The Death of Ivan Ilych by Leo Tolstoy

So I was rummaging through our hall closet at home and I came across my dad's old literature anthology from college. This presented me with a fascinating moment for self-reflection. I have always taken an instinctively pragmatic approach to evaluating works of fiction- is the work instructive? redemptive? satisfying? and ultimately, is it entertaining?- rarely able to muster up sufficient appreciation for the darkly profound or avant-garde.

I believe this tack stems, at least in part, from a conviction I've intrinsically harbored that a work is not worth reading if I could not in good conscience recommend it to my dad, whose own tastes, indeed, I have often seen mirrored in mine. When I was in the sixth grade I discovered Jules Verne, and I gleefully passed on Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and The Mysterious Island to him after I devoured them. We marveled at Verne's clairvoyant depictions of scuba diving and delighted in the re-emergence of Captain Nemo together. Excellent books to be sure, but, as I learned later, essentially only science fiction, turn-of-the-century boys' adventure novels, and not necessarily the revered classics that for many years I'd held them to be, on par with Faulkner and Hemingway and Joyce, who figure heavily in the aforementioned textbook, and for whom I retain respective distastes.

But it was within this textbook that I found Tolstoy's delineation of death. Ivan Ilych contracts a fatal illness and declines rapidly. He is, until this point, a self-satisfied middle-aged judge well-situated in life with a wife and children. The realization that he is dying devastates him. The heretofore self-sufficient man cries out to God: "'Why hast Thou done all this?'" He recalls the major events of his life and marvels that it should end in such a manner. "'Maybe I did not life as I ought to have done,'" he muses. "'But how could that be, when I did everything properly?'" In the agony of his final days he is unable to continue to justify a life spent striving for power and reputation and position. "He tried to add, 'Forgive me'...knowing that He whose understanding mattered would understand."

The story ends with an allusion to a verse of Scripture my dad is fond of quoting: "He sought his former accustomed fear of death and did not find it. 'Where is it? What death?'" mirroring, of course, Paul's defiant "Death, where is thy sting?" And so, amidst the scathing social commentary, the sardonic irony, and the esoteric symbolism of the untenably profound, I encountered a story of which I could say to my dad, "Here, read this. It's really good."

The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy

Thomas Hardy's work, while fixated on the countryside, is rarely pastoral and idyllic. Rather, his is a world of determined, pervasive melancholy. Still, he provides instances of redemption, and his dramas are never tedious. The Mayor of Casterbridge satisfied me, so when I saw The Return of the Native at a library book sale, I capitalized on the opportunity to repeat the feeling.

Hardy opens with the heath. "Twilight combined with the scenery of Egdon Heath to evolve a thing majestic without severity, impressive without showiness, emphatic in its admonitions, grand in its simplicity." Egdon Heath proves to be almost a character here in Hardy's novel. The heath does as much to alter the fates of the principal players as they themselves do. Its atmosphere, to some familiar and comforting, to others stifling and oppressive, permeates every scene and action. The plot is one of diametrically opposed lovers whose rash and desperate attempts to orchestrate events to suit their own whims end in tragedy. The heath bears witness to their futile drama, reflecting upon its face a "black fraternization" with its ill-destined inhabitants.

The story is winding and captivating; suffice it to say several intertwined individuals of the mid-19th-century English countryside become yet more closely and convolutedly related when the eponymous native, Clym Yeobright, interrupts the natural course of things and drastically alters life in Egdon Heath. Clym falls in love with Eustacia Vye, an idle, beautiful woman secluded in her grandfather's home, desperate for the imagined pleasures of the city. "The subtle beauties of the heath were lost to Eustacia; she only caught its vapours. An environment which would have made a contented woman a poet, a suffering woman a devotee, a pious woman a psalmist, even a giddy woman thoughtful, made a rebellious woman saturnine."

She bewitches Clym, and they are soon wed. But her capricious dissatisfaction and blind selfishness have tragic consequences, ending ultimately in death, for her and two others. She rekindles a relationship with Wildeve, who is lately married to Clym's dear cousin. While harboring him in her house she neglects to answer the door when Clym's heretofore estranged mother comes to reconcile. Distraught, and believing Clym condoned Eustacia's refusal to admit her into their home, his mother wanders on the heath in the rain, and after being bitten by a snake, dies. Eustacia later determines to flee abroad, aided by her lover, but in a wonted fit of passion drowns herself. Wildeve perishes in an attempt to save her, and Clym just escapes with his life.

Eustacia destroys all that she touches with her self-absorbed ambitions. "Yeobright," however, "loved his kind. He had a conviction that the want of most men was knowledge of a sort which brings wisdom rather that affluence." Why this astute, intelligent man fresh off the streets of 1840s Paris should be so deceived as to make such an unworthy alliance is hard to determine.

Clym dreams of opening a school to educate the villagers of Egdon, much to the chagrin of Eustacia. When his eyesight is temporarily strained, restricting him to "furze-cutting" on the heath to earn money, Clym is not daunted. He throws himself wholeheartedly into the endeavor. "He is set upon by adversities," says Hardy, "but he sings a song." While he is merrily serenading the heath in the glow of his exertion, Eustacia happens upon him. Furious that he could enjoy engaging in the work of a commoner while she too is living like one, she unleashes her wrath upon him, the touching portrait of a man afflicted and nonetheless happily laboring in what capacity he can slashed to shreds by Eustacia's vindictive ranting.

Eustacia, retaliating against Clym as the source of her unhappiness, decimates his chances of achieving anything but, though Hardy does grant Clym an epilogic career as a travelling preacher/moralist. Is beauty truly such an inescapable snare, that a circumspect scholar would fall victim to a conniving, vindictive woman whose chief, and perhaps only virtue, is her face?

The Adventures of Augie March by Saul Bellow

"I wanted him to give me wisdom," Augie says of a venerable businessman, and says, essentially, throughout his reminiscences. Augie March recalls his impoverished childhood in a Jewish neighborhood in the in the 1920s, continuing the narrative into his adolescence and through to his adulthood in post-WWII Europe. He describes his jobs, his friends, his romantic forays, and his travels- from Chicago, to Mexico, to New York, and finally abroad. His exploits are, as they have often been described, picaresque. Augie is not always above the law, but when he strays, we go right along with him.

Augie is continually caught up in the whirling eddies of strong personalities. One of his first jobs involves assisting a paralyzed business eccentric whom he reveres as a genuine genius, and later he steals textbooks with a Mexican math whiz on scholarship at the University of Chicago. Augie is perpetually seeking knowledge and, as he said above, wisdom. He begins to read the textbooks before delivering them, and he becomes enraptured with the ideas he finds. “I lay in my room and read, feeding on print and pages like a famished man.”

The book is dauntingly long, for Augie’s life is made of innumerable adventures, no detail of which he considers too small to include. Bellow composed complex sentences of description- clause piled on clause, with illustrative concrete nouns and reclassified verbs stacked precariously atop the subjects and predicates. Augie employs esoteric allusions abundantly, almost obnoxiously, as if Bellow wanted to underscore Augie’s self-education, evidence of his having read widely and deeply without perhaps a tempering authority to guide him in the proper deployment of such potent arsenal.

Augie uses very little foreshadowing, restraining himself to telling the story as it happens, avoiding bracing suspense in favor of a more natural revelation of events. Augie traces the development of his perception of himself as the events are unfolding, coming to a refreshing self-awareness towards the end. “I said when I started to make the record that I would be plain and heed the knocks as they came, and also that a man’s character is his fate. Well, then it is obvious that this fate, or what he settles for, is also his character.” Though his character-as-fate theory is nebulous and indefinite at best, the underlying current of personal responsibility that he espouses is a worthy conclusion.

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh

Tolkien, Chesterton, T.S. Eliot, and now Evelyn Waugh- strangely enough, early 20th-century British Catholic converts all. What a peculiar convergence of literary figures. Someone should write a thesis paper on that. Waugh himself converted to Catholicism mid-career, with the latter half of his works becoming increasingly serious and religiously centered. Brideshead Revisited comes of this era.

It seems Waugh composed the book with a mind to present his new beliefs in a manner palatable to the generally secular reading public. His protagonist, Charles Ryder, falls in with pampered young Sebastian at Oxford, and becomes intertwined with his Catholic family. Years later, Charles chances upon Sebastian's sister Julia, and begins an affair with her that lasts until her father's death. But just when all hurdles have been cleared for them to marry, Julia breaks off their relations, unable to continue in sin.

Through this family Waugh exhibits varying stages of Catholicism, from the mother's lifelong devotion, to the father's insincere conversion, to the children's agnosticism. By the end, Charles, agnostic himself, sees every member return to a more or less genuine faith, each finding their own degrees of peace and happiness. Charles, however, is disillusioned and alone. While he and Julia had both effectually disowned their respective spouses when they took up with each other, Julia turns to missions after their affair ends, replacing that void in her life, but Charles is left unfulfilled.

Waugh's linguistic craftsmanship here is superb. Far surpassing Scoop in complexity and texture, his prose yet retains a lucidity and forceful elegance that can only be admired. His characters are arresting. The only disheartening element of the book is its overtones of homosexuality. Charles' relationship with Sebastian is mostly established to be platonic, but it is startlingly intimate, and there is enough ambiguity involved to make things uncomfortable. Less uncertain is the orientation of flamboyant world-traveler Anthony Blanche, Charles' classmate, whose purpose as a character is just as unclear as Waugh's attitude regarding such things. Waugh himself carried on untoward relationships during college, but this predates his conversion. He later married happily, so surely he viewed the effeminacy of Charles and Sebastian an unsavory but inevitable aspect of adolescence to be repented of later, and the unequivocal perversion of Anthony just another vice of an uninhibited man. That's how I'd have it, anyway.

Brideshead Revisited drew me in. The plot was essentially mundane, but the people continually interested me. I hadn't the slightest idea where Waugh was going until the end, and I was relieved to discover a conclusion compatible with my own convictions, for I was with him regardless.

