The Collected Poems of T.S. Eliot

Poetry has always been a thing despised by me. But, once again, my AP Lit and Comp teacher's instruction has proved horizon-expanding. We went through "The Hollow Men" when we read Heart of Darkness, and I was intrigued by the depth of meaning manifest within the poem. In my other English class, a brush with The Great Gatsby warranted a five-page essay on a topic from the 1920s. Seeing how as I find most of that decade as vapidly decadent and unworthy of study as F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel itself, I decided to take a risk and immerse myself in a subject completely unknown to myself- T.S. Eliot and his poetry.

The research and composition of my paper was an unprecedented success (my five-minute class presentation was not as wonderful, but that is another story). Though much of Eliot's message was obscured to me on my primary readings, subsequent commentaries, rehashing, and invaluable audio files of the author reading "The Waste Land" undoubtedly as it was meant to be heard, gradually filled in the subtler shades of meaning for me. I was able to trace Eliot's journey from a disillusioned, dispassionate commentator on the dissipation and dismemberment of modern society, to an enlightened, rejuvenated Christian, full of calm hope.

His "Choruses from the Rock" were gorgeous expressions of an intellectual Christianity. "Knowledge of words, and ignorance of the Word" takes one "nearer to death/but nearness to death no nearer to God." The first chorus contains those lines, and ends with these:

And we thank Thee that darkness reminds us of light.
O Light Invisible, we give Thee thanks for Thy great glory!

Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare

I'll commence with a caveat: most of my perspective is probably my senior AP Lit and Comp teacher's, so buyer beware.

Twelfth Night was fairly funny. It was largely far-fetched, and really only enjoyable when acted out, but the humor was still apparent in the text. Mr. Rossi's pantomines also helped.

The underlying message was an intriguing one. "Dost thou think because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?" Sir Toby asks Malvolio, the self-righteous Puritan. Can religion and pleasure exist together? Perhaps Shakespeare thought so.

I'm not typically a Bardolator, but I was able to muster up some appreciation for Shakespeare with a teacher to elucidate the finer points and bring to light the essential themes. Maybe, as T.S. Eliot said, Shakespeare is a better companion as one gets older. It might be that youth cannot tackle the Bard on its own.

Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev

I do not know what the general consensus is on this book. I personally am divided. I am not particularly fond of Russian literature. I got maybe three-quarters of the way through War and Peace before the people at the Jeopardy! tryouts told me to just shelve it and watch the movie, and so I gleefully returned the book to the library. It was that novel that introduced me to the more benign 19th century definition of "make love," so I suppose it had some merit. It's just that I can't forget the picture of the pregnant lady with the "beautiful" downy upper lip.

Anyways, Fathers and Sons was modestly enjoyable. The young Arkady brings home his idol- his nihlist friend Bazarov to meet his family and visit for a few weeks. Incidentally, the footnotes said Turgenev coined the term "nihilist." Arkady eventually loses his illusions of his friend's depths of enlightenment and abandons such a sad, deficient philosophy. Bazarov dies of typhoid fever, still resigned to his beliefs.

Everyone in the book seemed to be controlled by their personalities. Bazarov was congenitally predisposed to universal condemnation, and so he espoused it. Arkady was a simpler, "romantic" type, so he could not adopt Bazarov's mindset. The "intelligent" girl was cloying and unattractive; the beautiful, stately woman could never quite grasp Bazarov's sayings.

One image that has stuck with me is that of Bazarov's final illness. While conducting an autopsy, he accidentally punctures his finger. He calmly waits as infection sets in, and as a doctor, he observes himself and can trace his subsequent demise. To a lesser extent, I can relate, for when I first sense a cold coming on, I can only sit in doleful resignation as the symptoms progress. It may not be life-threatening, but just as Bazarov with his typhus, there is absolutely nothing I can do to halt the virus. So I sympathize with him.

I am not sure what the final judgment on this one should be. The contrast of nihilism and romanticism was intriguing. From what I can tell, the former is shown to be impractical. If that is the author's intent, then I commend him.

Commodore Hornblower by C.S. Forester

It is true talent that can write the same story over and over again, retaining the essentials, and yet making it all seem completely different. Every time I open a Hornblower book, I know Horatio is going to triumph, I know he is going to distinguish himself, and I know he is going to make it home, and yet the novel is still captivating from start to finish.

