A Confederacy of Dunces

The story of this book's publication makes it immediately interesting regardless of its content: it was written by John Kennedy Toole in the early 60s, who failed to find a publisher and ended up killing himself. His mother then shopped around the manuscript until finally it was published in 1980, winning the Pulitzer Prize posthumously in 1981. I doubt there are many other books with such a history...

But as all of us here are products of the liberal elite postmodernist University system such things as the author's biography, intents, and interesting histories are beside the point! Is it any good?

Well it's certainly very original. The main character, Ignatius Reilly, is an amazing creation. Spouting all sorts of high-brow scorn, he also is a bit of an idiot when it comes to doing...uh, anything. He wildly swings from furious to hurt and pathetic, and is a master manipulator who only engineers spectacular failures. He is hilarious (on finding out his on-and-off girl has a new Kenyan man: '"Oh, my God!" Ignatius slobbered. "The minx has been raped by a Mau-Mau."') and has a certain admirable grandeur but is also a total dick to everyone.

For just one example, he gets a low-grade job filing papers in a clothing factory office, which he 'does' by chucking away all the papers. He then decorates the office with all kinds of elaborate signs and artwork, and organizes a worker's revolt that evaporates into nothingness just as it starts to get going when it turns out Ignatius has no idea of what he's actually trying to achieve with it.

As he blasts his way through various quarters of New Orleans we get a great depiction of the strange nooks and crannies of that city as well as a host of interesting minor characters. But the book is dominated by Ignatius and his unpredictable interactions with anyone he comes across. Although it's hard to imagine actually having to deal with someone as totally impossible as Ignatius, his conflicts with the world often strike close to reality. His university-educated disdain for simple work, crappy films, and regular people could come from any number of us highbrow types in a moment of weakness. Nobody envies the guy who sells hot dogs do they? And why should I have to do some lame job, I'm so well-educated!

Ignatius stands in for the frustrations of all of us university graduates brimming with mostly useless knowledge and with not much productive to do with it. While most of us will probably manage to 'grow up' and enter the normal, real world, Ignatius is what happens when a kid fails to understand that everyone is 'special' and 'unique' and has to do boring and inane things to be a member of society. But, just as in real life, such sociopathic personalities can still get along fine in their own little bubbles, since they don't care about what they are doing to other people.

So although the disasters of Ignatius's character act as a caution against his type of selfishness and sense of entitlement, the book also seems oddly sympathetic towards him. By portraying him as a big child who has been failed by society, his 'success' in spite of his anti-social tendencies is a happy ending of sorts that also suggests a very depressing view of society's ability to handle outliers. Ignatius just takes advantage every time normal people act nicely towards him, and ends up in the box seat despite nobody actually liking him. Society sucks like that.

A Short Little Read On A Sunny Sunday Afternoon

Coming in at a stretched 77 pages, The Pigeon, by Patrick Suskind is a good way to spend an hour on a sunny Sunday afternoon, but is probably not worth the $12 you have to pay for it brand new.

Being a tiny little read it is impossible for it deal with complex subjects thoroughly, but instead does a fantastic job at giving you a snapshot in to the main characters wacky mindset. The entire seventy seven pages are spent wisely on each event that happens during an offhand day displaying just how neurotic Jonathan Noel has become after a life of self inflicted isolation. Entertaining moments include a description of a homeless man taking a squat in full view of everyone on a public road, this gives Jonathan a sense of satisfaction in his job that has kept him standing in the same spot for ten of thousands of hours.

But after the hour it takes to read this novella you are left slightly disappointed. Not enough to use the seventy seven pages as cigarette papers to get some value in the $12 you spent on it, but enough to give the book only a six on the popular penguin out of ten scale. There wasn't anything to give the book an edge, let alone a reason for placing it in the popular penguin series. It was difficult to come up with deeper meaning from the read, or find something to take away which would make you remember the book. I think if it wasn't for writing this blog I'd have forgotten completely ever reading it by now. All The Pigeon is, is a well told story of a neurotic character's day, but nothing more. So get the book out from the library but take your $12 and go for a trip out to a beach and buy an ice cream, then spend an hour sitting in the sun with your short little read.

