_marco_'s reviews
41 reviews

"Marie-Claire Blais seems to draw these characters from the indefinite, the imprecise, the non-existent. They are at the instant of birth. They are also incomplete, deformed, fragile, and powerless against fate. They are not yet born. The world does not exist. This is a universe of phantoms and shadows, nightmares translated into words"

These are the words that conclude Naim Kattan's introduction to my edition of this short novel, and which shaped my entire experience of this wonderfully wretched story.

Mad Shadows is a story about three 'phantoms' - as Kattan calls them. Louise is a single mother whose one and only priority is her appearance. She is frivolous as a doll, loving her son only as an ornament for herself. Patrice - her son - is a Narcissus of sorts. He is beautiful and he knows he is, seeking comfort in his reflection. His entire existence is hinged upon the adoration of his mother which, when absent, sends him into fits of despair. The tragedy is that he is too stupid to realise why. Isabelle-Marie, Louise's oldest daughter, is ugly and vehemently jealous of the affection her brother receives. Undesirable and ignored, she seeks solace in tilling the Earth, and in violent acts of jealousy.

"But he did not live, he existed. Nor did he think. Animal instinct furnished him with all the motivation necessary for his narrow existence."

Blais presents to us a photograph of these three ghouls. They leave the story in the same spiritual state as they enter it, unable to learn or to grow - in other words, to be human - instead resigning themselves to the forceful passion of their inner desires. The three characters exist only as disembodied psychologies: Blais gives us no setting, no signs of life save for that which interacts directly with the three. These are true shadows: immutable, unchangeable souls, unable to develop into characters and enter into the real world. The world that exists outside their nondescript farm, a world that exists only as it would in relation to these three spirits, spirits who face only inwards, ruminating on their own convictions until it brings them each to ruin.

Despite all the inhumanity of these characters and their actions, the foundations of each of their psychologies are unmistakably human. Blais describes exaggerated states of human envy, frivolity, and of narcissism, turning them from selfish instincts into formless masses that eat each other alive. I can almost imagine this book in a grotesque, Tim Burton style animation.

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Thérèse by François Mauriac

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dark emotional reflective sad tense slow-paced

5.0

Thérèse is a story nucleated around a singular, isolated event. A woman attempts to poison her husband, and fails. The rest of the book traces what led her to do such a thing, and what her life looks like in the aftermath. What made this story interesting to me, however, was not the fact that she tried, but rather the fact that she feels that it was the most natural thing to do, as natural as twisting a cigarette in order to put it out.

Mauriac paints us a portrait of a troubled woman excised from the world around her, as though cut from a photograph. Unable to form connections, we are presented with a woman who, page after page, regresses ever more into her mind until even her words become meaningless to those around her. We are presented with a woman made ill by the despair of being unable to form a human connection, and yet her biggest obstacles are her own actions. She sabotages herself time and time again, ad infinitum until her efforts are fully spent, feeling as though fully incapable of being loved, in spite of the love she has to give. She is condemned to loneliness, forever watching the world go by around her, but unable to participate therein. She sees herself as an old woman, fading in spirit, succumbing to the processes of putrefaction, who fleetingly attempts to escape her predicament, to connect with another soul, only to fall back once more into the pit she dug herself into.

I persuade myself that my heart is dead, when really it is only getting its second breath. In the slack periods between successive bouts of passion, when there is no one there to put me in blinkers, I can see myself in the mirror, looking far older than my age; can see the reflection of a used-up woman who is no longer good for anything. And seeing myself so, I achieve a sort of repose. The knowledge of what I am comes as a consolation. The years of struggle are ended: that filthy business, love, no longer concerns me. I lean over and watch the lives of others, and my own past, as from some inaccessible balcony. . . But how comes it, then, that I, with the traces of burns still fresh on me, should imagine that I could ever be so mad as to go back, of my own free will, into the furnace?

What a ray of sunshine!

I found this book to be incredibly fascinating, and enriching. Although the situation of her life was laced with the peculiarities of her geographical and temporal situation, I couldn't help but see myself in her at times, if only occasionally. Her long internal soliloquies, although carefully and finely woven into the particularities of her own life, there is occasionally a single thread that stands out, that the reader can trace with their eye until they find its end within the recess of their own mind. By no means would I say that Thérèse is an "everywoman," but I will say that, in demonstrating an extreme of human egotism, I was able to follow her psyche through to its undoing. Its hard not to see a little bit of her in yourself.

I deeply loved this book, if not for the character herself, then for the hidden truths, desires, and vices that she presents to us. Mauriac gives us a lot to chew on and a lot to digest. I definitely recommend this story to those who love the classic psychological novel, but who are searching for something slightly more real.

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Into the War by Italo Calvino

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hopeful informative reflective medium-paced

4.0

Into the War follows a 17 year old fascist youth — a veiled young Calvino — as Mussolini plunges Italy into the Second World War.

These stories are filled with the undertones of Calvino’s socialist politics as they develop in a very anti-socialist environment. Calvino’s ‘morality’ prompts him to paint sympathetic portraits of the poor, the working class, artisans, and most beautifully, his own peasant father. These shimmering moments of humanity are what struck me the most throughout the book.

I also greatly enjoyed how Calvino creates a sense of place, both in the empty shell of the abandoned Menton as well as the thick blackness of the night.

We were there in the street, but the noises were the noises of the house, of a hundred houses altogether; and even the windless air had that heaviness that human sleep causes to sit solidly in bedrooms.

Considering how Calvino himself wrote about how he hates autobiographical writing, I’m not sure if this was the best book to introduce myself to the author with. Being such a short story, it felt somewhat lacklustre. In certain moments, Calvino’s prose shines through, but it feels secondary to the matter-of-fact recounting of events as they occurred in his memory.

