Now Reading Thread

[Blowtus]

I think Harold Bloom has stated not a single real character (as in seperate from the authors dictatorial control or consciousness) has been created since Shakespeare. I would say that I do believe Dostoevsky did create a few very real (although I think of them as sort of hyper-characters) characters, and Chekov brilliantly sketched real characters.

Can you elaborate on what you mean by dictatorial control or consciousness? Do you refer to the author effectively placing themself in the novel as being the only way they are competently 'characterising', or something else? I have found both Tolstoy and Dostoevsky create very real characters, of depth throughout the spectrum, and not limited to that of the authors own character. Having only embarked on readings of 'the classics' recently, I hope I'm not to be left *too* disappointed with future authors

 

[kmik]

First off, speed, no hard feelings, we're just arguing over the internet, no reason to get offensive I do however get the feeling this conversation is not really going anywhere. But see, the burden of proof is on you and you don't seem to point at any ideas or emotions it explores. It seems like, in fact, you are not even talking about Lolita specifically, except for the allegorical remark (I explained why I think it is not very accurate).

Can a real character be put on paper? Of course not. People, even stupid, materialistic, people, are much more complex than any character. All writers fail at the impossible, literature fails by definition. But the greats are great because they tell us about deep emotions that we didn't even know exist, because they understand, at least partly, how the human mind works, because they have new ideas, because their books can change the way you look at your life, give you inspiration. That's what makes for great literature. And it doesn't have to be serious. Pynchon describing a sexual act with images of a stupid movie on TV and teenage hippies playing guitars is funny as hell, but at the same time shows us its meaninglessness and mocks the fact we've come to think of everything in symbols.

I don't understand your remark about characters. Do you mean in the sense that they are just parallels of existing characters? Or that they don't have a life of their own? IMO, Dostoevsky's characters are not fully believable since they're all motivated by ideals (even cruel ones), but they are brilliant... They have moods, development, even subconsciousness, a way of thinking and talking that reflects all these things. I actually think Dostoevsky is a better psychologist than he is a writer. It's hard to believe he has not murdered old ladies himself! But there are many others, and even if they're not fully realized there is always something humane about them, either to learn from or to avoid, and it's cruel to compare them to the robotic caricature that is Humbert who is supposed to be a parody to begin with.

 

[Justin S.]

Der Spruch des Anaximander (Heidegger)

The Brothers Karamazov

Positions (Derrida)

Ethics (Spinoza)

 

[Nile577]

I am reading:

Norman Mailer - The Castle in the Forest
(Maybe death will bring this guy the fame he so rapaciously sought in life.)

Michel Houellebecq - The Possibility of an Island
(Not sure about this yet. It's very cruel. Made me feel miserable about everything, reading it on the bus back home from work. Reminds me of a a more visceral Fitzgerald, or Henry Miller but without the strength to say "yes give me more." Also recently read his Schopenhauerian Lovecraft essays.)

 

[speed]

First off, speed, no hard feelings, we're just arguing over the internet, no reason to get offensive I do however get the feeling this conversation is not really going anywhere. But see, the burden of proof is on you and you don't seem to point at any ideas or emotions it explores. It seems like, in fact, you are not even talking about Lolita specifically, except for the allegorical remark (I explained why I think it is not very accurate).

Can a real character be put on paper? Of course not. People, even stupid, materialistic, people, are much more complex than any character. All writers fail at the impossible, literature fails by definition. But the greats are great because they tell us about deep emotions that we didn't even know exist, because they understand, at least partly, how the human mind works, because they have new ideas, because their books can change the way you look at your life, give you inspiration. That's what makes for great literature. And it doesn't have to be serious. Pynchon describing a sexual act with images of a stupid movie on TV and teenage hippies playing guitars is funny as hell, but at the same time shows us its meaninglessness and mocks the fact we've come to think of everything in symbols.

I don't understand your remark about characters. Do you mean in the sense that they are just parallels of existing characters? Or that they don't have a life of their own? IMO, Dostoevsky's characters are not fully believable since they're all motivated by ideals (even cruel ones), but they are brilliant... They have moods, development, even subconsciousness, a way of thinking and talking that reflects all these things. I actually think Dostoevsky is a better psychologist than he is a writer. It's hard to believe he has not murdered old ladies himself! But there are many others, and even if they're not fully realized there is always something humane about them, either to learn from or to avoid, and it's cruel to compare them to the robotic caricature that is Humbert who is supposed to be a parody to begin with.

