This was not as big of a mindfuck as I thought it'd be.
In the not-so distant, but slightly vague future Tom is tasked with"Have you an arm like God?"
This was not as big of a mindfuck as I thought it'd be.
In the not-so distant, but slightly vague future Tom is tasked with helping the FBI apprehend his best friend Neil, who's started brutally murdering people to prove that meaning and love aren't real and only illusions of the brain.
'Neuropath' is extra interesting because it's based on actual research about the brain - Neil's fantasies about consciousness aren't as fantastical and fake as you'd like to believe as a reader.
It's a violent, unpleasant, unrelenting book about the very worst lengths humans will go to when meaning leaves them. It's at times cruel and heartless, but constantly thought-provoking. If you've ever read anything by Bakker, either this or his fantasy series you know he's bleak. He revels in the meaningless, the dark, the grimy, the dirty, the evil. He asks hard questions and rakes his characters through bloody mud full of pointy, rusty nails.
In person, however, he's awfully pleasant, soft spoken and just plain nice. He visited my university in the spring of 2015 for a lecture titled "Writing after the death of meaning", a lot of it went over my head, I admit, I'm not nearly as intelligent as he is, and philosophy is hard on my brain, but it was immensely interesting. And he mentioned this book. He talked about it as a book that changed people, in a bad way. He mentioned he'd had a friend who'd sort of stopped talking to him after reading it. I understand that, I understand that to some people this might make them honestly sad and depressed. You shouldn't read it if you're prone to paranoia or shit like that. It's a hard book.
It asks this (very simplified): what if we're nothing but brains responding to other brains? What if there's no self, no I controlling our actions? If free will is boogus? What if the brain can be manipulated? What if reality is nothing, if it's an empty shell, if all is, essentially, meaningless?
Not fun, friends.
Apart from the very philosophical themes, it's a pretty good thriller. It's complex, it's surprising, and it had me constantly on the edge of my seat, hoping against hope that all would end well.
I liked it. I liked it a lot. Perhaps because I wasn't very affected by it, and thus felt no need to throw myself in a ditch and perish. I understood the point he was trying to make - or maybe I should say the question he wanted to ask, and I found it incredibly interesting. It's fueled many debates since, and I keep bringing the ideas I got from reading this up in conversation (and I feel okay doing it, because it's, as I said, based on actual research). In that regard it served its purpose; it expanded my horizon and it made me think, really, really think about some very fundamental things.
It's not a book for everyone, and parts of it were perhaps unnecessarily unpleasant, but on the other hand, it wouldn't have made such an impact otherwise.
I believe R. Scott Bakker also said this isn't a book he'd ever recommend to anyone. I wouldn't either. Read it if you find the premise interesting or if - like me - you're really into R. Scott Bakker, but be warned it's somewhat depressing. He wrote it before he had kids, and stated he never could have written it after. The level of cynicism he needed to tap into to present the worldviews of these characters simply wasn't accessible after having kids. When you've read it you get what he means.
The reason it wasn't as big a mindfuck as I expected is probably that I'm very stubborn. To the whole question of "what if we're just brains responding to outside stimuli, what if we don't have a self?" I answer: Who cares. We're in this world and we must make the most of it. Whatever I am, I will do my damnedest to be the best I can be. Don't care if I'm deciding it or my brain is. The result is the same. Be kind, people, and don't hide your douchebag behaviour behind science. ...more
I’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed both ‘Anna and the French Kiss’ and ‘Lola and the Boy Next Door’ by Stephanie Perkins, and yet I was a little appreheI’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed both ‘Anna and the French Kiss’ and ‘Lola and the Boy Next Door’ by Stephanie Perkins, and yet I was a little apprehensive about this. I’m not a huge romance fan, not that I have anything against it when I finally read it, but it’s probably the one genre I’m least likely to seek books in. Maybe this is because I get my romance fix from fanfiction and movies. I’m simply always afraid, when I do pick up a romantic book, that it will end up feeling too bland to me. That I won’t feel the chemistry, or that the guy will be a douchebag and she’ll end up with him anyway. I think I’m a little prejudiced. I should work on that.