Commodore Hornblower followed this wildly successful formula as Horatio traveled to Russia and dined with the Czar, successfully held off French advances in the Baltic, and caught typhus and survived. An extraordinary story, but fun nonetheless.

I think it is Forester's amazing grasp of, if I can say this without sounding pretentious, the human condition, that makes the books so enjoyable. The illustrious adventure is secondary. If the stories consisted merely of Horatio going about his daily life in England, they would be just as enthralling.

The Diaries of Adam and Eve by Mark Twain

Mark Twain was rather anatagonistic towards religion, and, according to the afterword of this book, he regarded the story of Adam and Eve as merely a fable. While he took some liberties with the story, he was very compassionate to the couple, although he did not have much love for the God who made them.

In The Diaries, Adam and Eve never have any direct contact with their creator. They are basically left to fend for themselves. Twain postulates that because they had no knowledge of good and evil, they could not know that it was evil to eat of the tree, and so they are not to blame for doing so. Herein lies his error. They might not have known good and evil, but certainly they had knowledge of obedience. God told Adam to name the animals, and he promptly did so. They had knowledge of death, for Eve did not eat of the tree until the serpent told her she would not die. In this way, they also had knowledge of consequences. All they were lacking, really, was this knowledge of good and evil, the only one that could hurt them. For once they knew what it was to do wrong, they would.

On another note, the afterword said that much of the story was a picture of Twain's marriage, and of how much he loved his wife. I found that satisfying. Many authors had horrible, or non-existent, relationships. It is pleasant to know Twain had a wonderful marriage, with kids, and an excellent literary career

Walden by Henry David Thoreau

I spent two weeks on Walden Pond, figuratively, but it felt like I spent two years, literally, as Thoreau did. It wasn't a bad time, though. In fact, it was quite enlightening. It is not often a book actually alters the manner in which I think. It is also not often I consider a classic novel worthy of the adulation it is showered with by the academic who wrote the introduction. Walden is an exceptional book.

Thoreau employs a loose, meandering, but ultimately cohesive style. He expounds upon all the elements the time he spent on Walden Pond, essentially just living. He proved his assertion that one could easily provide for himself through subsistence farming and living simply. He was exceedingly quotable: "As if you could kill time without injuring eternity!" Or, "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." When he said he could be satisfied anywhere as long as he had his thoughts, I read in awe.

I appreciated Thoreau's perspective immeasurably. I find applications for it everywhere I go. Driving down the 91 recently, I marveled at the sheer number of people in southern California, and I thought of how few take the time to immerse themselves in nature for a few hours. Goodness knows I don't do so enough, and I do it far more often than most.

Thoreau's thoughts pervaded mine as I toured some acquaintances' new tract home. It was profane, truly. The house was so large, and yet not big enough. There was never a better example of Thoreau's house-as-a-prison concept. It was all so generic. The same house was repeated for miles, squeezed immorally close together. The neighbors' windows faced each other directly; the builders had not even the courtesy to stagger them. From the second story, one could see all of the surrounding yards, and the people in them. There was a convenient ledge situated underneath the windows, ostensibly to assist one when one desired to jump off.

When my acquaintances suggested we buy the house for sale down the street, I almost choked. The thought of exchanging our twenty undeveloped acreas for a concrete box with barely a patch of sky visible between towering masses of manufactured nothingness...

Captain Horatio Hornblower by C.S. Forester

One's view of the Hornblower books only improves as one becomes more acquainted with them. Horatio just gets better and better. Originally published in three separate stories, Captain Horatio Hornblower's thread of continuity is Lady Barbara.

In "Beat to Quarters," Hornblower is forced to take Lady Barbara aboard because of fever in Panama. The two become enamoured with each other, but, pity of pities, Hornblower is married. Barbara gets married herself in "Ship of the Line." At sea, a defeated Hornblower surrenders to the French, and is taken prisoner.

A commentary I once read compared Horatio to Sherlock Holmes in terms of their audiences' adulation, but I've found another similarity. In the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, many cases illuminate the detective's powers of reasoning despite his occasional inability to solve the mystery or save his client. Likewise, Horatio's naval defeat illustrates his indefatigable resolve and ingenuity.

In "Flying Colours," Horatio escapes from French captivity and manages to return to England by commandeering a prize ship. Once home, he finds Maria dead of childbirth, and Barbara a naval widow caring for his infant. Things resolve themselves serendipitously.

