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h2oetry's review
5.0
"Stories happen only to people who know how to tell them. Said Thucydides."
"His last book. All of which also then gives Novelist carte blanche to do anything here he damned well pleases."
These quotes and those that follow are from what is both the literal last novel in Markson's career and the final installment in his tetralogy. Markson places the Pretty Much Mirrored Version Of Himself -- Novelist -- in the center of a tapestry of historical anecdotes with regard to all manner of other artists' lives(poets, painters, musicians, politicians, writers, etc). These asides are sketched out in brevity regarding births and deaths, critiques and praise, tomfoolery and serendipity, and everything in between. They are neither chronological nor always seminal snapshots offered. They are gorgeous in their simplicity, and offer brilliant anecdotes that would likely otherwise go unnoticed, even by the astutest of readers.
"Reviewers who have accused Novelist of inventing some of his anecdotes and/or quotations -- without the elemental responsibility to do the checking that would verify every one of them."
Sprinkled throughout are quips which would serve as better book reviews of the book than a critic could come up with on their own. "A novel of intellectual reference and allusion, so to speak minus much of the novel. And thus in which Novelist will say more about himself only when he finds no way to evade doing so, but rarely otherwise."
"Wondering if there is any viable way to convince critics never to use the word tetralogy without also adding that each volume can be readily read by itself?"
I am reading the tetralogy in reverse order, because I want to, and like the above quote reads, they are volumes in which can be readily read by itself. They are not the same books, as some reviewers lament. They may have similar structure to each other, but there are different facts and allusions in the books. Only a lazy reviewer would cry foul in such a way, though. Markson is severely under-read, in my opinion. Any book in the tetralogy would be a decent starting point.
"His last book. All of which also then gives Novelist carte blanche to do anything here he damned well pleases."
These quotes and those that follow are from what is both the literal last novel in Markson's career and the final installment in his tetralogy. Markson places the Pretty Much Mirrored Version Of Himself -- Novelist -- in the center of a tapestry of historical anecdotes with regard to all manner of other artists' lives(poets, painters, musicians, politicians, writers, etc). These asides are sketched out in brevity regarding births and deaths, critiques and praise, tomfoolery and serendipity, and everything in between. They are neither chronological nor always seminal snapshots offered. They are gorgeous in their simplicity, and offer brilliant anecdotes that would likely otherwise go unnoticed, even by the astutest of readers.
"Reviewers who have accused Novelist of inventing some of his anecdotes and/or quotations -- without the elemental responsibility to do the checking that would verify every one of them."
Sprinkled throughout are quips which would serve as better book reviews of the book than a critic could come up with on their own. "A novel of intellectual reference and allusion, so to speak minus much of the novel. And thus in which Novelist will say more about himself only when he finds no way to evade doing so, but rarely otherwise."
"Wondering if there is any viable way to convince critics never to use the word tetralogy without also adding that each volume can be readily read by itself?"
I am reading the tetralogy in reverse order, because I want to, and like the above quote reads, they are volumes in which can be readily read by itself. They are not the same books, as some reviewers lament. They may have similar structure to each other, but there are different facts and allusions in the books. Only a lazy reviewer would cry foul in such a way, though. Markson is severely under-read, in my opinion. Any book in the tetralogy would be a decent starting point.
stevenbb's review
3.0
What has been will be again,
what has been done will be done again;
there is nothing new under the sun.
I enjoy this in the same way that I enjoy other (post-)modern art, and I'm writing this as a reminder to explore the difference more sometime.
what has been done will be done again;
there is nothing new under the sun.
I enjoy this in the same way that I enjoy other (post-)modern art, and I'm writing this as a reminder to explore the difference more sometime.
gjmaupin's review
4.0
I love the David Markson. The only reason this isn't 5 stars is I'm thinking about "Wittgenstein's Mistress" as I write this, which I should say in fairness is a seven-star book.
ichirofakename's review
2.0
Too precious by half. Only for those who need to see the experiment fail with their own eyes.
ben_miller's review
3.0
Markson's taken the form of the "anecdote book," which are usually packaged as sources of inspiration/encouragement/advice, and bestowed to it the sense of water funneling down a drain - what begins as a pithy and amusing series of vignettes takes on a tinge of dread as patterns begin to emerge. For all the white space on these pages, the paragraphs begin to come at you like buckshot.
The funny thing is, at times it does fulfill all the expectations of an anecdote book. Novelist is reassuring himself, and all other artists in the process. I didn't like the moments when the narrator editorializes. It felt like an unnecessary heavy hand when the juxtaposition of the anecdotes usually did the work.
I was often entertained and sometimes offended by this book, which probably means there's something pretty interesting going on.
The funny thing is, at times it does fulfill all the expectations of an anecdote book. Novelist is reassuring himself, and all other artists in the process. I didn't like the moments when the narrator editorializes. It felt like an unnecessary heavy hand when the juxtaposition of the anecdotes usually did the work.