However, I really, really liked this book, as I’ve really, really liked the two other books. I’m always hesitant before I start them and then once I get going I forget why I had doubts, because they’ve consistently been imaginative, well written and sweet without being overtly cliché or cheesy.
I think, actually, that this one is my favorite one of the three. Something about Isla and Josh made them seem more real, somehow, less like they were fulfilling a trope and more like it could’ve happened in real life. It was still, of course, at times slightly, but wonderfully, over the top (they’re still rich kids at a boarding school), but it seemed to me that Perkins gave these characters an added maturity that the other two books and its characters lacked a little. I’m not sure how to describe it, but the story in itself felt more real to me.
I loved the dynamic between Isla and Josh, I hated that they got together quickly because I knew it meant they had to go through something bad, however in the end I liked it all the more for bypassing the “characters pine for each other the entire book and then get together in the end” idea. Actually, this may be what felt mature to me: two characters realize their mutual attraction and get together. As much as I love pining (when it happens to other people), I can relate more strongly to what happens to Isla and Josh, especially their doubts and concerns about the relationship – something you don’t get when characters only get together in the very end. It was a nice change.
These books will probably turn into comfort books for me. They’re easily read, they have wonderful characters and they’re on the right side of cute and adorable, without being unrealistic or ridiculous.
‘Isla and the Happily Ever After’ is definitely a great conclusion to the trilogy. We’ll see if it remains my favorite when I someday inevitably reread them, but I think it will. Of the three, this one is the one I can relate to the most. It’s a really lovely book. ...more
This contains 'The Yellow Wall-Paper', 'The Rocking Chair' and 'Old Water'.
'The Yellow Wall-Paper' is well known and a classic piece of feminist writiThis contains 'The Yellow Wall-Paper', 'The Rocking Chair' and 'Old Water'.
'The Yellow Wall-Paper' is well known and a classic piece of feminist writing. It had been on my to-read list for ages, so that's partly why I got this LBC. It didn't disappoint me either, although it's very obvious what it's trying to do and what the theme of it is. I just loved it, I loved the slow spiraling into madness, I loved the eerie tone, I loved the claustrophobic feel. I loved the barely concealed rage and indignation, and I love that it doesn't cut corners, it doesn't compromise. I also found it spectacularly creepy, and as a commentary both on the ridiculous and harmful "rest" treatment of that time and the overall suppression of women, it's fantastic. It might be straight to the point, but who can blame Charlotte Perkins, it's not like anyone would've listened otherwise (or did listen at all).
The second story, 'The Rocking Chair', was more classic horror, still with some interesting subtext (especially about how men will be idiots when it comes to women), and while it was pretty straight forward as well, it was still fairly uncanny - at least if you read it late at night.
The best one of the bunch is the last one though. 'Old Water' is just a delight. What a story, what a tale! In this the woman gets to be the practical, non-nonsense character, while the man is poetic, lofty, irrational and madly in love with her. Does it end well? Depends how you look at it. I loved, loved the ending, it might even, from the right perspective, be considered a happy one.
This is definitely a decent collection of short-stories, and a worthy addition to your horror (or LBC) collection... you can put it next to Poe and they can fight it out. ...more
“When love is faithful, and it seems Nothing can hurt you, Know that the world is faithless still And will desert you… remember this.”
The thing is, even “When love is faithful, and it seems Nothing can hurt you, Know that the world is faithless still And will desert you… remember this.”
The thing is, even if all the other Little Black Classics were terrible and not worth the paper they’re printed on, then this, this one book, would have made it all worthwhile.
I read it and I fell in love. Simple as that. Without this series I most likely would never have read a single word of Hafez and I am so infinitely, so deliriously happy that I have, because I have loved every word so far.
I’m having trouble putting into words exactly what it is that moves me so in his writing. There’s a lightness to it and at the same time a gravity, an understanding of life and what it means to live, in a world that can be both cruel and kind. There’s self-awareness, there’s beauty, so much beauty, but the kind you find in simple things, in the smallest of gestures.
It was also a venture into non-European, non-Western poetry for me. Normally I’d be intimidated (and I still am, with everything I read from somewhere else), because I think poetry from my own country can be difficult enough to grasp without a guide, imagine how little I’d understand without any knowledge of the tradition, the country and the culture Hafez comes from.
