 2 page introduction written by T.N.R. Rogers nearly drove me to tears with the description of the life of Nella Larsen. And then I moved on to the book and got a little pissed-off with Helga Crane, the main protagonist and the alter-ego of Nella Larsen.

Helga was born to a Danish mother and West Indies father. The father split when Helga was just a young girl and the mother remarried to a white man. They had another daughter and the dark little Helga was basically abandoned. Now you have to admit that is a pretty sad affair.

Helga is educated. She teaches at a southern African-American school. She's got job security and people who love her. But she's restless. Not happy with the current state of affairs of the school. She must move on but needs to hurt the feelings of a couple of men first.

Chicago. Woe is her. No money, no job. But she networks, gets a job and moves to New York's Harlem district where she lives with the high society in a Harlem Mansion. But she's restless. Not happy with the current state of affairs. She must move on but needs to hurt the feelings of a few people first.

Denmark. Her Aunty and Uncle welcome her with open arms. She lives in luxury. Dresses to the nines. Goes to concerts and high society artsy parties. She's proposed to by a prominent artist. But she's restless. Not happy with the current state of affairs. She must move on but needs to hurt the feelings of a few people first.

New York City. Rich. Mingling with the best of Harlem. Lovers past and present. But she's restless. Not happy with the current state of affairs. She must move on but needs to hurt the feelings of a few people first.

Alabama. A preacher's wife. Poor. Birthing like a rabbit. Playing Martha Stewart to the local ladies. But she's restless...

Now I understand that not being fully African-American and not being fully Anglo Saxon at the turn of the century was a precarious position to be in. But it seems she was generally accepted into each place she ran off to. She was just never satisfied. Aside from being materialistic she was also an egoist. She scorned her African-American culture and disdained the Anglo Saxons. Her problem didn't seem to be a racial problem. It appeared to be a personal issue of not 'counting your blessings'.

In my life I've run away from places I didn't like and like Helga was happy for the first couple of years then grew dissatisfied with each locale. But I learned to appreciate the good things about each place I lived. Made new friends. Looked at the world in wide-eyed wonder. But damn Helga, you had friends, wealth, acceptance and still groaned about how hard your life was. You were blind to your blessings. Belittled the friends you had and ruined your life in the process. You have no one to blame but yourself...

Helga reminded me of Anna Karenina. I didn't like Ms Anna but in the end felt pity for her. In Quicksand, I didn't like Ms Helga and in the end still didn't like her. But I enjoyed the book.