No hard feelings at all. Actually, I think this is turning into an excellent discussion about literature.

Why do I love Lolita so? Because the eloquent prose is like poetry, full of rhythm and color--so lush and rich. And its not only rich, but full of wordplay I havent seen since Rabelais: puns, anagrams, references to French literature, double entrendres, etc. Not to mention, there's the constant deception by Humbert: one always has to read closer. And finally, it is a book about terribly awful things, yet done with humor. I dont know of another writer who could pull Humbert off. It is about tyranny, pornography, pedophilia, etc.

I do truly think shakespeare pulled off creating a real character. Hamlet really does live, and if anything, fights with Shakespeare himself throughout the play. Falstaff, Iago, are all incredibly real as well. And Tolstoy, who I agree with you and forgot, really does create totally believable characters with their own souls.

I totally agree with you on Dostoevsky as well. What makes his characters so interesting--and what Bakhtin wrote of--is that even though his characters represented some ideal or idea, Dostoevsky never controlled them or acted as their marionette; these characters acted or thought as they should if they were really real.

 

[Nile577]

I'm puzzled by the claims that Lolita lacks "depth." It seems to me amongst the most "psychological" of all novels. It is a novel of guilt and angst, of sensitivity.

Are we not reminded continually that Humbert’s sensitivity and notions of the beautiful are so far from social acceptance as to make their pursuit a voyage into solipsistic escapism? Have a look at his voyage across America with a child embodying both his love and his fear. Have a look at his soteriological musings, his rejection of Christian salvation in light of the "simple human truth" of having "destroyed" a young life. Is the tragedy of Lolita not the privileging of this moral “reality” over sensitivity?

Is not this sensitivity too easily dismissed by overtly “moral” readings, as if we might assign a didactic “purpose” to the work. Is not the beauty of Humbert’s prose emblematic of his sensitivity and inexorably bound up with, and revealing of the novel's “theme?” How can we then detach and isolate “good” writing from such a work? To do so is to betray it.

Humbert would worship Lolita as “that upon which to lavish care,” shaping her being, her state, her growth; yet he ends up being HIMSELF revealed by HER as an object of abject baseness and depravity. The disclosive power her person has over him is all the more terrifying because she is not authentically accusative; her power of judgement is only hinted at, joked about, "tried on for size." This muted dialectic of power is the Satrean/Hegelian crux of the novel’s “psychology.”

Humbert gathers a pastiche of quotes from a young child and from these the reader tries to establish her "character," her "feelings." Free from moral absolutes, Lolita deals with Humbert as merely a quotidian happening of life. Her mood is continually altering, her statements whimsical. [Proust’s narrator has it: "I was not one man only, but the steady advance hour after hour of an army in close formation, in which there appeared, according to the moment, impassioned men, indifferent men, jealous men" - how much more so for a child without routine]. Her inability to pass authentic conclusion on an ongoing event leaves Humbert suspended, awaiting sentence, dancing in the vicissitudes of her affection. We can imagine him repeating her statements like a mantra.

The tragedy of Lolita, behind its specific content, is the death of emotion, the anathematising of the “sensitive/academic fool,” the renunciation of poetry and the trampling of subtlety under the numbskull jackboots of moral absolutism and “realism.” Humbert is a talisman for the homelessness of man. He is homesick, like Odysseus cast upon the seas; his escapism a tragic odyssey across the waste land of America.

The dwelling of man is lost to angst. Is writing any redemption? Wilde had to “bunbury” away from it, Proust to retreat to a cork room to write about it, by night; Housman declared “the tree of man is never quiet,” Auden had “immoral” urges his entire life. Consider how Humbert's fate is wedded to the object of his desire, -“Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta.” Do we not hear Shakespeare’s words “So long lives this and this gives life to thee” haunting the conclusion of the novel, in which the narrator forever weds his name to his love?. The “home” of Humbert is the living-death of the novel; the text of Lolita his effigy.