But I decided to embrace the chance for diversity, the opportunity to read Persian poetry, because when else would I do it? I decided to collect this small, manageable sample, and I fell in love. Yes, there’s a hell of a lot I didn’t catch, of course, but so much of poetry is universal I’m reminded. So much of it can be grasped, when you find the right poem or poet, in the feeling you get while reading. Not an understanding, necessarily, more like you’ve shared something with someone, across time, across space, despite the wall of flesh separating minds, something significant.
I admitted my cowardice, tried to do better, and I fell in love. Irrevocably, I fear.
“Good news! The days of grief and pain won’t stay like this – as others went, these won’t remain or stay like this.
(…)
In words of gold they’ve written on the emerald sky, ‘Only Compassion does not die but stays like this.’”...more
This book is at turns ridiculous and outrageous and pretty accurate.
There are only 55 pages, so it’s limited what they can contain, but as an introduThis book is at turns ridiculous and outrageous and pretty accurate.
There are only 55 pages, so it’s limited what they can contain, but as an introduction to his writing it's pretty good. What I love about the Little Black Classics is that they contain very little besides the primary text. There’s no introduction, no explanations. All you have to do is sit down and enjoy a good story.
Which this is, even if Marco is incredibly fond of repeating the same phrases over and over again, slightly disrupting the flow of the story, but it also makes it seem rather genuine. There’s no doubt some of this is either made up entirely or grossly exaggerated (if it isn’t I’ll wrestle one of those giant diamond protecting serpents myself), but some of it seems genuine and authentic. And in any case it captures an atmosphere, a sense of discovery of a new, different world that we cannot visit except through his eyes. And despite the outrageousness of some of the claims, there were still details I recognize from my own travels, a sliver of truth and authenticity.
It’s an odd blend of reality and fiction, of hearsay and witness account. He aims to fill you with wonder, and at that he succeeds.
A thing that impressed me is that, despite his slight flair for embellishment, he tells a tale free from personal judgement. Of course, I can’t discern how much he’s left out or how much he’s changed or made up, but he doesn’t cast a lot of moral judgement on incidents or foreign customs as he relates them back to us. That was excellent – it might also be the norm when it comes to travel journals or whatever this is, but I liked the seeming objectiveness of it. Again, I base this on a mere 55 pages, but still.
It made me want to read more from him, which I think is the point of these books (other than offering an opportunity to re-visit old favorites). I loved the collection of tales and had a great time reading it and imagining the places, the people and the wondrous things he tells of.
So by all means, more Marco Polo for me. More incredible and marvelous travels into the unknown. I’m ready....more
“… If I was bound for hell let it be hell. No more false heavens. No more damned magic. You hate me and I hate you. We’ll see who hates best.”
Gothic l“… If I was bound for hell let it be hell. No more false heavens. No more damned magic. You hate me and I hate you. We’ll see who hates best.”
Gothic literature takes a lot of different forms. Jane Eyre is gothic, in a way that Wide Sargasso Sea isn’t. JE rewards the sensible young woman, who acts rationally and virtuously, even Rochester is rewarded (after being punished to a degree), WSS does no such thing, quite the opposite. No one is rational in WSS, everyone deceives and is deceived in this exotic and chaotic garden of eden, among its rotting flowers and oppressive sun. There’s no reward, only punishment, regardless of who you are. Still, some make it out less haunted than others, some have a future.
It’s narrated by Antoinette, the madwoman in the attic, the character who’d inspire heaps of feminist analysis, and her husband, who remains nameless, but is obviously Rochester (I’ll call him R). What really struck me was the mirroring of these two characters. They find themselves largely in the same situation, sold to each other by their families and on a honeymoon full of false premises and bad beginnings. However one is a white, rich man and the other is a creole woman, her every penny given away in marriage. There’s a very clear distinction between their situations, although on the surface they share the same one, and the outcome they can expect once their very volatile relationship inevitably goes bad is vastly different.