Revisting Brideshead

Evelyn Waugh revisits Brideshead Revisited in its 1959 revised edition; "It was a bleak period of present privation and threatening disaster — the period of soya beans and Basic English — and in consequence the book is infused with a kind of gluttony, for food and wine, for the splendours of the recent past, and for rhetorical and ornamental language which now, with a full stomach, I find distasteful."

The contrast between war-ravaged 'soya bean' England and the luxuriant hedonistic memories of Charles and his friendship with Sebastian was, for me, the most emotionally engaging and well written part of the novel. Overall I wanted to like this book much, much more than I actually did.

Waugh's depiction of love and marriage, a commentary within the frames of Catholicism and the English Upper Class, was simply that. Julia and Charles' blossoming relationship was sort of mechanically written, as was other relationships/affairs between the other characters (except Charles and Sebastian's -- perhaps if it was called "Brideshead Revisited: the Adventures of Charles and Sebastian," it would have been better). Waugh can wax lyrical on the delicious and extravagant, but is reluctant to get emotive in his description of romance and its turmoils. There are glimpses of witty and vibrant Marchmain family vignettes, but in obvious contrast Waugh turns the latter part of the book into a serious narrative with hints of redemption and/or resolution for some characters, but it is generally boring because I had little empathy for any of the characters to begin with.

Brideshead Revisited: a great and sweeping bittersweet reverie of a British soldier, rests comfortably on this idea and doesn't take it too much further.

A Visit Down to Brideshead

Brideshead Revisited, by Evelyn Waugh.

Initially after reading Brideshead it took a while to really understand what the book was about. Without a second thought you might assume that it is entirely about a quirky family with lots of problems and has no real point to the disjointed plot. This was very similar to our discussion on it at book club. It was only when we were wrapping up the night that we got into a real discussion of the books subtle main theme.

Maybe this is why the book is so highly regarded, you can revisit the book and get more out of it each time (not that i'll read it again). Mid way through the book I was ready to conclude that this was a fantastic read. I was thoroughly enjoying the story about two young men getting into trouble whilst drinking tremendous amounts of alcohol. It rung true with my own life. But this story died off with Sebastian becoming an alcoholic and eventually running away from not only Brideshead but also the book. This left me feeling lost, not knowing what the rest of the book was really about. Charles steps up the story about his own life, finds some romances and sees all the older Marchmains die.

But this is not what Brideshead is about at all. The house and the characters and the little stories about each one are just a instrument for Waugh to make his point about the Catholicism song. Subtly interwoven throughout the book are discussions and actions discribing Waughs own religion. These tidbits were all a little too weak for me to actually believe that Waugh is a man of strong faith. He consistently mocks Catholic logic, like where he questions how Alexander Flyte crossing himself on his death bed is going to make up for the years of anti-Catholic behaviour, and then gives a small argument for divine grace in Charles's moment where he feels some spirituality after seeing Alexander die. Not nearly dramatic enough to convince me it was really life changing.

A theme should be somewhat of a statement, some kind of goal that the book is trying portray and hopefully persuade the reader into questioning their own ideologies or whatever. But here I am more fascinated by Charles youthful agnostic beliefs than his later conversion. The reader should also be clearly able to understand the conversion if all the Marchmains talk and actions that helped to lead to Charles's conversion have been told. Clearly Waugh would want his audience to be somewhat more understanding of the Catholic teachings and himself being a Catholic would probably want the book to help grow the church. But as I reached the end of the book I'd have to agree with Henry Green who says "The end was not for me. As you can imagine my heart was in my mouth all through the deathbed scene, hoping against hope that the old man would not give way, that is, take the course he eventually did."