Erewhon by Samuel Butler

I guess this is what I get for reading a book solely because someone, somewhere, made an oblique reference to it. I can't even recall where I heard of it. Somehow, nevertheless, I got the idea the book was worth my time, which prejudiced it in my favor. I dearly wanted to like it. But a sense of the foreboding fell over me when, in the preface to the revised edition, the author admitted, "I have found it an irksome task to take up work which I thought I had got rid of thirty years ago, and much of which I am ashamed of..."

Erewhon, in its entirety, feels derivative, in part because it is, but also because so many others have gleaned inspiration from it. In the best style of Gulliver's Travels, Butler strands his protagonist in a strange society through whose unconventional manners and mores we are ostensibly to see the foibles of our own. Drawing also on Thomas More's Utopia and predating Huxley and Orwell, Butler attempts what others have done, or will go on to do, much more successfully.

The beginning is bogged down in exposition and the adventures and aspirations of a poorly drawn protagonist. This man stumbles upon the Erewhonians and becomes their, albeit well-treated, captive. He details the oddities of Erewhon, from their aversion to machines and progress, to their severe punishment of physical ailment, to their nominal forms of religion. Butler employs thick, ambiguous metaphor and his voice is often indiscernible. At points it is hard to determine whether he is mocking society through his protagonist, or mocking the protagonist himself as society. I wouldn't doubt it to be both. Butler attacks from so many sides that he seems to prevail on none.

Altogether I think I missed the boat on the satire. In fact, I think that boat set sail when Butler died. Much of his wit now seems inapplicable, having faded along with the Victorian times it set to skewer. The book's inability to transcend time is, in all probability, its chiefest shortcoming.

Butler himself, from what I can gather, was a tortured, confused man swept up in the prevailing winds of turn-of-the-century intellectualism, unable to find a tenable basis in either religion or materialism, and so, being neither hot nor cold, as it were, was incapable of forming definite beliefs, resulting in a literary work as muddled as his mind.

The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston

I checked out this book solely because it was included in the College Board's list of 101 great books, at which list, for lack of a better, I have been chipping away dutifully for nigh on two years now. I thought, perhaps snobbishly, that this book would be merely a requisite representation of the Chinese woman that fulfilled some sort of multicultural quota, and maybe there are elements of that involved in the book's place in the College Board's heart, but Kingston's work is a decent piece of literature in its own right.

Kingston retells the tales her mother mesmerized her with in her childhood in sparse, bare English that evokes the fine, linear simplicity of the art of feudal China. She gives the eponymous woman warrior her own voice, allowing her to narrate the story of her training by a mystical old couple who give her the abilities to avenge the mistreatment of her people. Kingston slowly introduces facets of her own life and eventually moves entirely to talking of her family and their transition to life in America.

Kingston is at her finest when she is recreating the world of her ancestors. Her story-telling is just as riveting as her mother's must have been for her. The legends and fables, moreover, are fresh and unusual to unaccustomed Western ears. If the book were composed only of these, it would make for excellent bedtime reading.

When she draws parallels to her own life and compares her own experiences, there Kingston approaches profundity. I've come to wonder lately if that isn't what all literary fiction is- elegant attempts to make connections. Across ages, across cultures, across categories; within a book, within a concept, within a single sentence. For what is an allusion, but a connection between antiquity and modernity; a metaphor, but an abstract connection between two concrete entities?

The book's impact wanes when Kingston enters the narrow, crowded streets of San Francisco's Chinatown and her early years. She laments the disparagement of the female in her parents' culture, and she depicts the generational conflict between the elders born in China, and their offspring, who are beginning to assimilate into the new country in which they were born. It all lacks the poetic force the ancient stories contained.

But maybe that is where Kingston was going. Her contemporary life seems somehow insufficient when viewed through the lens of the past. The old meets the new, the East meets the West, and yet here we are, by time relentlessly pushed forward.

The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan

So I was listening to NPR (my philosophy is that if my media is biased in the opposite direction, when I hear something I like, I can trust it to be true) and I caught an interview with the author of this book. I couldn't resist; I find contemporary nutrition research absolutely arresting. Pollan, a journalist by trade, investigates the actual origins of the foods we eat, beyond the grocery store.

He begins in an ostensibly random place- a cornfield in Iowa. Much of the supermarket can be traced to this state, not only in overtly corn-based products, but also in anything containing citric acid, glucose, fructose, maltodextrin, sorbitol, xanthan gum, modified cornstarch, and MSG, among other things that habitual ingredient-list readers like myself would readily recognize. High fructose corn syrup, of course, is everywhere. Almost all animals raised for consumption are now corn-fed. Break down the molecular composition of the average American, and you will find corn.

That is just a small portion of what Pollan serves up. There is a lot to this book, but the essential message is that we as a nation are producing and consuming plants and animals in ways they were not designed to be used. According to Pollan, we could save untold amounts of money in all sorts of areas- from health care, to fossil fuel use, to fertilizers and pesticides, to government subsidies- if we would allow a system based on the natural growth cycles of our food.

Pollan's worldview is decidedly evolutionary, but even he admits the fallibility of science. "The problem is that once science has reduced a complex phenomenon to a couple of variables...the natural tendency is to overlook everything else, to assume that what you can measure is all there is, or at least all that really matters," he says in a statement that has implications outside the field of nutrition, and that speaks volumes about the shortcomings of materialism.

Moreover, Pollan profiles Joel Salatin, a "Christian libertarian environmentalist" who maintains an entirely self-sustaining farm on a few hundred acres in Virginia. Salatin's cows eat grass, their natural diet; his chickens eat the insects and larvae that come with cows and in doing so fertilize the pasture. His pigs turn the farm's waste into rich soil that feeds the garden. "'All we need to do is empower individuals with the right philosophy and the right information to opt out en masse,'" Salatin insists, likening his cause to the homeschool movement. Pollan is enthralled with the concept, and I'd have to agree.

Pollan's tone is sometimes overreaching but mostly elegant and accessible. He is methodical and scrupulously detailed. He is areligious, but he is compassionate to Christians and even presents one as his ideal food producer. It's a terribly informative book and I am quite glad I read it.

Act One by Moss Hart

Maybe it's the lofty editorial pretensions I harbor, but Moss Hart's autobiography, hailed by its back cover as "the dramatic story that captured a generation," seems not so much a refined, time-honored classic as much as the early draft of a rough, albeit worthy, manuscript. Hart's story in itself is captivating, and the immediacy and authenticity of his telling quality stuff, but a firm, guiding hand such as George Kaufman's could have made this book that much better. For Kaufman was the catalyst to Hart's career, and there is no little irony to be found in the fact that this excellent but improvable narrative climaxes with the drastic revision of the author's first literary success.

Hart begins this book in his childhood, tracing the thread of theatre that has wefted throughout his life. He travels through his impoverished adolescence and chronicles the development of his embryonic attempts at plays, climaxing with veteran playwright Kaufman's collaboration on his first quality play and concluding with its acclaimed debut on Broadway. It's a decent ghetto-to-glamour account, and Hart deftly fashions himself into a protagonist to be sympathized with and cheered on.

"It was astonishing to find how much of what we had written was unnecessary," Hart says of Kaufman's subsequent revisions to his play. If only Kaufman had applied his red pencil to this autobiography. Hart's prose is mired in unneeded words, rough cliches, stilted dialogue, repetition, inconsistencies, and contradiction. In one place he writes, "a historic," and later, "an historic." He asserts that he has "never really heard" the laughter of the audience for he is always "listening ahead for the next line," but then goes on to describe his elation at the sound of that very laughter.

Hart also spouts universal truisms left and right, as an old, rich, successful, self-satisfied man ruminating over his life can only be expected to, I suppose. "It is always a little dismaying to discover that the truth, as one explores it, consists largely of a collection of platitudes," he avers. Whether or not this "truth" is itself true I cannot say, but Hart certainly believes it.

So sometimes I had to restrain myself from marking up the library copy I read with notes in the margin. But like I said, it was a good story, and my interest rarely flagged. Moreover, I learned much about playwrighting and the creative process. The other morning I read an article in which a tv show producer commented,"If this were a play, we'd still be in previews," a reference which would have been entirely lost on me had I not read this book.

Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton

So one day I was watching, of all things, a Catholic channel on TV, because some learned men were discussing G.K. Chesterton and his major works, and my curiosity was piqued. One man, a professor at a Catholic college, expressed his admiration for Orthodoxy and recommended it as an introduction to Chesterton's religious writing. So here I am.

Chesterton makes it clear his is not an argument of apologetics; rather, he is concerned solely with the moral and philosophical implications of belief in Christianity, for, he says, "having found the moral atmosphere of the Incarnation to be common sense, I then looked at the established intellectual arguments against the Incarnation and found them to be common nonsense." From what I can surmise, Chesterton's basic foundation for his beliefs stems from this: he has observed life is a certain way, and Christianity, of all possible belief systems, fits most perfectly this perception of his, so therefore Christianity is true.

It's a legitimate position, if not entirely fact-based. When Chesterton attempts to access factual information, he strays into archaism. Trying to establish a basis for supernatural occurences, he makes a case for contemporary appearances of ghosts, and he says "science will even admit the Ascension if you call it Levitation." Unfortunately, I don't think "science" will readily admit even levitation anymore.

Chesterton was a Catholic, and his writing retains elements of some of the extra-biblical features of such a faith, from constant reference to "the Church" as means of salvation, to saint-worship, to excessive reverence for priests and nuns, to all but condoning the atrocities of the Crusades. Nevertheless, he does accept Quakers, whose beliefs must have been vastly removed from his own, as true believers. He did not seem to consider salvation achievable through Catholicism only.

Chesterton emphasizes his conviction that of all worldviews, Christianity is the only one with any claim to humor and joy. I appreciated his reasoning. I've always entertained privately the belief that existence is inherently funny. Satan, Chesterton maintains, fell from taking himself too seriously, while "[t]here was some one thing too great for God to show us when He walked upon our earth; and I have sometimes fancied that it was His mirth."