I was often entertained and sometimes offended by this book, which probably means there's something pretty interesting going on.
darren_cormier's review
4.0
Markson seems to write his own review of this novel midway through:
"Reviewers who protest that Novelist has lately appeared to be writing the same book over and over.
Like their grandly perspicacious uncles--who groused that Monet had done those damnable water lilies nine dozen times already also." (p. 104)
There is beauty and depth in repetition. And, like Monet's water lilies, or the morning corner photographs of Augie Wren, each is slightly different, each is a moment of reflection about the impermanence of time: which seems to be at the heart of this final volume of Markson's discontinuous, collage-like, assemblage meditations of artistic success, failure, virtue, and life.
In The Last Novel, Novelist is near the end of his life, trying to write one final book, trying to insert the thousands of pieces of information he has assembled and compiled, chronicling every aspect of the artistic life into one final tome, while aware that his life is nearing its end:
"Old. Tired. Sick. Alone. Broke." (p. 3)
"His last book. All of which also then gives Novelist carte blanche to do anything here he damned well pleases.
Which is to say, writing in his own personal genre, as it were." (p.4)
Staring into his own mortality, through the lives of others, Markson has a liberty to address any idea that wanders into the script, to pursue any tangent for as long as he likes. He also shows shocking vulnerability in detailing his own situation, channeling Gogol's Akaky Akakievich in his meanderings to an inconveniently located convenience store. He has to walk an extra fifteen minutes to this store, because their goods are cheaper: it's what he can afford. And he has to rest twice on the walk over because of his failing health.
A large focus of the literary and cultural snippets are on the end of lives of the subjects, a reflection of our time here, and our works. Two of the most poignant come in rapid succession near the end of the book:
"A man may know that he is going to die, but be can never know that he is dead.
Said Samuel Butler.
Death is not an event in life; we do not live to experience death.
Said Wittgenstein." (p. 173)
All of which is a reminder that we should experience life, enjoy it for what it has to offer. Before we know it, it's over.
It seems that Markson enjoyed his, in the ways he wanted to.
"Reviewers who protest that Novelist has lately appeared to be writing the same book over and over.
Like their grandly perspicacious uncles--who groused that Monet had done those damnable water lilies nine dozen times already also." (p. 104)
There is beauty and depth in repetition. And, like Monet's water lilies, or the morning corner photographs of Augie Wren, each is slightly different, each is a moment of reflection about the impermanence of time: which seems to be at the heart of this final volume of Markson's discontinuous, collage-like, assemblage meditations of artistic success, failure, virtue, and life.
In The Last Novel, Novelist is near the end of his life, trying to write one final book, trying to insert the thousands of pieces of information he has assembled and compiled, chronicling every aspect of the artistic life into one final tome, while aware that his life is nearing its end:
"Old. Tired. Sick. Alone. Broke." (p. 3)
"His last book. All of which also then gives Novelist carte blanche to do anything here he damned well pleases.
Which is to say, writing in his own personal genre, as it were." (p.4)
Staring into his own mortality, through the lives of others, Markson has a liberty to address any idea that wanders into the script, to pursue any tangent for as long as he likes. He also shows shocking vulnerability in detailing his own situation, channeling Gogol's Akaky Akakievich in his meanderings to an inconveniently located convenience store. He has to walk an extra fifteen minutes to this store, because their goods are cheaper: it's what he can afford. And he has to rest twice on the walk over because of his failing health.
A large focus of the literary and cultural snippets are on the end of lives of the subjects, a reflection of our time here, and our works. Two of the most poignant come in rapid succession near the end of the book:
"A man may know that he is going to die, but be can never know that he is dead.
Said Samuel Butler.
Death is not an event in life; we do not live to experience death.
Said Wittgenstein." (p. 173)
All of which is a reminder that we should experience life, enjoy it for what it has to offer. Before we know it, it's over.
It seems that Markson enjoyed his, in the ways he wanted to.
nickolette's review
1.0
What the fuck? Is this the same book we are talking about? It was on top of the New York Times chart of cool books you haven’t read and honestly, I feel deceived..
It's a two-star-book but I am giving it just one in order to balance a bit the overall rating.
It's a two-star-book but I am giving it just one in order to balance a bit the overall rating.
lucasmiller's review
5.0
I am so glad to go back and read Markson's four novels in sequence. They each stand alone, readily read by themselves. Readily Read? My analysis has softened. I've stopped taking notes, making lists, even writing down anecdotes in my notebooks. The classical allusions catch my interest, but more than anything the book is absorbing. The pace and voice are set by The Last Novel and it has become a page turner. There is more humor than any of the previous volumes. I am anxious to read this again.
deadwolfbones's review
5.0
I really liked this book.
Sort of a katamari of literary allusions, aphorisms, and backstabbery that somehow manages to develop genuine emotional impact.
Also it's very, very funny.
Sort of a katamari of literary allusions, aphorisms, and backstabbery that somehow manages to develop genuine emotional impact.
Also it's very, very funny.