The Operation of Grace

Bookclub often involves heated arguments, whether about the aforementioned science fiction issue or related with a particular interpretation of a certain character or theme, the participants are always up for a bit of loud, racous defence of silly ideas. Last night, we examined Waugh's self-proclaimed opus, Brideshead Revisited and engaged in a particularly heated debate concerning the religious quality of the novel.

There is (and was) no denying the strong religious themes dealt with in the book. The inhabitants of Brideshead are set apart by their religion, although the protagonist is adament in his atheism. This is with several large exceptions, chief of which is this passage taken from Charle's first discussions with religion:

I had no religion. I was taken to church weekly as a child, and at school attended chapel daily, but, as though in compensation, from the time I went to my public school I was excused church in the holidays. The masters who taught me Divinity told me that biblical texts were highly untrustworthy. They never suggested I should try to pray. My father did not go to church except on family occasions and then with derision. My mother, I think, was devout. It once seemed odd to me that she should have thought it her duty to leave my father and me and go off with an ambulance, to Serbia, to die of exhaustion in the snow in Bosnia. But later I recognised some such spirit in myself. Later, too, I have come to accept claims which then, in 1923, I never troubled to examine, and to accept the supernatural as the real. I was aware of no such needs that summer at Brideshead. (page 18)

This passage alone hints at a conversion, although admittedly offers no claim of creed or even monotheistic character. However, a cursory glance at what the author has said about the novel and his own context reveals much. Waugh wrote to his literary agent A. D. Peters, "I hope the last conversation with Cordelia gives the theological clue. The whole thing is steeped in theology, but I begin to agree that the theologians won't recognise it." The writing style does not explicitly state anything, but carefully threads the concepts beneath the relationships. The author's avowed intent is to "deal with what is theologically termed 'the operation of Grace', that is to say, the unmerited and unilateral act of love by which God continually calls souls to Himself".

While in other books of the time, secularlism rules unheralded, it is the secular values that Charles holds that are somehow empty in the face of the deep spirituality expressed through the Catholic tradition. The flawless logic that Charles employs does not even convince himself, when he sits at the side of Lord Marchmain's bed and prays for a sign.

Whether Charle's converts in the book is contested in the critical literature but kneeling down in front of the tabernacle of the Brideshead chapel and saying a prayer, "an ancient, newly learned form of words" - implies "recent instruction in the catechism" and the strange smile is testament to some form of enlightenment.

Waugh speaks of his own faith in grace in a letter to Lady Mary Lygon: "I believe that everyone in his (or her) life has the moment when he is open to Divine Grace. It's there, of course, for the asking all the time, but human lives are so planned that usually there's a particular time — sometimes, like Hubert, on his deathbed — when all resistance is down and Grace can come flooding in."

This is not to say the author portrays Catholicism in an entirely positive light. Waugh paints a tainted picture of his ideal, the deeply flawed Brideshead family torn apart from the offset. Sebastian could be happier without religion and Cordellia agrees "Sebastian is very holy and no one is holy without suffering." Julia believes one has to sacrifice happiness to be close to God and Charles logically deconstructs every aspect of religion that he can. I believe these issues simply display religion in a real light: Catholicism does not preach that having faith will bring happiness. Happiness is seen as a transitory thing in the novel, something ultimately unfulfilling. There is something more that exists, that perhaps one must be faithful to understand.

By no means am I claiming understanding, the concept of faith falls outside my worldview but Waugh, in his strangely poignant tale of his relationship with the Brideshead family, sheds some light on the strange nature of divinity and its interaction with our fleeting existence.

the immutable science fiction

When I first claimed The Picture (Portrait) of Dorian Gray was an excellent example of early science fiction I was mocked. Vilified almost.

Every book club since, my name has been tainted with the brush of science fiction.

"Oh Poms." They say, "Has this something to do with science fiction."

And laugh, laugh like an episode of the US office, which is surprisingly consistent.

To those doubters I turned the laughing tables tonight, when, not really thinking too carefully about what I was saying, I came up with a theory that will put that feverish doubt so hungrily dumped at my door in the same coffin as the fantasy authors utility to society.