The writing is quite pretty, undoubtedly, and the philosophical points no less so. Chesterton's poetic approach to finding the meaning of life is refreshingly novel. Some of his arguments are outdated, and parts of his book are trivial and extraneous, but the essentials remain pertinent, poignant positions on what it truly means to exist.

The Confessions of Nat Turner by William Styron

A superb narrative, absorbing powers of description, penetrating psychological analyses of a worthy protagonist, even some disparagement of the South- Styron did a good job, apparently good enough to win a Pulitzer. The story begins and ends with the day of Nat Turner's execution, and in between Turner tells of how he ended up in a jail cell awaiting death.

Though a slave in the 1800s, Nat is capable of lucid English that surpasses the quality of the white illiterates,' for he was taught to read and write and cipher while growing up in a relatively kind master's household. This lends the account a surprising, gratifying intelligence not common to fictionalized slave narratives.

Nat's education infused him with deep religious convictions, and into his adulthood his knowledge of the Bible guides and sustains him. He fashions himself into a sort of slave reverend, and his comprehensive study and interpretation of the Old Testament prophets convinces him he is called to lead a slave rebellion, a purging of the whites, in a manner similar to that of the biblical heroes' own revolts. The horrendous effects of living a life that legally belongs to another man drives this introspective intellectual to bloodshed.

Nat carefully dissects his emotions and motives- from discovering, as a little boy, that the words on canisters represented what was inside, to being unable, even in the heat of the moment, to murder his master- and effectively traces the development of his rebellion from its roots to his execution. Styron's meticulous, evocative use of description complements his comprehensive presentation of Nat's inner dialogue. His images are present and confident without becoming painfully obvious or self-conscious. Achieving this alone is worth a Pulitzer. The palpability of his narrative raises concerns only when Styron dips into the more ignoble aspects of Southern life in the 1800s. The graphic nature of some of the Southerners' exploits is not so pleasant to experience. But of course, as is so often the case, that is the point.

Nat Turner's merciless extermination of scores of whites is morally complex. Spartacus-like, he vanquished his oppressors in an almost certainly futile bid for freedom. But what else could he have done in a society in which he could never have gained such no matter what he did? The murders are undoubtedly repugnant, but slavery just as much. The South's continual oppression of an entire race of people and their descendants was the catalyst for the suffering and inequality from which we still feel the effects today.

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

This second time around, I feel like I actually got the book. The first time I read it, I was rather sidetracked by the content issues, but was able to access some sympathy for Holden Caulfield and his disillusionment. I impulsively bought my sister a copy for her birthday, and later decided I should reread it to find out what exactly compelled me to do so.

I was surprised to discover what an excellent character Holden Caulfield truly is. An English teacher of mine, whom I didn't particularly like (I had, through serendipitous events, two English classes at the time, and while one teacher adorned every essay I wrote for him with glowing inked praise, this other one rarely gave me perfect rubric scores and, though constructive I'm sure she tried to be, criticized my writing quite often), once dismissed him as "annoying" and "whiny," but I found his dissatisfaction with life and the status quo entirely understandable. He is veritably drowning in "phonies," as he terms them, poseurs attempting a facade of normal, sane existence who in fact alternate between degeneracy, immorality, deceit, narcissism, and greed. Holden, while by no means without faults, refuses to be party to their pretences.

He is actually a terribly compassionate, thinking boy. Holden reads, engagingly and well. Moreover, he mulls over books at length afterwards. He also feels deeply the discomfort of others, whether it be some dowdy tourist women, his poor roommate, or two traveling nuns. The mundane tragedies of daily life are not lost on him. They move him in a manner his unfeeling compatriots cannot or care not to comprehend. It's no wonder then, that such a sensitive boy would retreat from the pretension, the peeling veneer of geniality, the utter "phoniness" of the miniature universe of prep school.

Holden's attitude towards religion and, in an interesting parallel, girls also, is troubling, complex, and yet, approaching healthy. Of ministers Holden is wary, for their obviously put-on preaching voices make him doubt their sincerity. He fancies himself an atheist, but harbors a regard for Jesus. If someone could just sit him down and explain it all to him...

As for girls, Holden is controlled almost entirely by his physical inclinations. Still, he desires not to take advantage of them, and realizes that his most meaningful relationship with a girl involved almost no physical contact at all. Holden is altogether in transition, navigating, almost directionless, the end of adolescence towards adulthood. His deep pity for mankind keeps him afloat. He's missing, of course, a satisfactory answer for existence, and this might be the root of his inability to cope with the world around him.

I guess this is what I wanted my sister to experience- Holden's frustrations and disillusionment, the common ground that scores of teenagers have identified with. After all, she's had her share of "phonies."

Death in Venice and Seven Other Stories by Thomas Mann

Mann's work was recommended to me enthusiastically, with a "just don't think too hard" caveat tacked on. I always considered my approach to literature rather dilettantish anyway.

This book is a collection of Mann's turn-of-the-century short stories that explore themes of the genius in art and intellect within a motif of the German at home and abroad. The stories share threads of recurring elements, illuminating the essential aspects of Mann's own creativity.

"Death in Venice," "Tonio Kroger," and "Disorder and Early Sorrow" were the only stories whose merits outweighed any untoward content. The other five, while undoubtedly well-written and with some merits of their own, alternated between sordid and dull, and so I am unable to give them praise that is not heavily qualified.

"Death in Venice": On a trip to Venice, an acclaimed author sights a young, attractive Polish Adonis of sorts, and, overwhelmed with the beauty of his countenance, forsakes reason to follow him for weeks on end. The boy's comely features send the man into philosophizing reveries on the nature of literary expression and the creator and his creation. "Thought that can merge wholly into feeling, feeling that can merge wholly into thought- these are the artist's highest joy," he muses during his undaunted pursuit.

There is irony in Mann's name, for he examines extensively the emasculation of his linguistic artist. His protagonist asks, "[D]o you believe that such a man can ever attain wisdom and true manly worth, for whom the path to the spirit must lead through the senses?" This man's decidedly effeminate nature detracts from the intellectual insights he has, and he clearly tries to justify his unwholesome affection for the young boy under a guise of aesthetics. More's the pity.

"Tonio Kroger": Again the androgynous artist appears. Dark-complexioned Tonio Kroger lives the fitful, melancholy passion of the litterateur, silently envying the blue-eyed blonds who surround him in their blissful ignorance. He considers his artistic gifts a curse inherited from his mother's temperamental Italian blood, contending that he was not destined, but doomed, from birth, to create. However, a trip to Denmark gives him the presence of mind to accept and even revel in his love of the "blond and blue-eyed, the fair and living, the happy, lovely, and commonplace."

"Disorder and Early Sorrow": A professor and his young daughter experience a presentiment of later sorrows that inevitably come when she dances with one of her older brother's friends on a lark at a party. The five-year-old feels an indefinite sense of the envy and longing that accompany rejection when she has to go to bed and her humoring partner reunites with his date. Her father observes it all with a helpless pathos.

This was the purest of Mann's stories, exquisite in its sorrow, tender in its telling, noble and unwavering in its feeling. He was at the top of his form here.

Mann is splendid when he conducts esoteric discussions of Life and Art, as it were, but he often becomes mired in the disturbing and the unsavory. It's unfortunate, for he is a consummate writer.

He Who Thinks Has To Believe by A.E. Wilder-Smith

What a title, right? I've finally found someone who approaches the world in a manner I can accept. Wilder-Smith begins with just the sensory information to which every human being is privy, and he follows a logical line of reasoning to conclude that what the Bible says is truth. He attempts no emotional appeal, guilt trip, or sentimentality. In fact, as a professor of pharmacology, he insists that "try[ing] to 'believe' emotionally" leads to "dangerous emotionalism and hysteria," for it rebels against one's ratio, or sense of rationality.

The primary section of the book deals solely with a parable of an undiscovered tribe of "Neanderthalers." These "honest, thinking people" are able to reason from the evidence that natrually surrounds them and deduce that there must be a Creator, and He must desire reconciliation with them. When some explorers discover these people and try to enlighten them with assertions of a materialistic worldview, the Neanderthalers poke holes in their theories and hold steadfastly to theism, augmenting their beliefs with Christianity when they encounter a Bible.

The second part discusses the finer points of Wilder-Smith's theology. I'll attempt briefly to sum up the gist of his arguments. Because of the information present in matter, and because life never comes from non-life, we can conclude that a higher consciousness created the world. Because the creator is never less than the creation, we can conclude that this higher consciousness is personal as we are personal. Because this higher consciousness (for all intents and purposes God) is personal, we can conclude He desires interaction with us. Because genuine interaction requires one to be on the same wavelength of another, God has to manifest Himself as a man to achieve this interaction. Because of the historical accuracy, fulfilled prophecy, textual logic, and willing martyrdom of those involved, we can conclude that the Bible's account of such a manifestation is true.

There is more to it, but that is the essence of what Wilder-Smith posits. I found such dispassionate logic intensely gratifying. I'm sure someone could muster up a rebuttal to some of his points, especially those which he admits surpass the realms of human understanding, but spontaneous generation is still unsubstantiated, and surely the information coding of genetics cannot be left to chance. As Wilder-Smith says, "chance [is] an antipode, an antithesis of thought." Design comes not randomly.

Wilder-Smith lifted an onus of inability from my shoulders. I've been trying to legitmately, logically, articulate my claim to Christianity in a lucid, comprehensive fashion for over a year now, and it was not until Wilder-Smith's book that I found someone capable of doing so.

The Elements of Style by William Strunk, Jr. and E.B. White

I was fortunate enough to acquire this revered manual for a dollar at a thrift store. The library wouldn't let me check it out, for they categorized it as a reference book. It's a surprisingly slim volume, under a hundred pages. The authors adhere to their own exhortations of brevity. They were condescending and affected at times, even as they instructed the reader to avoid such tones, but their composition advice is worth taking.