I found Forester's habit of epithet intriguing. It was a delightful way to characterize characters. Maria was often "cloying" with her affections; Horatio was continually plagued with his "cross-grainedness." Great, great stuff.

Hornblower During the Crisis by C.S. Forester

It is a credit to Forester that he was able to skillfully resume a tone he had achieved years before. The overt allusions Forester employs are really cute. I love it when he does that. Hornblower During the Crisis, merely a fragment, was the last product of Forester's pen before his death. Chronologically, it comes between Hotspur and Atropos, and the continuity is commendable.

This unfinished novel is actually appended by two short stories, "Hornblower's Temptation" and "The Last Encounter." The first involves Horatio defusing a potentially explosive situation. He has to carry out the execution of an Irish rebel, a job he abhors, sensitive, thoughtful, anachronistic protagonist that he is. After examining the man's belongings he finds incriminating papers and money meant for the Irish dissenters. Horatio nobly decides to throw it all overboard, preventing further strife with Ireland.

The second story visits Horatio years after the wars. It serves as an overarching conclusion to the Hornblower saga. It presents the hero as a satisfied man, enjoying the end of a long and successful life. He has come to terms with just about everything there is to come to terms with. He appreciates his wife for being a woman, and not a goddess. He has adjusted to prosperity, and has only fleeting doubts about its permanency. he even looks at himself with a bit of humor.

I've always found it just a bit creepy to read the last words of a dead man, but, I suppose, most writing is that of now-dead men. I guess that makes reading in general really creepy. No, I know. Everyone dies eventually. Besides, all literature was written when the authors were alive. Anyways.

I truly enjoyed the Hornblower books. They were consummate adventure-romance with a complex, endearing, flawed, forthright protagonist. Forester crafted a masterpiece of a series. Horatio Hornblower is one of the greatest literary characters it has ever been my pleasure to know. I'm not with Hemingway on a lot of things, but I am totally behind him with this: "I recommend Forester to everyone I know."

Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier

The mysterious girl featured in Jan Vermeer's famous painting is given a story of her own. The author weaves a narrative around her while illuminating Holland circa 1660, and she embellishes upon the artist, imbuing him with an artfully piquing personality.

Griet, the eponymous girl, must find employment, for her father was blinded in an accident and can no longer support the family. She becomes a maid in Vermeer's household, and she catches the eyes of both him and his patron. She is entranced with the process of painting, and soon she is a subject of Vermeer's muse. But the portrait of her causes strife, and so she is dismissed. Ten years later, she is married, with children, and Vermeer's death leaves her with the pearl earrings central to the composition, tokens of the artist's regard for her.

Altogether, it was a finely wrought book. The prose was delicately modern, but not obviously so. The plot was subtle, but substantial enough to sustain this reader. The romance between Griet and her husband was forced and almost non-existent, and the relationship between the artist and his subject was tension-filled, but it skirted illicitness. Mostly, Griet just stood in awe of Vermeer and his genius. The book was a rather tactful portrait of the artist and his portrait.

A post-script on a related subject: the movie with Colin Firth was excellent. One of the less purposeful movies I've seen, but definitely one of the most beautiful. It was like much art is- perhaps devoid of any meaningful purpose, but certainly overflowing with aesthetic merit.

The Jane Austen Book Club by Karen Joy Fowler

The Jane Austen Book Club was The Eyre Affair all over again. It is so gimmicky and preposterous to use classic literature as a ploy to lure readers in. Don't these authors have any original ideas? Do they have to steal from the more talented and worthy?

Fowler follows a bunch of women and a man as they read through all six Austen novels and discuss them. Many ridiculous soap opera-like events ensue. Many characters' childhoods are analyzed, revealing the roots of their neuroses. One is a token lesbian, another is a token crazy old lady, another a young Madame Bovary. The man is interesting, but he seems to be an idealized rendering, one of those woman-author fantasies.

Worst of all, the characters are as flat as the pages they exist on. Fowler is far too fascinated with her creations. They're all so creative, and witty, and destined for a super-sweet happy ending. In other words, as far from real life as one can get.

In some peculiar attempt to update Austen, all Fowler achieves is a liberal fantasyworld with little basis in the literature it uses for publicity. As if Austen needed to be updated in the first place! Her stuff is superb, all of it gorgeously crafted portraits of her society and time. She wrote what she knew, and her success is unsurpassed. Moreover, the satisfaction found in reading her novels comes not only in the masterful writing, but in the propriety of the society itself. The permissive relativistic ideal of Fowler's is not romantic in the slightest. Her attempt to evoke Austen's fantastic prose falls flatly.