About when Newton was sitting under apple trees, Gottfried Leibniz was postulating just as interesting theories on the other side of the Channel, particularly involving the possibilities of there being other worlds existing parallel to our own. While his theories, revolving around our own forming some kind of perfect vision of God, Kripke and others converted the ideas into semantic tools, allowing us to logically deal with concepts like "possibility."

X is possible, means there exists a possible world, where x is true. X is necessary, means X is true in all possible worlds. Neat, tidy, wonderful. And from this idea, stems a befuddling idea that effectively states all these worlds might exist. The many-worlds interpretation of quantum physics effectively postulates the physical existence of all possible worlds.

This is beside the point slightly, my point is that every piece of fiction, postulates a possible state of the world. The novel is a peek into a world that actually exists beyond our potential observation and probably beyond my understanding of the principle, but nevertheless states something profound about the nature of consciousness and how we shape worlds according to our perception of what is possible.

Can we create these worlds by placing them on paper or what appears to be more logical, are we actually desecribing actual worlds and events, whether in the far off junk fantasy of Jordan's Wheel of Time or the near autobiographical approach of Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited.

A subject that has absolutely no potential impact in the real world, but is worth thought, if only after a bottle of wine.

A Travel Book, Murder Mystery and Historical Account

Three books in a row left our crowd of noble literary voyagers rather cold and this bold companion lays the blame firmly in the hands of the creator.

Dark Star Safari, Sin: Pride

Africa is an incredibly suitable subject for Paul Thereoux, the massive, wild origin of humanity, where the vast resources are slowly siphoned off by the Vikings progeny and returned in the form of small parcels of food to keep people just about alive some of the time, is a great subject to rant on and on and on about. And his rants are on occasion, poignant, thoughtful and important. Thing is, Thereoux's ego is so unbelievably massive that it can barely be contained on the pages with the already heavy subject-matter. He seeps through the individuals described, through the utter hopelessness of it all and it left me so utterly uninterested that I found myself unable to complete reading the book. Its all about him, all about his feelings and his experiences and his utter contempt for anything that seems to disagree with him, I wanted to punch him, or for him to die, or for some horrific accident to hurt him terribly, perhaps extreme but let us be clear, he is a fucking wanker.

The Chimney Sweeper's Boy, Sin: Greed

Barbara Vine on the other hand, produced a technically excellent little mystery thing that is quite satisfying and interesting. You just kept feeling she was trying so hard to create something "good" that in the end it just seemed forced. Too many symbols spoil the plot and this text is so overflowing with symbols, subtle literary devices and pointless character development that its a surprise the central story-arc remains quite strong. Perhaps blaming the author is harsh as she constructed something very enjoyable, but one feels the opportunity to create something great is spoiled by over-cooking.

The Surgeon of Crowthorne, Sin: Envy

Finally, Simon Winchester's historical account told a fascinating story very competently. Winnie plays the game with a spring to his prose and an interesting format, comparing and contrasting two of the major writers of the Oxford Dictionary as well as describing the general origins of the book. His crime is the rather bizarre building of tension that is more reminicent of a work of historical fiction than non-fiction. It is almost as if Winchester wants to be writing fiction but finds himself hemmed in by the restrictions of the actual history. After a while, interest in the facts fade away and you are faced with a potted history of a pointless book and lets be clear, no one ever really convinced me of the value of this universal definition book, other than to ruin lives and give the criminally insane something to do. The oddly perverse climax is not really a climax at all, its just another little tragedy in the life of a man who is beyond much help. Non-fiction is not the appropriate route to address this story, it is begging for narrative invention to allow for a nice, binding central arc that can evoke that oh, so crucial, cathartic satisfaction. An interesting account but nothing approximating the literary greatness that Popular Penguins should be all about.

So there we have three authors who produced something interesting but failed to produce something great. Next up, an author who failed but in a much more magnificent way. The real question has to be put: considering the number of wonderful books in the world, why is it this stupid Popular Penguins list is filled with such average examples of the English novel.