Much is review of the basic courtesies, as they'd have it, of the writer for his reader. Communicating effectively is the composer's essential goal. "Clarity can only be a virtue," White insists. They iterate the rudimentaries of grammar, punctuation, and the like. Strunk, especially, espouses brevity. The less said, the better. White is inclined to agree, and so am I.

I felt chastised on a few counts, such as the subject of qualifiers. Apparently, my use of "rather" is rather unnecessary and weak. "Interesting," too, is taboo, denounced as being unspecific. Not-positives, moreover, such as "not honest" or not important," should be replaced with positive assertions: "dishonest," insignificant."

One instruction, which I'd never heard before, resonated loudly with me: "Write with nouns and verbs," White says. "The adjective hasn't been built that can pull a weak or inaccurate noun out of a tight place." I'd always assumed all parts of speech were created equal, but upon reflection, White's adage rings wise. I assure you, I'll make a conscious effort in the future to write thusly.

Strunk and White have a few idiosyncratic preferences. They consider thanking someone in advance to be bad form, and the word "respectively" to be largely unneeded. White says the word "thruway," phonetic spelling and all, will become an established term. I think his prediction was a bit off. I don't know if I've ever heard anyone say "thruway," and I can't say I could define it properly.

The authors do seem to be striving for a thoroughly early-20th-century, modern-1950s, sterilized tone with much of their advice, but who could begrudge them that? It was the early 20th century. But with that said, some of the manual's assertions may be grounds for reconsideration. The pervasively ironic tone of the post-(post?)modernist now employed by many writers sometimes involves a slight variance in acceptability. How's that for qualifiers?

Despite all the admonitions to take the reader into account when writing, White closes with this: "The whole duty of a writer is to please and satisfy himself, and the true writer always plays to an audience of one." I can say that, barring a few assigned essays, I have always inclined that way; to what end I don't entirely know. Certainly some interesting (I don't care; I like the word) Young and Sharp Submissions.

Beowulf by Anonymous; translated by Seamus Heaney

What more appropriate book to commence a blog with than Beowulf? Below is my impression, as it were. You can view it, and many, many others, from here: http://www.geocities.com/dualphilology/beowulf.html

As the first surviving work in the English language, Beowulf has been elevated to a place of almost mystical reverence in literary circles. Tolkien was a foremost scholar on the epic poem, and the influences he derived from it form the very foundation of his own attempt at Northern European mythology. Indeed, the very grammatical structures of his invented languages, the questing motif, the treasure-guarding dragon, even the name Eomer, can be traced to Beowulf.

It has been said before, but it loses no truth in repetition: Beowulf speaks to a very fundamental, archetypal, germane (both literally and figuratively) set of emotions. The epic hero vanquishes his foes and rules triumphantly for many years, meeting his own end in a spectacular display of hubris, destroying his enemy even as it destroys him, dying a glorious death. Stories with these elements are found throughout the world's cultures, for honorable warfare has been an intrinsic desire of mankind, or mannas cynnes, as the Old English renders it, since its inception. Such values become a manner of survival for early, isolated people in a hostile environment.

I enjoyed the story, without a doubt, but more than that, I revelled in the poetry. Heaney's translation was superb, a delightfully readable versification that retained an archaic sensibility. Moreover, the original Old English was printed alongside, allowing me to trace the elements of Germanic roots that remain in our speech today. "Modor" (mother), "twelfye" (twelve), "wundor" (wonder), were all discernible; some such as "under" or "gold," have not changed at all.

First Post

I've decided to establish a blog to complement my fledgling website: www.geocities.com/dualphilology. Like how I used the correct version of "complement"? It's a collection of literary impressions, and I created it because I thought the Internet was curiously lacking in this area. I read a book, and then I write about it. I've been doing so for like a year and a half now, and I've amassed quite a cache of musings. A singular vocabulary, too.

Lorna Doone by R.D. Blackmore

While written in the late nineteenth century, Lorna Doone encompasses more than a decade of the 1600s in rural England. John Ridd is a farmer's son who, after a chance encounter with a young Lorna, becomes utterly enthralled with the girl and spends years pursuing her. She is ostensibly a member of the Doone clan, a family of terrors responsible for, among others, the death of John's father. Nevertheless, John purposes to persist in his wooing.

Carver Doone, who would have Lorna marry him, barricades her in her home without food for days. John rescues her and establishes her in his home. It is eventually revealed that Lorna is, in fact, a daughter of nobility who was raised by the Doones after they murdered her family, in order to gain her inheritance by marriage when she came of age. John foils all that. He leads a rebellion against the Doones, overthrowing their reign of the countryside, and he marries Lorna.

The book is rather lengthy, but I relished the comprehensiveness. In the beginning, I found John slightly distasteful, his continual self-deprecation and false modesty making a poor hero for a romantic adventure, but as I read further I discovered the humor in it all and engaged myself wholeheartedly in the story. Because it was so long, the book involved many, many plot twists, some of which were inevitably improbable. Still, I suppose it comes with the literary territory.

That Lorna was held in such a high position of impeccability did bother me a bit. Her beauty is her primary virtue, and John spends pages and pages extolling her hair, her eyes, and her figure. When he is not praising Lorna's unparalled, unimpeachable gorgeousness, John drones on about her tender-heartedness, her unflagging faithfulness, her modesty, her magnanimity—basically, her inability to do wrong. This, of course, forms an unattainable level of feminine perfection that can only be anathema to myself. I am a flawed individual, and so prefer to read about flawed individuals, especially as I have never met anyone who was anything but.

I can see how it fits into the comedy motif, though. For, of course, no one is perfect, and that John actually thinks Lorna is can only be played for laughs. While the novel had many humorous components, it had its share of poignant moments as well. Indeed, it was altogether a decent book. That it is rather obscure despitre its relatively recent inception may be due to the flaws I found in it. But Lorna Doone is essentially a good story, and a worthy work.

Murder in the Cathedral by T.S. Eliot

I like T.S. Eliot. He's a poet I can almost understand. by attempting to infuse his literary works with elements of spirituality, he espouses a cause to which I am sympathetic. Here, he dramatizes the murder of Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, in December 1170. Eliot holds a deep respect for Becket, essentially canonizing the man in literary form.

As it is a play, the sound of the words is what takes center stage. From alliteration, to rhyme, to rhythm, to parallel construction, Eliot employs them all, creating the fundamentally poetic prose that is his signature. Soaked with profundity and implication, the play emphasizes Becket's momentous stand against his king in favor of his God. "I have been a loyal subject to my king. Saving my order, I am at his command," Becket declares to his would-be murderers, four knights who have cornered him in the cathedral.

Becket's inner conflicts are integral parts of the story. The first occurs before the period the play covers. He adopts an outlook of spiritual-mindedness upon assuming the position of Archbishop, which alienates his sensual friend the King and begins their schism. Within the time-frame of the play, Becket is visited by four tempters who attempt to capitalize on his weaknesses and dissuade him from holding fast to his convictions. He withstands them. "The last temptation is the greatest treason: To do the right deed for the wrong reason."

But Eliot's, and Becket's, misplaced Catholic beliefs impose themselves intermittently. Becket calls upon some saints to pray for him, and his congregation almost idolizese him, bemoaning his eventual death while thanking God for another saint to whom they could pray. Still, Becket proclaims he is "[a] Christian, saved by the blood of Christ," and it may be safe to assume that they were both believers.

The intellectual presentation of a religious protagonist is altogether encouraging. Such a treatment seems, in a manner, to bolster Christianity's legitimacy. Here an author is no longer decrying the state of affairs and positing existence as meaningless as he formerly did. Rather, he is celebrating the truth that he has found and rejoicing in one of the heroes of his faith. With this play, he invites us to join him.

In fact, that may be Eliot's larger purpose. The nameless "Chorus" plays the part of the audience to the drama that unfolds, mirroring the actual audience and reacting as, I am sure, Eliot would have us as spectators react. In the concluding speech, the Chorus cries: "Forgive us, O Lord, we acknowledge ourselves as type of the common man...whofear the hand...the fire...the fist...less than we fear the love of God."

Writing about Literature by B. Bernard Cohen

What an absolutely liberating book. I just started reading and could not stop. Mr. Cohen was a college professor, and he wrote this to assist students in composing effective essays of literary criticism. He discusses the basic theory of it all, and examines practical examples. He comes off a bit pretentiously sometimes, and I am not entirely sure if his credentials are sufficient for such an overarching treatise; but then, my credentials are not such that I was pass judgment on him, and so I have decided his is an authority to which I can legitimately defer.

"The elusiveness of any literary text can be one of its chief virtues," Cohen writes. "...[M]any literary works are so expansive and suggestive that they are subject to many interpretations." He insists that the student's interpretation of a given work can be just as valid as a professional literary critic's, if it is coherent, well thought out, and supported by textual evidence. Cohen gives examples of both effectively and poorly written essays and excerpts, citing strategies that can help one craft successful analyses.

Much of his advice is common sense, stuff I intuited years ago but which is comforting to hear coming from an expert. He is also quite realistic. "...[A] beginner cannot be expected to deliver revolutionary pronouncements," but he can draw his own conclusions. This was an incredibly gratifying statement for me, for to know that a professor accepts the limited capacities of his students relieves me of a scholarly burden.

Fascinatingly, Cohen mentions that "one has to realize that an author is not always aware of everything he puts into his story or poem," though one has to be careful not to read too much into a given work. From whence comes the basis for this view I do not know, though I think it may be Freudian in origin- and therefore now illegitimate?- because of the author's many references to psychology and its effects on literature in the 20th century. Nevertheless, it must be one that has pervaded literary criticism for some time now, and it certainly explains much.

Like The Britannica Book of English Usage, this manual answered many of the standing questions I never thought I could quell. It also provided me with excellent ideas on how to go about a literary analysis. Most of all, it strengthened my confidence in my ability to write. Mr. Cohen broke it all down in a manner I completely understood, giving my an unobstructed view of the path towards decent work.

