Closing Time by Joseph Heller

Yet another trip into Joseph Heller's inane, Wayside-School-for-adults world. I don't know why I bother. This was the sequel to Catch-22, and precisely like it in many respects, from the mistrust and dislike of authority, to the contradictory dialogue and sentence structure, to the excessive sexual content, and the absence of purpose for existence.

I just plodded through this, alternately bored, shocked, or disgusted. I would have quit halfway through, but I am not a quitter. That's right. The story picks up with the main characters from the first book and follows them through many improbable and largely pointless events. Once again, authority is incompetent to the point of imbecility, but this time it is the president who is lambasted. The syntax is in line with Heller's previous style. There is so much discussion of sex it is unbelievable. Nihilism and atheism are the religions du jour, with the entire world ending at the conclusion of the book.

Heller just seems like a disillusioned old man. He wrote himself and Kurt Vonnegut into the story at times, and they both have that tragic post-modern neo-Darwinist outlook. Sad, sad, sad.

The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett

So that is where all of those stereotypes come from. You know, the P.I. sits in his office as a beautiful girl comes in with a case for him to solve. He calls her "sweetheart." That sort of thing.

I enjoyed The Maltese Falcon. I truly did. I enjoy most any book that can be knocked out in an afternoon. Especially one with intelligent 20th-century prose, a mildly involving plot, and fascinating characters- really a fairly simple recipe. It's a wonder more authors don't follow it.

Hammett was gracious enough to eschew describing his characters' affair. He opted rather for a "fade to black" setup. Thank goodness. I've had enough of that, thank you. He never let the reader know too much. P.I. Sam Spade's motives and loyalties were not revealed until the end. Hammett's descriptions were memorable, like the opening scene in which he rendered his protagonist a blond satan with a faceful of v shapes.

Interestingly, almost every woman in the story was a redhead. I thought that singular, considering the haircolor ratio of the general populace. Anyways, the story was pleasant and mysterious. The Maltese Falcon was a nice little trip to the '20s.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce

A young boy named Stephen grows into a man and begins to question everything he has been taught to believe in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

Joyce's style was, briefly, different. He apparently had an aversion to quotation marks, identifying speakers, and alerting the reader to a change in space and time. He could have at least skipped a line when weeks had gone by in the story.

I am sure Joyce made deep, profound, multilayered philosophical points in this book, but all that really impressed upon me was his minor details. The way little noises grated on Stephen's nerves when he tried to pray, the way Stephen disciplined himself by denying the urge to clasp his hands behind his back and instead kept them firmly at his sides, and his thoughts and feelings regarding groups and friends all intrigued me.

I think that was all the merit the book had for me. Joyce's prose was just so obscure. He required the reader to infer too much. I am still not sure if Stephen had a girlfriend, or if she was just the object of his admiration. She never even had a name, and references to her were vague and confusing.

I suppose I don't have the intellectual capability to appreciate the profundity of Joyce. I think if a style hinders the meaning that is trying to be conveyed, the style should come second to clarity. At any rate, my high school English teacher dismissed the book, saying, "I don't think I accept that one intellectually," which gratified me. If he can disregard a revered piece of literature, so can I.

The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien

The Things They Carried is a collection of the author's memories of the time he spent serving in the Vietnam War. I thought it was excellently written, but, as with other war novels, I don't feel that I can adequately pass judgment, for I've never been in combat. But, from my limited point of view, it was vulnerable, real, captivating, and sincere. It also led me to a realization on a related subject.

Video games make me intensely uncomfortable, especially war-themed ones. I've heard all kinds of justification for them- that boys are competitive and need an outlet; "Those are just pixels on the screen, not people"; "I just play to relax and have fun"; and the like. But after reading this book, I've decided the reason these video games bother me is their desensitizing properties. War is not a game, and reducing it to such is trivializing it to the point of ridicule. Playing war games is murder without consequences, without the complex emotions and psychological effects that go with it.

Video games basically mock the concept of war. The main problem, perhaps, is the "game over, play again?" feature. A true simulation of war would shut down permanently after the first time one is "killed." War, after all, is not sitting on a couch pressing buttons, and it should be treated as such. War is hell, not entertainment.