The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac

As if I did not get enough of Kerouac in On the Road, I embarked on this virtually identical account. Well, not identical in content, but identical in conclusiveness. Kerouac espouses a sort of Buddhism in which one prays constantly without knowing to whom, one meditates and writes poetry and tries to be kind to all, and one continually keeps in mind the fact that everything is nothing, that no one is anything, that all of existence is just part of the Void. One also drinks and sleeps around and has orgies whenever one feels like it.

As far as I can tell, Kerouac bases some of his philosophy on ancient Buddhist writing, but much of it comes from within him, as he fancies himself a sort of god. I do not understand how one can form an entire belief system from his own line of reasoning, for as limited beings humans are intrinsically faulty. And while Kerouac's character reads from the Bible and has happy feelings toward Jesus, his friend and mentor derides Christianity and mocks a "Dharma Bum" who turned Christian in his last days.

Frankly, I cannot comprehend the anatagonism toward Christianity. Perhaps it is the moral restraint. No more orgies, don't you know. But intellectually, these "bums" should have no qualms. If one is willing to accept the authority of ancient manuscripts as truth, the Bible is certainly more reliable and verifiable. And philosophically, it is beautiful. "To the pure, all things are pure." (Titus 1:15) I could easily imagine Kerouac writing something like that. He could retain his esoteric poetry and adhere to the true incident of God reaching down to man. The Gospel is, unequivocally, more intellectually honest than "everything is nothing."

A Room with a View by E.M. Forster

A Room With a View was an altogether fascinatingly and tersely written book. Lucy Honeychurch visits Italy with her spinster cousin, Miss Bartlett. Lucy is surreptitiously kissed by a passionate, unconventional, handsome young man, but their relationship ends when she leaves the country. She meets up with a more conventional acquaintance and becomes engaged to him back in England. She is kissed by the first man again and the experience causes her to break off her engagement.

She eventually marries her primary love, but before she commits to him, she discovers who she is and what she wants in life. Her dilemma was such: should she marry Cecil, a well-to-do traditionalist with stifling views toward women, or should she choose George, the middle-class paradoxical non-conformist with more liberal outlooks on a woman's place in society? Forster puts it excellently: "It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, 'She loves young [George] Emerson.' A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome 'nerves' or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?" (Chapter 14: How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely)

Lucy, in fact, comes very near to emulating Miss Bartlett's spinsterhood. Ironically, thought, it is Miss Bartlett who essentially saves her from this fate.

I caught an allusion and felt wonderfully intelligent about it. "...Nothing in his love became him like the leaving of it." (Chapter 17: Lying to Cecil) A Macbeth line if I ever heard one. There were myriad references to subjects canvassed in my Art History class, which also made me feel smart. That's always fun, reading a book that flatters one's intellect.

Hornblower and the Hotspur by C.S. Forester

Horatio Hornblower is one of the few literary characters who do as well cinematically as they do textually. The story reads much more enjoyably through the eyes of Horatio than it does through the eyes of Lieutenant Bush, as in Lieutenant Hornblower. Forester's psychological analysis is superb. He narrates Horatio's thoughts and reactions as if he is thinking them, and it makes a beautiful companion to the story action.

Horatio's dutiful, unequal marriage is skillfully wrought, lending tension, conflict, and imperfection to an otherwise charmed naval life. It makes for a fascinatingly original plot point, as the heroic protagonist is more often destined for blissful, happily-ever-after relationships, than something so unsatisfying to both the reader and the character.

Horatio's actions and reactions in the light of battle are sympathetically and compassionately portrayed. He wavers over decisions that ultimately lead to the deaths of his compatriots, though they might be in his country's best interests. He scorns praise and adulation, believing his fears and uncertainties discredit his heroics. He is unceasingly unsure of himself.

It all makes for a riveting story. A self-conscious hero constantly facing death, preoccupied with both his intrinsic and domestic inadequacies, ashamed to promote himself to further his career, despite his overt merits- that is Horatio Hornblower.

Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand

A debonair poetic genius loves a woman but refuses to court her because of his insecurity over his nose. Ingenious storyline, where have you been all my life?

Cyrano de Bergerac is an excellent work overall. It is ridiculous to the point of hilarity. Sadly though, the end is much like Vanity Fair's, but without the final marriage. Cyrano should have gotten a happy ending. The story was really going that way.