The Britannica Book of English Usage

I've always had lingering questions about minor aspects of language, and this book went a far way in quelling some of my concerns. I know I did not absorb all of the excellent information it held, but it will make a splendid reference guide. I underlined most of the important stuff anyways.

I laughed right from the beginning. During a discussion of the origins of our language, I found this gem: "Among the great languages, French closely rivals English in perversity." Of course, it is speaking of arbitrary spelling conventions. But the delineation of the genesis of English was entirely absorbing, as were the sections on grammar, punctuation, and writing.

The grammar tutorial gave me names for many conventions I did not know how to label, and clarified some issues upon which I was fuzzy. It underscored the importance of maintaining an active voice whenever possible, praised the "Oxford comma" (the optional one that can go before "and" in a list), and insisted on hyphenating compound adjectives, all matters of usage that I recently employed, tentatively but, thankfully correctly, when editing another's essays.

The introduction to the pronunciation guide featured this comment: "...there is no accentless pronunciation any more than there is a flavorless coffee or an odorless perfume." This effectually obliterated any delusions I'd ever had about "talking straight," as I've always termed my own accent, which is comparable to the "Network Standard" held as an example in this book.

Besides the excellent advice and illuminating lists of allusions and foreign phrases, the writing section included a gratifying paragraph on Christianity. Speaking of Christianity's ascendancy over Greco-Roman myth, the book stated, "One of the reasons for the ultimate triumph of Christianity...was the fact that...it dealt with the...spiritual needs of the time in a more rational manner than did its rivals." The text is carefully equivocating, to be sure, but it essentially states that Christianity has elements of rationality. Score one for the home team.

There is so much more to this volume. It is a reference book, but I found it exceeedingly readable. On the whole, I seem to be in line with standard usage, and I am sure whatever I am lacking can be easily remedied. I'll end with this quote: "Our language derives much of its force and speed from its hard consonants and crisp word endings. To ignore these qualities with...an exaggerated drawl is to insult the magnificence of our English tongue."

Chesapeake by James Michener

I can't remember the last time it took me an entire month to get through a single book. Possibly Tom Jones. Anyways, Chesapeake is the history of the Chesapeake Bay area from the 1500s to the 1970s. Needless to say, this is an incredibly long time span, and it accounts for the extreme length of the novel. Beginning with Native Americans and progressing to the first settlers, Michener's plot focuses mainly on three men and their descendants, though he intermitttently narrates the stories of others whose lives are intertwined with the primary characters, even digressing to follow a family of geese during their migration.

The characters are surprisingly varied, considering the sheer number of them. Michener's foremost virtue may be his ability to achieve myriad perspectives and personalities in an agreeable facsimile of real life, all the while weaving his narratives into a cohesive whole. Social issues, from racial equality to religious freedom to the environment, are explored through the actions and experiences of the citizens. Michener often champions his cause by way of the Quakers, for whom he seemed to have a profound respect. The carrying of the plot through the lineage of families provokes reflection on the nature of legacies, the pervasiveness of the "sins of the fathers," and the brevity and insignificance of the individual in light of history.

When one 20th century descendant of a founding Chesapeake family said to another, "I do a little genealogy" and mentioned she'd found that their families had been connected in the past, and I had just read some nine hundred pages describing the illustrious intrigues of their forebears that these modern-day people would never know about, I stopped. I myself, by virtue of being alive, am descended from just as many people whose stories I will never hear. I don't even know the respective occupations of all my grandparents. Forget the intimate details of their lives, or anyone preceding them. What a wealth of knowledge I will never be privy to.

Chesapeake was ultimately about the land. Though its inhabitants are central to the story, each character is brought on the stage only briefly, as if the person himself were not as important as the part he played in forming the society of the Chesapeake Bay area.

Utopia by Thomas More

Scholars are divided on this book, and so am I. Some say More is actually espousing an ideal way of life, while others insist it is all moral allegory. I'm afraid I cannot tell. More was a devout Catholic, and rather intolerant of other religions, and so the vague communal faith of the Utopians seems entirely imcompatible with his beliefs. But for what, then, did he write the book.

The Utopia is an island in some inscrutable place. Its inhabitants are housed, fed, clothed, and employed by the government. In return, they work diligently eight hours a day. They're moderately well-educated, and encouraged to attend instructional lectures in their spare time. Gold and jewels are despised and used for chamberpots and such, and no one seems to mind not owning anything because they want for nothing necessary. Church attendance is compulsory, but the service is inter-faith, for various beliefs abound, their only common thread being a monotheism.

For, the whole of the societal structure depends upon the individual's belief in a benevolent higher power. As More readily admits, no man would work toward the good of the whole his entire life if he didn't have any spiritual incentive, any afterlife impetus. As long as the Utopians believe that their cooperation is in their best interests, they will continue to do their respective shares.

The state holds a terrible amount of power in Utopia. Travel is restricted; marriage is regulated. Every aspect of the citizens' lives is dependent upon the government. Though each is guaranteed food, shelter, and steady work, the arrangement is neither desirable nor feasible. At the end of the day, it is all no less that state-controlled slavery. Freedom, even an impoverished freedom, as Frederick Douglass said, is surely better than this.

Individual ownership is one of the chief desires of man. As I heard a pastor recently say, "The early Christians did not preach Communism. Communism says, 'What's yours is mine.' Communalism says, 'What's mine is yours.' The early Christians practiced communalism." Philanthropy should be born of an intrinsic motivation to give, not by the state's insistence. The motive to do good, in fact, in completely eradicated when sin and virtue are determined by authority, when unquestioning compliance is all that is asked of the individual.

So why did More write this book? Perhaps, in the pre-Marx world, a communism seemed plausible. Or perhaps More was entirely aware of the shortcomings of his invented society, and intended it only as a backdrop upon which to present his carefully veiled critiques of his contemporary life. For my part, I hope for the latter.

The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli

Machiavelli actually served as an excellent converstion starter. I read the entirety of the book over the course of a few days, sitting in a coffee shop in Idyllwild. I was asked twice if I were reading The Prince for fun, once by an innocuously middle-aged man who said, "You don't see people reading Machiavelli very often," and once by a slightly formidable biker, replete with leather and tattoos, for whom a penchant for literature would not be one's primary inference.

I was also asked by a scruffy, long-haired local boy, if it was "cool."

"Yeah," I replied. "It's about how to gain politically in 16th century Italy." He just nodded.

That is essentially what the book is about, but much of it has more universal implications. Machiavelli proceeeds systematically, giving common-sense advice to any who would seek to achieve and maintain a position of power. He draws on ancient and contemporary sources to serve as examples, both of what to emulate, and of what to avoid.

I found myself agreeing with much of what he says, except for his exhortation to follow a path of immorality when it would further oneself politically. Of course, it makes sense to do so when one's sole goal is political gain, but it is folly to consider that one's chief end.

At any rate, Machiavelli had many points which are as applicable now as ever. He said that "knowing afar off...the evils that are brewing, they are easily cured," and he describes a times when the Romans declared war on Philip and Antiochus "for they knew war is not to be avoided" and they preferred to fight them in Greece rather than in their own country. Has anyone ever used Machiavelli to defend the Iraq War? Sounds like praise of the pre-emptive strike to me.

His wisdom can be applied to the personal life as well. "The first impression that one gets of a ruler and his brains is from seeing the men that he has about him." And, "there is no other way of guarding one's self against flattery than by letting men understans that they will not offend you by speaking the truth."

The Prince was terribly accessible and delightfully applicable. I probably won't be invading any countries any time soon, but if the occasion arises, I know whom to consult. There was a sufficient amount of everyday advice to make this book a profitable read even for a mere citizen.

Let Us Now Praise Famous Men by James Agee

The title of this book caught my eye one day in a thrift store in Idyllwild. It was so melodic and enigmatic, with a hint of bitter irony. I flipped the cover open and discovered the splendid black-and-white photographs that grace the beginning and complement the narrative. I decided the book was fully worth 50 cents based on these merits alone.

As it turns out, the book has its own intrinsic value. Agee was sent by the magazine he worked for to the South in 1936, to profile some farmers there. His resulting manuscript was far too long to be printed in a magazine. He was eventually able to acquire the publishing rights and find a publisher. What the book is, is hard to categorize. Agee details every element of the lives of three tenant farmer families- from the nature of their liveliehood, to the foods they eat, the houses they live in, and the clothes they wear. But more than this, he delves into the psychological aspects of the desperate poverty in which they exist.

Interspersed between the intricate descriptions and intimate discussions of the farmers' lives, are Agee's musings on the essential nature of existence in general. It is all a fascinating window into his philosophies and beliefs, and though the book purports to be about tenant farmers, it is truly about Agee. He has a fierce regard for humanity, and it pervades his work. He has a fixation on sexuality, and this too permeates his writing. It is not uncomfortably prominent, though.

Despite some objectionable metaphors and peculiar agnosticism, Agee's narrative held me fully spellbound. I actually enjoyed reading this book, and so I know it was due entirely to Agee's adept handling of the English language. His prose was truly masterful. The fact that I was held rapt from beginning to end is testament to this.

The beauty of this book was its greatest merit. Agee's words mesmerized me in this sort of literary splendor. I've never had a reaction quite like this to a work of literature. Often for me the content obscures the quality of the writing, but this time the technique surpassed the subject, rendering it rather incidental. I felt as if I could say to Agee, "Okay, I can get with you on this one. I'll suspend my disbelief for you. I can dig it." It was an unparalled experience.

Raise High the Roof Beams, Carpenters and Seymour, An Introduction

I'll admit it; I'm a bit of a bibliophile. I was in a thrift store in Idyllwild and I saw this beautiful worn navy clothbound book with delicately ivory-aged pages and barely discernible gold lettering on the spine, and I impulsively emptied my wallet of its change. I try not to be so shallow, but sometimes my book-love gets the better of me. The typeset is gorgeous.