This gravestone of textual “immortality,” of poetic empathy, is the compartmentalised vestige of thoughtfulness: a lament for dwelling to homeless, wandering man.

 

[Nile577]

I'm puzzled by the claims that Lolita lacks "depth."

I just noticed: there is an extremely sick pun to be had there somewhere.

 

[speed]

I'm puzzled by the claims that Lolita lacks "depth." It seems to me amongst the most "psychological" of all novels. It is a novel of guilt and angst, of sensitivity.

Are we not reminded continually that Humbert’s sensitivity and notions of the beautiful are so far from social acceptance as to make their pursuit a voyage into solipsistic escapism? Have a look at his voyage across America with a child embodying both his love and his fear. Have a look at his soteriological musings, his rejection of Christian salvation in light of the "simple human truth" of having "destroyed" a young life. Is the tragedy of Lolita not the privileging of this moral “reality” over sensitivity?

Is not this sensitivity too easily dismissed by overtly “moral” readings, as if we might assign a didactic “purpose” to the work. Is not the beauty of Humbert’s prose emblematic of his sensitivity and inexorably bound up with, and revealing of the novels “theme?” How can we the detach and isolate “good” writing from such a work? To do so is to betray it.

Humbert would worship Lolita as “that upon which to lavish care,” shaping her being, her state, her growth; yet he ends up being HIMSELF revealed by HER as an object of abject baseness and depravity. The disclosive power her person has over him is all the more terrifying because she is not authentically accusative; her power of judgement is only hinted at, joked about, "tried on for size." This muted dialectic of power is the Satrean/Hegelian crux of the novel’s “psychology.”

Humbert gathers a pastiche of quotes from a young child and from these the reader tries to establish her "character," her "feelings." Free from moral absolutes, Lolita deals with Humbert as merely a quotidian happening of life. Her mood is continually altering, her statements whimsical. [Proust’s narrator has it: "I was not one man only, but the steady advance hour after hour of an army in close formation, in which there appeared, according to the moment, impassioned men, indifferent men, jealous men" - how much more so for a child without routine]. Her inability to pass authentic conclusion on an ongoing event leaves Humbert suspended, awaiting sentence, dancing in the vicissitudes of her affection. We can imagine him repeating her statements like a mantra.

The tragedy of Lolita, behind its specific content, is the death of emotion, the anathematising of the “sensitive/academic fool,” the renunciation of poetry and the trampling of subtlety under the numbskull jackboots of moral absolutism and “realism.” Humbert is talisman for the homelessness of man. He is homesick, like Odysseus cast upon the seas; his escapism a tragic odyssey across the waste land of America.

The dwelling of man is lost to angst. Is writing any redemption? Wilde had to “bunbury” away from it, Proust to retreat to a cork room to write about it, by night; Housman declared “the tree of man is never quiet,” Auden had “immoral” urges his entire life. Consider how Humbert's fate is wedded to the object of his desire, -“Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta.” Do we not hear Shakespeare’s words “So long lives this and this gives life to thee” haunting the conclusion of the novel, in which the narrator forever weds his name to his love?. The “home” of Humbert is the living-death of the novel; the text of Lolita his effigy.

This gravestone of textual “immortality,” of poetic empathy, is the compartmentalised vestige of thoughtfulness: a lament for dwelling to homeless, wandering man.

DId you really spend the time to write that? Because if you did, its quite good.

 

[SKguitarist]

I'm currently reading "The Picture of Dorian Gray" by: Oscar Wilde. It's an amazing book and I highly recommend it to anyone who's a fan of classic literature.. I'm also a huge fan of H.P. Lovecraft, I've read about all of his work and I just can't get enough. His writing has definitely made a profound impact on my life.. Great stuff.

 

[kmik]

I must admit that I am having a hard time understanding what you're saying. To what I did: my reading is in no way "moral" and I hate looking for a "message". Separation of style and content is impossible. The concept of the novel is brilliant, the style is brilliant, it all adds up to something but...

It's like, suppose, someone is analyzing a novel written in stream of consciousness technique. And he explains that that the mind works with free associations, that are thoughts are quick and unorganized, the entire philosophy behind that, without touching on anything that happens whatsoever. Or, "ah, the irony of Ulysses is that it shows us that Odysseus' feelings and hopes still exist even in the modern age! That the odyssey can be simple and 24 hours long!" without touching its actual content. These are two extreme examples but you see what I'm getting at. With the great writers each sentence adds up to something, it has a meaning in relation to the whole and also the other way around. Not so with Lolita which merely seems to "exist".