I appreciated the well-timed poetic forays, especially Cyrano's detailed list of insults about his nose, and his fencing ballad ("Wait! Let me choose my rhymes."). The romantic tension was palpable. The sacrifice-in-the-name-of-love thing was noble, but Cyrano would have done better by his love if he had attempted to woo her himself. Then she would not have had to grieve for fifteen years before learning she had even more to grieve over- the fact that she didn't have to have grieved.

Nevertheless, the humor was aptly conveyed, even through the sterilization of translation, and the starkly stoic form of a play. Truly delightful.

The Man Who Was Thursday by G.K. Chesterton

A man goes undercover to infiltrate a dangerous group of anarchists in Europe, but he soon discovers the men he is supposed to expose are undercover too, and even the evil mastermind is not an anarchist. The story ends with a sumptuous banquet at the supposedly evil guy's house, and then the main character loses consciousness and finds himself out walking, where he was at the beginning.

I can make a few connections, but I fear the deeper meaning of the work is above me. I do not understand why Chesterton felt the need to rail against the anarchy of the rich and powerful. Since when are the aristocracy anarchists? Maybe they were then. I have no way of knowing. I think the serial revealing of the true identities of the alleged members of the anarchal society symbolizes the fact that these rich revolutionaries believed all their associates thought as they did, but really did not. I'm not sure that last sentence makes sense. I'm not sure this entire book made sense.

I just do not know what Chesterton was trying to say with this, but I enjoyed his prose nonetheless. He has been compared to C.S. Lewis, and I see similarities, especially in his quotability. The concept of the intellectual anarchists was interesting, if nothing else. I don't think there are many people who want to destroy just for the sake of destruction, nor do I think there are lots who consider all forms of government a direct threat to their well-being. I've found that the atheism linked to the anarchists here is usually paired with a political outlook that is liberal to the point of Communism.

The Razor's Edge by W. Somerset Maugham

As far as I can tell, much of literature in general chronicles man's search for the meaning of life. The Razor's Edge does precisely that. The narrator follows a young man over a period of ten years, and watches him as the latter seeks purpose and meaning and truth. That young man asks all the right questions and he seems to be looking for the right answers, but his conclusions are woefully inconclusive.

Summarily, Larry, the young man, has an insatiable desire to read and discover and learn. He travels across Europe and devours all the philosophies he can. His time in a monastery is disappointing, for he has questions that the monks cannot answer. He wrestles with the ubiquitous problem of pain and whether man is actually at fault for the depravity manifest within him.

From there, Larry travels to India and ultimately falls in with the mystic Hinduism there. He mumbles some jargon about connecting with the "reality of the Absolute" or some such nonsense, and that is it. Apparently the world is infinite and we have all been reincarnated infinite times and will keep on being reincarnated until we have reached a state of transcendence. The transcendence is the ultimate reality, and it is possible to reach this place while alive through meditation and whatnot.

What is so frustrating about it all is the utter lack of concrete evidence. There is nothing trustworthy on which to base Larry's philosophy, and there is no rational way to prove it. The entire theory is merely the mumblings of a Hindu mystic with no credentials to speak of. Why choose this worldview over any other? Because of some feelings one has when meditating, and a dream one has about one's "previous lives"? The book was entirely unsatisfactory, and pathetically irrational.

Frankenstein by Mary Wollestonecraft Shelley

Let me just say that this book was utterly unlike anything I could have imagined it to be. Primarily, it was terribly unfrightening, and surprisingly long-winded. Moreover, the writing was not nearly of the caliber I've come to expect from revered 19th-century writers. And ultimately, Shelley's insight into human nature is uninspired and minimal.

The most intriguing part of Frankenstein was a soliloquizing moment in which narrator Robert Walton laments over his lack of peers and desperately desires a companion with whom he can share his intellectual interests. My heart went out to him. Goodness knows I've felt that way many times myself. But the book, of course, was written by a woman, and I suppose there is something decidedly effeminate about all that.

There was also an excellent minor character whom Shelley had the gall to kill off. Henry Clerval was this paramount literary type who gallivanted across Europe "having the best time" (credit Mr. Herold, the local high school art teacher, whom I fear I will be quoting for the rest of my life). The book should have been about Clerval. He was compassionate, devoted, adventurous, and well-read. Come to think of it, he was another obviously feminine creation. Let me take this opportunity to rehash my antipathy for novels written by women from a male perspective. The flagrant audacity involved in such an undertaking is incomprehensible.