The text itself wasn't too bad, either. I did Catcher in the Rye, failing to be scandalized by the language and coming away from it merely with a strong sense of pity for Holden Caulfield. This book was rather different. Salinger crafted essentially a lengthy character study, the view of a man through the eyes of his brother. The first section introduces Buddy Glass, a young soldier on leave during World War II attending his brother Seymour's wedding. Seymour never shows at the ceremony, and Buddy finds himself in a traffic jam with unfamiliar wedding guests. They abandon their taxi in favor of Buddy's apartment, have a drink, and disperse. All throughout the story, Buddy reminisces and muses over his brother.

This strain is continued in the next section, the official "introduction" to Seymour. The Glass family had a history in entertainment, and all the children appeared regularly on a radio quiz show. They were rather precocious, with a penchant for languages. Seymour was in college at sixteen and teaching at twenty. He was a prolific poet and philosopher, with the typical Oriental sympathies of the mid-twentieth-century intellectual. He ended up eloping with the bride whom he stood up that same day, and he committed suicide six years later.

Buddy is in his forties as he narrates this second section. Hr adores his deceased brother to a point of excess. He considers him an unparalled poet and a foremost thinker of his generation. The reader, or this reader anyway, has little upon which to form an agreement with him. Buddy's rosy rememberances are nice and witty, but involve perhaps too much telling, and not enough showing. Interesting about their relationship, though, is the way Seymour would write notes to Buddy critiquing his writing. They were so very literate, these brothers. Prentiously, delightfully, literate.

Salinger tried very hard here to create a fascinating, memorable character or two, but the sum total left only the slightest impression on me. It was all just so inconclusive. Why is committing suicide so profound? What exactly were Seymour's beliefs, and upon what did he base them? Why did Salinger write this book? The quasi-philosophical meandering intellectualism begins to sound like so much white noise.

What to Eat by Marion Nestle

Marion Nestle was the nutritionist in Super Size Me who knew what a calorie is, so when I heard her on NPR promoting her new book, I knew I had to read it. What to Eat was as comprehensive as the title would require it to be, but my attention rarely flagged. Nestle's comfort with and command of language surprised me- the book was published in 2006, and my experience with contemporary prose thus far has been less than satisfactory- and buoyed me through to the end.

Nestle's admontion to focus on "fruits, vegetables, and whole grains" has become a mantra of sorts for me. In the book, she examines the various sections of the typical supermarket, and also the supermarket system as a whole. She exhorts the reader to eat food that is as minimally processed as possible. Addressing the usage of pesticides and hormones, she acknowledges that many people cannot afford organically grown products, and so considers buying organic a political rather than health-motivated choice.

Nestle traces the journeys our foods make, and emphasizes the advantages of buying locally grown products. She always bears in mind the cost to the consumer, and insists it is cost-effective to eat healthily. She weaves in anecdotes and personal experiences expertly, and mentions her own preferences often. She devotes a substantial section to hydrogenated oils, and underscores the detrimental effects of consuming such.

The book is altogether quite arresting, and exhaustive. Few areas affect us so broadly as that of the supermarket, and to have its contents delineated is fascinating. It is also comforting to have Nestle assert there are no "superfoods," and that as long as one gets adequate amounts of key nutrients and focusus on fruits, vegetables, and whole grains, there is nothing to worry about except calories. Low-carb, et al. diets work only because calories are restricted. There is no other way to lose weight.

I was delighted overall. Nestle is an excellent writer, not some random person who sat down to write something. Moreover, she is primarily a nutritionist, not a professional writer. If only all authors by trade could write as well as she.

Evelina by Fanny Burney

Evelina is so old, Jane Austen considered it a classic.That is, in fact, why I actually read the book. What did the illustrious Austen read? What inspired her? I was curious. And now I know, more or less. Evelina is composed entirely of letters written by characters. The eponymous girl is a functional orphan, dismissed by her father before her birth and raised by a kind reverend after her father's death. When she is seventeen, a friend invites her to come to London, and the protective reverend reluctantly acquiesces.

Adventures ensue. Evelina has the misfortune to be considered by all outrageously beautiful, and so she draws all sorts of unwelcome attention. She gets some welcome attention, too, from one Lord Orville. Though he initially finds her insipid and silly, a deeper intimacy with her shows him she is actually quite sensible and upright, any misunderstanding having stemmed from her awkwardness and unfamiliarity with the ways of the eighteenth-century world.

But an interesting qualification comes into play. Evelina writes to the reverend detailed, detailed accounts of everything that transpires (how would we the readers have a story otherwise?), and he advises her as to the path of propriety whenever he can. When Evelina receives an immodest letter ostensibly from Lord Orville, the reverend minces no words in his degradation of the man, and Evelina's regard for him is rendered merely a rose-colored view of a charlatan.

But later on, it is revealed that the letter was forged, Lord Orville is returned to everyone's good graces, and the two marry. It is the intemittent change of opinion that intrigued me. Instead of remaining a paragon of virtue throughout the course of the novel, Orville momentarily becomes almost a villain. It was an excellent twist to the formulaic romance.

But how can I even speak of formula? I have so little experience in literature pre-nineteenth-century, and all my ideas of plot and style have been formed by later works. Evelina could have been wildly pioneering in the field. Perhaps, though, the archetypal romance form is an inherent one, present from the beginning. That would lend me more credibility upon which to pass judgment.

At any rate, Evelina was delightfully readable. I wasn't sure if the prose would be more Shakespearean than Austenian as far as my comprehension went, but my fears were unfounded. The story was exceeedingly decent, and full of excellent asides: "She is not, indeed, like most modern ladies, to be known in half-an-hour..." (Letter LXXV)

Scoop by Evelyn Waugh

Believe or not, but Evelyn was a man. A rather dashing young man in his youth, from what I could see of his portrait on the back cover. He was also a satirist, often compared to P.G. Wodehouse. Indeed, I found palpable similarities in their manners of style and the characterizations of early-20th-century Britons. Moreover, I think I enjoyed Scoop to the same degree that I enjoyed Leave it to Psmith- mildly, but not profoundly.

William Boot is mistakenly sent as a news correspondent to Ishmaelia, wherever that is. He bumbles through the news reporting process, and the corruption and inaccurate methods of the journalism business are revealed through his naivete. Boot encounters ambassadors, government officials, Ishmaelian citizens, travelers abroad, and fellow reporters, all of whom exhibit a degeneracy that contrasts severely with Boot's own innocence. It is a world of deceit, dishonesty, and acting solely in one's own interest.

The voice of the early 20th century author often falls curiously on my ears. His characters somehow seem puerile, childish, undeveloped, and shallow. Waugh's are a case of such. He tells my something about his character, say, that the German expatriate woman is alluring, but I cannot believe it. In my mind's eye, she appears as scarce more than a little girl. Waugh's descriptions are sparse, and he relies more often on telling rather than showing. This, added to the imbecilic dialogue employed for satire but perceived, albeit unwillingly, by me as inadequate, makes for an unsatisfactory rendering of life.

But satire, I suppose, is not the place for complex character development. Caricatures are a much more effective manner of conveying ridicule. Still, I do love a good in-depth psychological analysis. But perhaps I am too demanding.

My overarching impression of this book is that its satire was once incisive, biting, and accurate, but the things it mocks have since fallen into obscurity. Waugh is lauded all over for said satire, and so I can only assume it was once more pungent than it is now. But such is the nature of humor. Its merits are transient, often confined to one period of history, unable to transcend the limits of chronology. Bummer.

Caravans by James Michener

The setting was Afghanistan, 1946. A young American, Mark Miller, is stationed there at his country's embassy. He is given the responsibility to discover what happened to a Pennsylvania woman who had married an Afghan man and disappeared. This mission takes him all over the foreign country, and Miller learns of the past, present, and future of Afghanistan as he finds the woman and learns the same of her.

Mark Miller was an excellent character. A Nordic Jew in a Muslim country just after World War II, he had all kinds of splendid issues to work out. He was an able and congenial first-person narrator, a terrific person through whom to experience Afghanistan.

Ellen Jaspar, the Pennsylvanian, was less agreeable. She ran off with the Afghani because she considered the Afghan life as polarized as possible from the apparently vapid one her parents lived and desired for her. But her Afghan husband, notwithstanding his skin color and second wife, turns out to be just as conventional and progress-minded as Ellen's father. So, she runs off with a tribe of nomads, believing theirs to be a life of true freedom and fulfillment. However, even her nomad lover aspires to a position of land-holding power and political clout. Ellen seems to be a queen without a country.

That is where we leave her, too. She is escorted away by the American embassy agents, and that is that. Mark could see the logical fallacies in her philosophy, but he still harbored affection for her. Fine. I suppose that's his prerogative.

Michener's writing was lucid, crystal clear, riveting prose. I thought it superb.

A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy O'Toole

This book was recommended to me with something to the effect of, "It's like everyone's favorite book but they never remember it. It's a comedy. You'd like it." Intrigued, I checked it out. It was funny, truly funny. There was some objectionable content, but altogether I enjoyed the book.

Ignatius O'Reilly, a large, unkempt man with flashing yellow-blue eyes, lives with his mother in New Orleans. He is rather intelligent but unable to function adequately in society. He desires a monarchy and a return to the ideals of medieval Catholicism. He is a hypochondriac with an abrasive, haughty demeanor, unwilling to work steadily or, in fact, do much more than scribble paeans to history on yellow writing tablets. His mother pressures him to earn something to offset their bills, so he novel is structured loosely around his succession of jobs. It also features the incredible characters of the New Orleans scene that he meets as he wanders aimlessly through the narrative. Eventually he reaches some plane of character development.

The untoward content is mainly found in Ignatius' fearful asexuality. Also, he encounters a group of homosexuals, but that was more funny than anything. Ignatius, devout Catholic that he is, screams, "Perverts!" as he is dragged by two lesbians from a house of partying gays.