PS - it seems to me like you use Heideggerian terminology in almost all your posts, about almost any subject. I feel stupid to ask but don't you feel like it's become sort of a meta-narrative for you?

 

[speed]

I must admit that I am having a hard time understanding what you're saying. To what I did: my reading is in no way "moral" and I hate looking for a "message". Separation of style and content is impossible. The concept of the novel is brilliant, the style is brilliant, it all adds up to something but...

It's like, suppose, someone is analyzing a novel written in stream of consciousness technique. And he explains that that the mind works with free associations, that are thoughts are quick and unorganized, the entire philosophy behind that, without touching on anything that happens whatsoever. Or, "ah, the irony of Ulysses is that it shows us that Odysseus' feelings and hopes still exist even in the modern age! That the odyssey can be simple and 24 hours long!" without touching its actual content. These are two extreme examples but you see what I'm getting at. With the great writers each sentence adds up to something, it has a meaning in relation to the whole and also the other way around. Not so with Lolita which merely seems to "exist".

PS - it seems to me like you use Heideggerian terminology in almost all your posts, about almost any subject. I feel stupid to ask but don't you feel like it's become sort of a meta-narrative for you?

I'm really enjoying your posts more and more kmik--they get me thinking.
I am moving much closer to your position I believe. I think it comes down to a lack of soul--if I can simplify and generalize, which I'm always guilty of--on Lolita, and perhaps even Joyce (although truly, Dubliners is brimming with soul).

I personally miss 90% of posts about Heidegger, and really dont care. It used to bother me, but oh well. I;m still impressed with Nile's response, and am shocked he took the time to write it for this site--if that is the case.

 

[kmik]

You should read A Portrait of the Artist. I've come to realize now that it is not a really mature work, and it can get somewhat tedious, but it is full of heart. And of course also The Crying of Lot 49 which, without even getting its artistic value, is fucking funny (I'd point out at examples but it will ruin it for you). Thing is... with Flaubert and Tolstoy, especially, there is no excess word. Their novels are so complete, written the precision of a short story... bla bla. But you know what, I might be judging Lolita in terms of an old novel... Coming to think about it Pynchon writes whole useless paragraphs about the unimportant to emphasize what actually IS important, and I might be enjoying him more since he's funny and more imaginative than Nabokov (I will ask again what other novels by Nabokov are worth reading...)

I completely disagree with you about Heidegger... I learned a lot of brilliant things from Nile557. This guy is dangerously smart. That the basic "brick" of truth is "a cat is a cat" and not "the cat is blue" made me happy for a few days. The attack on "revivalist" black metal as being a museum. Style and wordplay as more important than plot. Free will vs. determinism as a false dilemma. I don't understand most of it... 90%, actually. But in some way it made me look differently at art and literature, understanding what the text is and not what it expresses. But then again I might be simply misinterpreting the whole thing.

 

[Grunty]

William Shatner - Tek War

 

[kmik]

Oh, related to this thread... I bought this huge book with Selected Works of Virginia Woolf for real cheap. There's Mrs Dalloway, The Waves, Orlando, Jacob's Room, Between the Acts, To the Lighthouse, Three Guineas and a Room of One's Own (supposedly boring feminist crap, but Ive read some of her essays on literature and they were insightful so I might read that). Not sure where to begin - advice, anyone?

 

[Grunty]

A Room Of One's Own pretty much transcends traditional genres TBH. It's more about empowerment generally.

I've not read it, obviously. Boring feminist crap.

 

[speed]

You should read A Portrait of the Artist. I've come to realize now that it is not a really mature work, and it can get somewhat tedious, but it is full of heart. And of course also The Crying of Lot 49 which, without even getting its artistic value, is fucking funny (I'd point out at examples but it will ruin it for you). Thing is... with Flaubert and Tolstoy, especially, there is no excess word. Their novels are so complete, written the precision of a short story... bla bla. But you know what, I might be judging Lolita in terms of an old novel... Coming to think about it Pynchon writes whole useless paragraphs about the unimportant to emphasize what actually IS important, and I might be enjoying him more since he's funny and more imaginative than Nabokov (I will ask again what other novels by Nabokov are worth reading...)