The bulk of the book was sordid and verbose, lurid and vague. Shelley's argument for the inherent innocence of the human race was disappointing and unconvincing. Horror stories are a baser form of literature in the first place, and second-rate ones are that much worse. Shelley had a moderately good premise, and that accounts for the longevity of her book. She didn't run with the myriad possibilites the story was capable of, but others did.

Candide by Voltaire

Voltaire was fairly witty for a crazy French atheistic ranter. Candide was a satire attacking the common understanding of Gottfried Leibniz's assertion that "everything is for the best in this, the best of all possible worlds." It is a rather ridiculous statement in the first place, and naturally lends itself to all sorts of mocking. The story follows characters as all kinds of bad things happen to them, effectually proving the premise untrue.

Of course, ours is not, in fact, "the best of all possible worlds," but instead a horrible, twisted, depraved world augmented by billions of people's free wills wreaking what havoc they must when so many are acting outside of perfection. Truly, just a tiny deviation from a life of continually flawless behavior would have far-reaching consequences, and would permanently mar an otherwise perfect world. In actuality, we have innumerable deviations from perfection every moment, and this world is hopelessly removed from "the best."

And that is just the way it is. Candide is an exceedingly diverting read with few, if any, biblical indiscretions to speak of. I liked it.

Catriona by Robert Louis Stevenson

Ah yes, David Balfour. Happily cliched, morally uplifting adventure-romance hero. Thank you, Mr. Stevenson. I cannot say enough how wonderful a romantic action-adventure novel set in Scotland, with a happy ending, is. Literature is seriously lacking in this department. Thankfully, Stevenson has taken up some of the slack. After wandering the Scottish moors on Alan Breck's heels in Kidnapped, our protagonist, the young, noble, forthright David Balfour, moves through society and comes into his own in Catriona, the sequel.

There is a delightful portion of the story in which David is forced to house a young woman, Catriona of course, in his lodgings, for her father had essentially abandoned her abroad. He loves her and eventually marries her, and it's great. Let me tell you, there is nothing more romantic than repressed feelings not acted upon until the proper time. After all, that was the driving force behind Jane Eyre and Austen's novels, and there is nothing better than those.

But back to Catriona. So there is some adventure and sufficient peril for the protagonist. But most of all, there is a happy ending. I cannot help it. That reassurance that everything turns out all right in the end- I need it. Otherwise, I begin to feel very vulnerable and threatened. I know, I know. All that sad, inconclusive, depressing stuff has a prominent place in the canon of classic literature and is probably more lofty and thought-provoking and whatnot. I just suppose I am as of yet unable to relinquish my juvenile fears and inhibitions.

The Human Comedy by William Saroyan

I was talking to a guy at school, and he mentioned The Human Comedy as his favorite book of all time, so I decided to check it out. Honestly, though, I was not completely impressed. It was a sweet book, but it was a tad simplistic. The simplicity wasn't entirely a detractor, for it rendered the book devoid of any objectionable content, but I think its view of the world was somehow too small to present an accurate depiction of universal truths.

For The Human Comedy tried very hard to be a philosophical book. Characters spontaneously recite speeches of truisms, spouting that's-the-way-life-is phrases. The truisms don't seem to be particularly true, though. The prevailing theme of the book is a universalizing one that reiterates a mantra of brotherhood and fraternity among all men, taking the concept so far as "we all are everyone else." It's a slightly relative view, and it transfers the blame of wrongdoers indeterminably to the next person and the next, until no one is to blame for anything. And the plot involves an implicit trust between strangers that feels fairly rash.

Nevertheless, I could appreciate the characters. My favorite was perhaps Mr. Spangler, a telegram man whose policy of polite, universal kindness saves him, and a few others, from harm. Others were enjoyable as well- the older brother in the army, the middle brother supporting the family and learning how life is, the pleasant sister, and the youngest brother who is discovering joy as it comes to him. The mother did a lot of philosophizing (it reminded me, for some reason, of that scene in The Importance of Being Earnest in which Algy and Jack banter about the former's invented truism), and she talked to her dead husband, so I did not like her as much.

I am not sure why this book was that guy's favorite. Nothing really made it stand out; nothing in it seemed particularly extraordinary. Who knows.