Apr. 8th, 2019 02:54 pm
That book by Nabokov
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muckefuckI finished a lot of what I mentioned in my previous reading post--Zweig, Ó Flaithearta, Clement--but I'm still stalled in Motherfoclóir. It's funny how hard an easy read can be when the author annoys you so much. I really am baffled by the widespread acclaim this book has gotten from the Irish, so I guess I'm sticking with it just to prove to myself I haven't missed something.
I started the Mishima but it hasn't really swept me up yet. My memory of reading him for the first time was that his descriptions were enrapturing in their sensuality; here they seem merely odd. At one point, he compares the fall of sunlight on a railing to the limbs of a dismembered infant. Memorable, I grant you, but I'm not really sure what he was trying to indicate in terms of the protagonist's mental state or the flow of events or anything else.
And, in any case, Nabokov seems to be beating him at that game. I'm not sure why it was last year that I up and decided I was long past due at giving him a try nor how I came to settle on Pale fire as the best place to start, but since then I've been looking for a good copy used. Last week, one finally turned up and I jumped right in. Had my weekend been a little less packed with socialising and debauchery, I might have finished it already.
Due to his reputation (particularly as a successor to Joyce) I'd expected it would be a tougher read. I didn't expect so much humour and I certainly wasn't prepared for a homo protagonist. This may have been the book which convinced Edmund White he could write what he wanted and not end up blacklisted. Coming across it in my youth would have really broadened my horizons; since then the landscape has changed so much that it feels like an enjoyable ride over terrain I've already glimpsed.
As an aside, I'm taken aback that his name isn't met by more recognition. Even when I told my older brother he wrote Lolita, it didn't ring any bells. In my mind, he's like Joyce of Faulkner in the pantheon of 20th-century writers everyone has heard of but no one has read. Maybe only the latter part is true.
I started the Mishima but it hasn't really swept me up yet. My memory of reading him for the first time was that his descriptions were enrapturing in their sensuality; here they seem merely odd. At one point, he compares the fall of sunlight on a railing to the limbs of a dismembered infant. Memorable, I grant you, but I'm not really sure what he was trying to indicate in terms of the protagonist's mental state or the flow of events or anything else.
And, in any case, Nabokov seems to be beating him at that game. I'm not sure why it was last year that I up and decided I was long past due at giving him a try nor how I came to settle on Pale fire as the best place to start, but since then I've been looking for a good copy used. Last week, one finally turned up and I jumped right in. Had my weekend been a little less packed with socialising and debauchery, I might have finished it already.
Due to his reputation (particularly as a successor to Joyce) I'd expected it would be a tougher read. I didn't expect so much humour and I certainly wasn't prepared for a homo protagonist. This may have been the book which convinced Edmund White he could write what he wanted and not end up blacklisted. Coming across it in my youth would have really broadened my horizons; since then the landscape has changed so much that it feels like an enjoyable ride over terrain I've already glimpsed.
As an aside, I'm taken aback that his name isn't met by more recognition. Even when I told my older brother he wrote Lolita, it didn't ring any bells. In my mind, he's like Joyce of Faulkner in the pantheon of 20th-century writers everyone has heard of but no one has read. Maybe only the latter part is true.
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