I completely disagree with you about Heidegger... I learned a lot of brilliant things from Nile557. This guy is dangerously smart. That the basic "brick" of truth is "a cat is a cat" and not "the cat is blue" made me happy for a few days. The attack on "revivalist" black metal as being a museum. Style and wordplay as more important than plot. Free will vs. determinism as a false dilemma. I don't understand most of it... 90%, actually. But in some way it made me look differently at art and literature, understanding what the text is and not what it expresses. But then again I might be simply misinterpreting the whole thing.

I read it a long time ago. I still dont think Joyce ever topped Dubliners. the Dead is to me, his best, tightest, and most relevant piece of writing.

Have you read Anthony Burgess' Re-Joyce? Its an excellent book on Joyce and his works, by a most underrated novelist.

Yes, well, I also appreciate Nile's genius. However, I have already stated my boredom with Heidegger. And yes, Nile probably helped me understand the few ideas I retain from Heidegger.

 

[Murphy]

kmik - The Waves is much recommended, kind of an opposite to Ulysses' stream of consciousness technique while still being an exploration of the internal world. Like a feminine counterpart (or at least a lyric) to Joyce's monstrosity (which I still prefer). To The Light House is supposedly the best, but I haven't read it, and H. Bloom says that Between The Acts is the one whom he cherishes the most after a lifetime of reading.

I haven't read Lolita so I can't comment on that discussion, but I have read Pale Fire, and from that I can say that Nabokov certainly is a good writer, but I dunno about great. The thing is that while he is refreshingly playful and witty and writes smooth as hell, I never felt moved by any of it (and I don't mean in a plot-focused way) and I don't really remember a single passage from the book. It just flows on without reaching out. But at the same time I did enjoy it, structurally (storywise) it was fucking clever even though Borges was doing the same thing some ten years earlier, and it's easily better than Camus, Conrad, Sartre, Hesse and other second-rates.

Anyone read any Beckett? Aside from Pynchon, Joyce, Woolf, Borges and Proust he is my favourite writer of the 20th century. Watt and especially Murphy are gold for anyone who likes Joycean verbosity taken in the opposite direction (backwards one could say, but I don't think that's fair at all) from the way Joyce himself took with Finnegans Wake, with a more "existential" tone, rather heavy but brilliant barockish prose and wonderfully comical characters trapt in the world's vicious machinery. He is one of the most "betraktande" (regarding/contemplating/watching) authors I know of (I don't know how to say it in english because no word really fits).

From Watt:

"To think, when one no longer is young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something. To pause, towards the close of one's three hour day, and consider: the darkening ease, the brightening trouble; the pleasure pleasure because it was, the pain pain because it shall be; the glad acts grown proud, the proud acts growing stubborn; the panting the trembling towards a being gone, a being to come; and the true true no longer; and the false true not yet. And to decide not to smile after all, sitting in the shade, hearing the cicadas, wishing it were night, wishing it were morning, saying, No, it is not the heart, no, it is not the liver, no it is not the prostate, no it is not the ovaries, no it is not muscular, it is nervous. Then the gnashing ends, or it goes on, and one is in the pit, in the hollow, at the foot of all the hills at last, the ways down, the ways up, and free, free at last, for an instant free at last, nothing at last."

Now reading:

Strindberg - Röda Rummet - bad.

Brontë - Wuthering Heights - excellent.

Madame Bovary - great.

 

[kmik]

Nice. Welcome, Murphy. It's nice to have another well-read person here.

That passage from Watt is awesome. There is bite there, a very unique and completely unpretentious style. I didn't even know Beckett wrote something outside of his plays... this is certainly worthy of investigation.

Camus I have not read, but from what I've read ABOUT The Stranger it does sound a little artificial. But Hesse? His novels are part philosophy, his Nietzschean ideals are somewhat dated, he's not always believable... but he writes with BLOOD. There's a lot to be learned from his works, and some of his symbolism is simply great. (I've only read Damien and Steppenwolf, which are supposedly not even his best). And Conrad? He is a poetic master... That passage when he goes down the river in Heart of Darkness and it's like going back in time into the primitive and the primal, the entire atmosphere built around the myth of Kurtz, all the rich symbolism... come on now...