I actually liked Ignatius. He spoke proper college English while those around him spewed Louisiana drawls. He was supercilious and eccentrically intellectual. But he was also essentially disgusting, so I could not embrace him wholeheartedly.

But the book was funny. The dialogue was tight and effective. The narrative was at times self-conscious, but mostly masterful and apt. It did poke fun at backwater hicks, after all.

Praise of Folly by Erasmus

I've always meant to crack open the great works of the ancients. Well, perhaps Erasmus doesn't qualify for an outright ancient, as he was at the forefront of the Renaissance. Still, he predates Shakespeare by about one hundred years, which is fairly old by my account.

Modern translation is a double-edged sword. Any translating alters the voice of the original author, but without it I for one would be unable to read many books in the first place. But despite the inevitably stilted rendering, I was able to catch Erasmus' drift. Praise of Folly is a satire, the title itself a play on Eramsus' friend Thomas More's name involving the Greek word for folly, "moria."

Erasmus plays the devil's advocate and voices the personification of Folly. Folly, dear girl, gives a lengthy oration enumerating her merits and detailing the many places in mythology and the Bible in which she is celebrated. In the introduction, Erasmus, in quite a reasoned, scholarly manner, defends his decision to write light-hearted fare. Apparently he anitcipated criticism. But Erasmus' supposedly recreational treatise is beautifully constructed and executed with an unprecedented degree of complexity. This is said to be Erasmus' most universal, enduring work, which just proves the Arthur Conan Doyle principle- sometimes the stuff one writes for fun will be remembered long after one's most favored work has faded into obscurity.

Erasmus dips into all sorts of ancient influences to prove his farcical thesis, that Folly is to be praised above all other gods. He mentions Plato and Socrates and also draws from lesser-known, at least to me, sources. He uses Bible verses too, and twists them in a bit of scholarly solipsism to fit his premise. He then uses contemporary evidence, pointing out folly in every facet of life, making the case for its necessity to human beings to function normally.

I really like Erasmus. He came about right at the commencement of the age of the printed word, and was one of the first people in history to be able to disseminate information en masse. He totally took advantage of this, translating a new, more accurate version of the New Testament. He advocated a return to the study of the works of the early church fathers, rather than that of the scholars of the Middle Ages. He was at the forefront of the Reformation, bringing leverage and perspective to the discussion. He was an intelligent Christian. I'm a big fan of Erasmus.

Leave it to Psmith by P.G. Wodehouse

Leave it to Psmith more or less ended my Wodehouse honeymoon. I am sorry to say I was not completely enthralled with this book. It was a worthy effort, but sadly not of the calibre that I have come to expect of Wodehouse.

Psmith (the "p" is silent, of course) quits his job as fishmonger and advertises for a new position. He, by a series of fortunate coincidences, becomes wrapped up in the affairs of Blandings Castle, a country estate with more than its fair share of eccentrics. Mr. Keeble, who lives there, wants to procure some money for his impoverished stepdaughter, but his new wife won't let him touch anything. So, his nephew devises a plan that involves stealing a pricey neckalce from the wife, selling it for the money, and buying her a new one. Psmith, and a pretty girl hired to catalogue the library, join with them.

Hilarities ensue. Except that they're not really that hilarious. The story relies too much on coincidence and hyperbolic personalities. Psmith was an interesting guy, but though the book bears his name, the narrative does not dwell on him as much as it ought to have. Two minor characters, Americans, were downright annoying and a narrative waste of time. Professional criminals engaged to one another, they bantered banally and spoke gratingly. The girl ruled her fiance, and their relationship was sickeningly trite.

The caricature motif grows old quickly. No one in the real world is like any of these characters, and if someone happens to be, he certainly is not surrounded by others as outre as himself. And chance happenings are rare by definition. The ridiculous amount of coincidental events disappointed me. I would have hoped Wodehouse was creative enough to compose a plot with even just a fascimile of reality.

Eats Shoots & Leaves by Lynne Truss

The title of this brief punctuation overview is the punchline of a joke, involving a panda and a gun, that highlights the importance of the aforementioned language conventions.. I identified easily with the author's convulsions at the sight of prominent punctuation errors, and sympathized with her reasons for writing this book. However, I did not personally benefit from it much, for I was aware of most every aspect of usage that she discussed.

Truss's perspective, though, was refreshing. She described perfectly the lonely, blighted existence of a grammar "stickler" and assured me that I am not alone. I also appreciated her clarification of language, and the English language especially, as not a rigid construction of hard, set rules, but as an ever-evolving system of communication. But of course, that is not to say that because the conventions of language are flexible and changeable, they can be ignored completely. Rather, punctuation is essential, and a common set of rules necessary, for discourse between the writer and the reader to take place.

Punctuation can alter meaning drastically, as Truss wittily exhibits. For instance, is the Bible verse:

"Verily I say unto you, today you will be with me in paradise"

or should it be:

"Verily I say unto you today, you will be with me in paradise"?

Terribly important points of doctrine hinge on that comma, whose position is indiscernable because the ancients had no punctuation. Soul sleep or instant entrance into heaven? Punctuation is crucial.

Truss hashes out the nuances of usage and concedes that in some instances, the correct way is a matter entirely of taste. That is a comfort to me, for I punctuate mainly by ear; that is, I use whatever sounds right when I am reading silently.

I think the possessive apostrophe is one of the majorly abused conventions, and also one of the most clear-cut ones to define. Misuse of apostrophes irks me as much as it did the author.

I am glad I read this. It got me thinking deeply over my grammatical habits, and it reinforced for me the desperate importance of proper punctuation. The book was nicely concise, and I would recommend it heartily to the English language's habitual offenders.

Conversation: A History of a Declining Art by Stephen Miller

My first conclusion about this book came in the beginning chapters, where I was struck by the shortcomings of the author's style. Rather than a pleasant, accessible, conversational tone that would have been awfully appropriate for a book on conversation, Miller had a high school-essayish sort of approach, with an attempt to sound learned and proper coming off as more pretentious and amateurish than anything else. I, of course, live in mortal fear of falling to the same fate, but that is beside the point. I am not an elderly man positing myself as a witty, expert conversationalist.

Miller, in fact, came off rather snobbishly. I understand his righteous intellectual anger at the state of reasonable, rational discourse in America, but dismissing all Bible-believing Christians as unconversable was fairly harsh. Many of them might be unable to hold an intelligent conversation, but certainly not all of them, thank you very much.

Miller was often tedious, too often really. His haphazard history of conversation was not particularly enlightening, though his piece on Spartan society gave me something to think about. Apparently in Spartan society boys, from a young age, were consigned to the army and assigned an older "mentor," in a form of state-sanctioned pedophilia. Fascinating stuff. Anyways, the opinions of Hume, Johnson, Montaigne, et. al. on every subject, including each other, failed to excite much interest in me.

The modern history was nothing I did not know already. Kids instant message instead of talking face to face. Texting is destroying the language, whittling it down to nothing. Political rhetoric is emotionally charged, making it nearly impossible to reason out issues rationally. But I don't think the conversational landscape has any more weeds now than it ever did. Just because Miller's golden age - the 1700s in Britain - had a few intellectuals espousing the joys of discourse, it doesn't mean the society's state as a whole was rosy.

In a culmination of inadequacy, Miller ends on a dour note. One should never do so in such a book, even if it is justified. A pessimistic outlook is an insult to the reader, essentially telling him that even though he now has all this information and is as enlightened on the subject as the author, he is not capable of improving the general situation. Like, "This is the way the world is, and there is nothing you can do about it." My deepest desires are for arresting conversations, and I'm not giving up just because Stephen Miller is. Though they have been few and far between, I have had excellent conversations before, and I expect to have some more in the future. All hope is not lost.

Jeeves in the Springtime by P.G. Wodehouse

Coming up with original comments to make about books in a series that are so similar to one another is hard. Wodehouse just has a knack for not fixing what isn't broken. I had to check my pronunciation of his last name. It is "wood-house," as in Emma. Because I typically come across new authors over the Internet or in books, I don't always hear names, and I need to take care of my pronunications, for it could turn embarrassing. I was fortunate I never referred to Albert Camus and Marcel Proust before I learned how to pronounce them. They were French, though, so I suppose I have an excuse. My British pronunications are usually spot-on, though one does have to watch for the worcestershires and gloucesters and whatnot.

Anyways, I can make at least one new observance here. Jeeves in the Springtime was a collection of some of the first Jeeves and Wooster short stories. The characters seemed rather embryonic in form, at least compared to what I had read and seen beforehand. In the first story of the book, Wooster becomes acquainted with Jeeves, and they have a few fallings-out before Wooster acknowledges Jeeves' mental superiority. Herein lies the basis upon which the other stories are built.

In the eponymous story, Jeeves is engaged, disengaged, and re-engaged, in a Wooster-ish fashion that I found detracted from his normally aloof, unadulterated ethos. I prefer Jeeves to be the uninvolved, almost asexual manservant he appears to be in the later works. It adds to the delightfully confounding dichotomy of the superior man subservient to his inferior. It would seem that Jeeves has no other ends, that he desires to attain nothing else in life, but the satisfaction of his employer. It is this distinct irony that perpetuates the humor in these books.

So there you have it. Some quasi-intelligent musings on my gym literature. I couldn't do cardio without it.

The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins

The Moonstone began rather slowly, "mawkishly" even, as someone on amazon.com described it, with a sensational account of the theft of the eponymous stone from a sacred Hindu temple. The story then skips to a succession of first-person narrators, each relating their part in the mystery that surrounds the presentation and subsequent disappearance of the Moonstone on a young lady's birthday.

The narration gains traction as the novel progresses. Many characters are woefully two-dimensional, but somehow this did not diminish my delight in the book. By the middle of it, I was actually reluctant to put the book down, a rarer and rarer experience for me. No, the characters were not credible, nor was the plot, but I was entertained nonetheless.