Then there’s the deal with the names. It may be arbitrary why we’re named what we’re named, but as we grow up it becomes tied up with our identity. We are our names. Sometimes, when we want to change, we pick a new name. Being called the wrong name deliberately, to have someone ignore your wishes regarding your identity is, in a way, an act of violence. Just think of transgender and transsexual people, using the wrong name is a way to strip them of who they truly are. Antoinette’s name changes repeatedly over the course of the novel; she’s Antoinette Cosway, Antoinette Mason, Antoinette Rochester, and then Bertha, a named picked by R and forced upon her. An act of violence, a stripping of identity, a way to reinforce his power over her and remind her that she belongs to him, that he can do with her what he pleases.
“Names matter” she muses at the end of the novel, “like when he wouldn’t call me Antoinette, and I saw Antoinette drifting out of the window with her scents, her pretty clothes and her looking-glass. ”
It’s also significant to notice that while Antoinette’s name changes, her husband remains unnamed throughout the novel. Anyone familiar with JE or who’s read anything about WSS will know that he’s Rochester, but at the same time he’s something else, something unidentified. His identity remains out of reach for Antoinette, as if it’s outside of her power to interfere with. And in a way it is, because he belongs to another story, one that cannot be altered, whatever may happen in WSS we know exactly who Rochester is in Jane Eyre. But Bertha’s story is never told, her ultimate fate may be known, but nothing else. If names matter, then it must also matter that he doesn’t have one, something that makes him both powerful and worthless. The nameless husband renames his wife and they both go mad. It’s a potent image.
”’Is there another side?’ I said. ‘There is always the other side, always.’”
R becomes increasingly bitter towards his father for deceiving him into a loveless marriage for money, he starts obsessing over Antoinette’s heritage, he takes his bitterness out on her, he’s angry and cruel. Antoinette becomes like a doll, he considers himself a puppeteer, because she acts the way he expects her to act – as does everyone else, he’s the one with the power – and blames her for it. Strangely, R was himself just as much a puppet to begin with. He was maneuvered into place by his and her family, he was married off without making objections. “I agreed. As I had agreed to everything else” he says, he’s a puppet holding a smaller puppet, thinking he’s in control.
“I could see Antoinette stretched on the bed quite still. Like a doll. Even when she threatened me with the bottle she had a marionette quality.”
He’s not in control. As their relationship crumbles they both go mad, but Antoinette stays in the madness, because there’s no escape for her. She has nothing to return to, no money, no family, her situation resembles that of her mother, both driven to madness by men unable to comprehend the world they inhabit or the people who inhabit it. Perhaps not everyone will agree with me when I say that in the end even R is mad, but his narrative becomes jumbled. It speaks of revenge and hatred and despair, it’s fragmented and chaotic. He wants to enact revenge on Antoinette for, well, everything, instead of blaming others he takes it out on her, the only one who would have understood him. She slips into muteness, and when she speaks for R at one point – she borrows his voice, his identity, having lost her own – she’s told off, R telling her she knows nothing of his opinions. He threatened to make her into nothing and he has.
R understands throughout his narrative that the beautiful landscape hides something, that he’s not looking at anything in its true form, but he is incapable of discovering what lies underneath and he gives up. He returns to England and sanity, taking his wife with him and leaving her to rot in the attic, securely burying another secret, like those that have been hinted at throughout the novel. Secrets that he couldn’t unravel because he couldn’t listen. In JE he hides his ugly secret in the attic and she’s hidden until she dies, in WSS she gets a voice, a chance to speak and be free, to be someone, before it’s taken from her and she’s securely locked up again. They may both go mad, but she stays in the madness, and he makes it out. He's backed by privilege; she has nothing.
R is aware of his own destructive nature, but he refuses to acknowledge that he’s the force (or at least part of it) that broke Antoinette. That by denying her true name, despising her heritage, taking her property, he’s denied her anything that could hold her to reality. The third part of the book reminded me strongly of “The Yellow Wallpaper” with a woman trapped in a room until she loses herself, but finds something new to hold onto. There’s madness, yes, but also a sense of freedom. A parrot unable to escape a burning building with its clipped wings, but at least this time she got to set the fire.
A stunning work.
“I tell you she loves no one, anyone. I could not touch her. Excepting as the hurricane will touch that tree – and break it. You say I did? No. That was love’s fierce play. Now I’ll do it. (…) The tree shivers. Shivers and gathers all its strength. And waits.”...more