The Waves is the most difficult I think. Don't know if it's the one to start with. Seems like its hardly even a "novel".

Madame Bovary is more than great. I don't know if it is the best, but it certainly ranks as the most "perfect" novel ever written. His shifting in narrative, precise wording... there is not an excess word. It feels so complete. Flaubert is the Mozart of literature, plus that sinister touch...

I have not read ReJoyce... sounds interesting. Actually have not read anything by Burgess at all. I suspect he's a lot like Nabokov.

And I don't understand how anyone can be bored by Heidegger... I find the concept fascinating. Rethinking about everything, getting to the foundation of Being. That's the most primal thing there is, digging behind the axioms. Freeing yourself from the traps of language, seeing things for what they really are. That which lies beyond the rational and the sensational. That's just awesome!!

EDIT: so this Bloom guy is opposed to Feminist and Marxisit literary criticism... I suppose he can't be completely full of shit

 

[A8]

Brontë - Wuthering Heights - excellent.

One of my favorites.


I've heard a lot of good things about Lolita for years now, but for some reason never sought it out at my local library. I do wonder if they will have it. Recently it seems they are lacking the books I am looking to read.

 

[Murphy]

Nice. Welcome, Murphy. It's nice to have another well-read person here.

That passage from Watt is awesome. There is bite there, a very unique and completely unpretentious style. I didn't even know Beckett wrote something outside of his plays... this is certainly worthy of investigation.

The ones worth your while is Murphy, Watt and the trilogy Molloy, Mallone Dies and The Unnamable, which shifts in style from his earlier works. According to Beckett himself Joyce's omniscient way of writing and complete mastery of almost everything was impossible to follow (which he kind of tried in Murphy and Watt) so he switched from English to French and became a minimalist.

Camus I have not read, but from what I've read ABOUT The Stranger it does sound a little artificial. But Hesse? His novels are part philosophy, his Nietzschean ideals are somewhat dated, he's not always believable... but he writes with BLOOD. There's a lot to be learned from his works, and some of his symbolism is simply great. (I've only read Damien and Steppenwolf, which are supposedly not even his best). And Conrad? He is a poetic master... That passage when he goes down the river in Heart of Darkness and it's like going back in time into the primitive and the primal, the entire atmosphere built around the myth of Kurtz, all the rich symbolism... come on now...

Hesse is ok, but not great. The prose is nothing special and the characters are too often just dull soul searchers that come off as shallow vehicles for ideas, which make the novels uninteresting as soon as the ideas grow bland. And Siddhartha is just fucking awful. Steppenwolf was a novel that lent me some identification when I was a teenager but now there is nothing really worthwhile to go back to.

Conrad does nothing for me.

All imo.

The Waves is the most difficult I think. Don't know if it's the one to start with. Seems like its hardly even a "novel".

Well, everything by Viriginia Woolf is wonderfully easy to read compared to most modernist writers. But I would agree that there dwells a great deal of complexity behind The Waves' prose. And the style is certainly experimental. So start off with To The Light House or Mrs Dalloway if you’d like something “easy”.

Madame Bovary is more than great. I don't know if it is the best, but it certainly ranks as the most "perfect" novel ever written. His shifting in narrative, precise wording... there is not an excess word. It feels so complete. Flaubert is the Mozart of literature, plus that sinister touch...

Mozart falls short to Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Sibelius and many others in my book, but I think that the analogy works. Flaubert and Mozart are both technical masters that perfected their art like no one had done before them. Historically Flaubert is indispensable for the creation of the novel as an art form, for the modernist movement and for the French literary language. And I do indeed immensely respect what he created. But at the same time there is nothing in Madame Bovary that I found especially beautiful, thoughtful or revealing. As a whole it is perhaps as “perfect” as a realistic novel with romantic tendencies can be, but in individual parts it’s lacking. Name one of your favourite passages and maybe I can see it in a different light. It all comes down to personal preferences I guess, and remember that this is the first time I’ve read the novel. I have a feeling that it will grow the second time around.