And perhaps that is exactly why I was entertained. It has always been a maxim of mine that good fiction consists of ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances, or extraordinary people in ordinary circumstances. Ordinary people in ordinary circumstances are beyond boring, and extraordinary people in extraordinary circumstances can sometime be a bit over the top.

I am sure there is something wrong with my fiction-is-only-as-good-as-the-level-of-entertainment-it-provides philosophy on literature. Nevertheless, I shall persist in it until I can convince myself of something more intellectually forthright.

But it was a fun book. The Moonstone, at least, can only be worth as much as it entertains, for by any loftier measure it would not register very highly. Still, T.S. Eliot did call it "the first, the longest and the best of modern English detective novels," which has to lend the book some credibility.

The Warden by Anthony Trollope

I don't know who or why or how or what, but I just did not like this book. I suppose it was a character study. That is often a good way to say a book was plotless and incredibly boring- as this was.

Perhaps I am not doing The Warden justice. It did have a romance, and the prose was not nearly obscure. It is just that everything was so flat. The book was like a children's primer. Of course, it did not help that my edition had a rather large font and cute little illustrations.

The Warden is a clergyman appointed to oversee some aging, retired field workers. A young activist-type decides the Warden is paid too much, and that more of the money he receives should go to the old men. So the kid conjures up a lawsuit. Unfortunately, he loves the Warden's daughter, and she pleads for him to give up the suit. Alas, it is too much for the Warden. He resigns his post, the girl marries the young guy, and everyone is moderately happy at the end, except for the old men, who have lost the best master they could have over greed for money they never got.

"Pedestrian" is the best I can do to describe the book. "Dull", "flat", "uninteresting" are close contenders. What more is there to say? I am sure the book had some sort of merit as social and political commentary at some point, but now even I, an unabashed Anglophile, can derive little of enjoyment from it. It is so hard to say intelligent things about a boring book

Don't Eat This Book by Morgan Spurlock

Subtitled "Fast Food and the Supersizing of America," this expose of sorts written by the guy who ate only McDonald's for thirty days and filmed his ordeal, kept me entirely enthralled. I've retained an overarching disdain for fast food for many years, and Spurlock's testimony and barrage of facts only fortified my aversion for the stuff. Indeed, I disregarded the title and devoured his writing.

Spurlock jumps conversationally through the many facets of processed food, citing studies and experts and weaving in his own expericences and observances. He thoroughly destroys any appeal McDonald's could have for anyone, tracing the demise of its food quality, detailing the ingredients and the processes they go through, and demonstrating the inability of the average American to eat there constantly, burn off all the calories he consumes, and receive all of the nutrients he needs.

Spurlock goes even further into America's nutritive deficit. He scrutinizes the meat industry and its infatuation with hormones, antibiotics, and cutting costs at the expense of quality. He visits schools and finds many have cut P.E. while offering lunch fare no more nutritious than fast food. He examines the shelves of grocery stores, decrying the abundance of hydrogenated oils and high fructose corn syrups. He meets gastric bypass patients and marvels at how the world's one billion overweight inhabitants mirror the one billion starving ones.

The book is filled with devastating facts. An obese corpse being cremated fills the incinerating room with the smell of McDonald's as it burns; a man forgets a hamburger in his pocket one spring and finds it next fall in perfect condition; one McDonald's CEO dies of a heart attack and the man who replaces him dies of colectoral cancer. It is disgusting.

Spurlock's basic exhortation is for people to eat real food. Real, honest-to-goodness food that has no filler and that actually spoils. What is more, he calls for people to exercise and burn more calories than they take in. It doesn't take much to be healthy.

I have become more stringent lately, trying to maintain a standard of purity about what I consume. Even restaurants make me leery. I want to know exactly what is in everything I put into my mouth. Because of my resolve, I enjoyed the book that much more. I felt like I was on Spurlock's side. My only quarrel with him is over his sometimes too-leftist politics. The government can only be responsible for so much. Citizens need to make the effort to educate themselves, rather than have information dictated to them.

My Life and Hard Times by James Thurber

Short and sweet. Thurber recounts incidents from his early life through to his post-college days, leaving off there for "the confusions and the panics of last year and the year before are too close for contentment."

The book is divided into self-contained commentaries in essay form. One describes "The Night the Bed Fell." It is an absurd account of a series of event blown entirely out of proportion. Another, "The Day the Dam Broke," is much the same. In both stories, the eponymous events never actually take place; rather, they are perceived to have, and so, choas ensues.

The stories are all entertaining and well-written. Thurber retains the qualities of his journalistic profession with a straightforward and concise style aimed to keep the reader's attention. He joyfully commemorates the colorful characters of his family and his fellow citizens of Columbus, Ohio. If anything, the book was too short. I completed it within two cardio sessions at the gym.

I am rather divided over Thurber's illustrations. They are certainly iconic, a style unto themselves. They're like life reduced to its most basic elements- childlike in execution, but endowed with an adult sensibilty. But they remind me of rendering problems I've had when attempting to portray something from real life accurately on a page, something about the perspective and proportions and whatnot. Still, the antithetical nature of his drawings is quite appealing.

Swann's Way by Marcel Proust

Turn-of-the-century French experimental literature: not one of my favorite genres. Not by a long shot. But I saw Proust's work alluded to twice in the Wall Street Journal, and it was another book I could cross off my College Board-recomended list of novels to read before college, so I committed to perservering through Swann's Way, the first installment in Proust's monumental trilogy, In Search of Lost Time. I will not, however, be perservering through the latter two any time soon.

I have little love for stream-of-consciousness writing. Unfortunately for me, that is exactly what this entire book is comprised of. Proust's narrator recounts his entire childhood after the taste of a madeleine and tea sets off his memory. As a young boy in late 19th-century France, he grows up in the countryside and the narration meanders along with him. Detailed, detailed, detailed descriptions abound, with many involving flowers, which I found rather effeminate. The childhood narration is interrupted by the section "Swann in Love," which involves an acquaintance of the boy's family and takes place before he is born. "Swann in Love" is merely a chronicle of Swann's desperate, possessive obsession with some courtesan-type woman. She is shallow and promiscuous, and what Swann terms his "love" for her, is really just a desire to subdue and control her, to make himself "indispensable" to her.

The novel then switches back to the young boy, who grows to love Swann's daughter in much the same way Swann loved that woman. He has married her in the meantime, and the girl is the product of their union. The end of Swann's Way is not a decisive conclusion, for the story continues in the next two volumes.

I am sure the text suffered in translation, for it has that inordinately stuffy tone common to foreign works. Even the style that survives hinders the readability, though. Proust's sentences are endless, and one forgets the subject by the time one reaches the verb. The descriptions, which describe everything into oblivion, are tedious and pointless. There is little to call a plot, which eliminated any motivation I may have had to continue turning the pages.

I can see some merit in Proust's ability to represent elements of the human experience, especially the concept of memory association. Just as Swann was flooded with memories when he heard Vinteuil's sonata, so have I been ambushed by particular songs. But it was just such a long book, and I do not agree with the underlying philosophies behind it. I don't see a purposeless pleasure-seeking existence as particularly profound. Or correct.

How Right You Are, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

Truly, there is something to be said for reliable consistency, for serial continuity. When one runs across delightful characters whom one is loath to part with, who can express one's joy when one discovers there is so much more where that came from?

I know I am being slightly verbose here. But perhaps there is no better way to expound upon the merits of How Right You Are, Jeeves, for verbosity is in fact one of the more endearing aspects of the protagonist and his associates. I revelled in the early-twentieth-century British vernacular. The accents from this period give a distinct impression of rapidity of speech, and this text conjures up that sound. It is almost as if the book is meant to be read quickly, and that is, of course, how I always go about it.

The characters' antics are beyond ridiculous, but that is all part and parcel of the Wodehouse ethos. Bertie Wooster is inevitably involved with a woman he was previously engaged to, or at least thought to have been engaged to. He usually has a lovestruck friend, and an aunt makes an appearance. Wooster gets tangled in others' affairs, and Jeeves is there to untie the knots. It's all here.

The farcical allusions are hilarious. A dachshund is described as "sound and fury signifying nothing," a reference which I readily understood after a lengthy study of Macbeth in school earlier this year. Wooster also employs a singular device of abbreviation, declaring, "[I] buried my f. in my h." when he was distraught, "f." being "face" and "h." being "hands." I've never encountered such a thing, nor do I believe I ever will. The fashion of writing seems to be a delightful little Wodehouse original.

The plot was rather meandering, but it defers to the characters and dialogue. The conversations are rapid-fire and truly comic. The characters play off of each other as if they were performing a sketch. The lines are concise, polished, and air-tight, snappy and clean. Wodehouse was a master of bons mots.

The Cherry Orchard by Anton Chekhov

The Cherry Orchard was a Russian play representing the fall of the country's serfdom. An old family, whose lineage dates back interminably, has lost its fortune. To avoid backruptcy, they are forced to sell their sizable home and land, including the beloved cherry orchard. The auction comes about, and the highest bidder is a man whose own ancestors were subservient to the affluent family's for just as far back as they can remember. He had begun life as a peasant, but had slowly amassed enough wealth to buy out the lords of the land.

The new owner begins razing the orchard as soon as the impoverished former owners depart. The sound of axes falling offsets the sobs of those leaving. For them, the cherry orchard was the embodiment of their prosperous past, a monument to deceased relatives who still seem to inhabit it. Now all of that is gone, their aristocratic birthright usurped by some low-blooded upstart.

All right. That is enough of that. Less esoterically, I thought the play incredibly tedious and was unable to conjure up pity for the protagonists. Of course, that is part of the inherent flaws involved in merely reading a play, silently, to oneself. The voices of the characters are muted and distorted by the one in the reader's head. The aesthetic is non-existent, for in writing for the stage the playwright omits the detailed narrative of the novel. Essentially, the effect is ruined. Translated works, too, retain a tincture of formality and lose the original sound and rhythm the author intended.