I must read some more Calvino before further developing my opinion on the author.

Rudin by Ivan Turgenev

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inspiring reflective sad medium-paced

4.75

Turgenev paints a sweet little psychological portrait of a man, Rudin, who visits the country estate of a society woman, wooing her and her company with bright and eloquent speeches inundated with philosophy and idealism. He soon falls out of favour, however, when the passion with which he speaks fails to be translated into action.

There is a lot about this book that speaks to me. Rudin is presented not as a hypocrite, in which he practices deeds that directly oppose the ideals of his speeches; but as a man who finds himself too weak to accomplish anything of purpose, regardless of how forcefully he believes in it. This inertia ultimately leads to his destruction, and I had found it so tragically relatable. The idea of a faint heart (Dostoevsky’s dreamer, Turgenev’s Rudin, Goncharov’s Oblomov) has always fascinated me in Russian literature. I couldn’t help but feel sympathy for this man of inaction, despite the (just) vitriol directed towards him by those around him that, almost ceaselessly, he disappoints.

I also loved the character of Natalya. She had such force in her, such intelligence that not only rivals but (as we see in the story) triumphs over Rudin’s weakness. The intimacy of her moments of solitude shine through the rest of book for me.

‘Perhaps you’re right, and I don’t know what I’m saying. But until this moment I’ve placed such faith in you, I’ve believed your every word… in the future, please, do weigh your words, don’t scatter them to the wind. When I told you I loved you, I knew the meaning of each word…’

The beginning of the story felt very slow and unnecessarily intellectual for my tastes. I had almost expected it to be too full of philosophy that the characters themselves become symbols or nonentities in their debates and polemics for one abstract ideal against another (perhaps reading the translator’s introduction set it up in this way for me). By the midpoint of the book, however, it became much more exciting.

As always, I am a huge fan of the author’s gift of natural description. Additionally, Turgenev’s emphasis on dialogue throughout the story gives it the feel of a play or some other dramatic work, which (as I found anyway) further animated the characters throughout. I could hear the tone of their voices, the sharpness of their wit, the rage, joy, reflection, praise, scorn and all of the other emotions through the cold objectivity of the book’s typeface. I’d love to see it adapted into a play or a film.

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A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood

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emotional reflective sad fast-paced

5.0

A Single Man is a brief literary portrait of George, a queer man who has only recently suffered the death of his lover. Isherwood takes us through George's day, sparing us no intimacy, either physical or psychological. In a way, it reads like Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway if it had been written in California of the 1960s.

I was expecting George's grief as a widower to be expressed much more explicitly, in which the protagonist is afflicted with a visceral sense of grief that claws at his heart and moves the reader to tears. Instead, Isherwood gives us a different kind of grief. A mature grief, that sits in George's stomach and inundates his blood with a quiet yet heavy emptiness. And it is through this emptiness that we are spectators of George's life. The reader is made to feel the crushing weight of an absence; Jim (the name of the deceased) is mentioned all but four times.

This absence is filled with soliloquy after soliloquy, offering us a clear glimpse into George's mind. Through the story, quasi-philosophical issues (the American dream, the purpose of the past, the body, consciousness, desire) are raised and discussed by the voices in George's head, all of which are implicitly and subtly tied to his immense loss. In other words, George is presented as a stoic, and his grief, rather than emotional, invades him psychologically and philosophically; his grief is relegated to his thought rather than to his sentiment. It is here where his prose shines most brilliantly.

Then, intent upon his own rites of purification, George staggers out once more, wide-open-armed, to receive the stunning baptism of the surf. Giving himself to it utterly, he washes away thought, speech, mood, desire, whole selves, entire lifetimes; again and again he returns, becoming always cleaner, freer, less.

In short, I adored this story. I come away from it with a greater understanding of ageing, loss, the immutability of the past, and how all these issues may and do affect myself in the present. There is just so much depth that I feel like i just skimmed its surface. A genuinely beautiful, contemplative read.

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Circe by Madeline Miller

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emotional lighthearted reflective relaxing tense fast-paced

4.5

A bit of time has passed since I've read Miller's other story the Song of Achilles, and this book has been on my shelf for quite a while, so I thought I'd (finally) give it a go. And I'm glad I did! I devoured this book in less than a week.

The story follows the witch Circe as she comes into her own over the span of an eternity. Circe has played a cameo role in a number of Greek myths, including the Metamorphosis and the Odyssey, but has often been relegated to the role of temptress or obstacle. It was very exciting to see her depicted in her own worth, and to have her psychology explored in a far more profound manner; Miller breathes so much life into the character with her bright and airy lyricism. As a regular fan of the psychological novel, I found Circe to be a very interesting retelling.

The story travels through each stage of Circe's life: there was always action around every turn of the page. As such, I completely devoured this book. While I know that many prefer fast-paced stories packed with twists and turns, I think I would have enjoyed more of an exploration into the protagonist's loneliness as she finds herself stranded on Aiaia. Centuries go by in a page As Circe moves from one encounter to the next, and I find myself wondering how she copes with herself in the interim. But this is just an issue of personal taste.

Overall, I very much enjoyed this book! I highly recommend it, especially to those already familiar with some ancient Greek literature: I find Miller's interpretation to be very refreshing.

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Ernesto by Maria Antonietta Grignani, Umberto Saba

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emotional lighthearted reflective medium-paced

5.0

Non mi aspettava quanto mi sarebbe piaciuto questo libro (dato che si tratta di una relazione quasi traumatica fra un'uomo ed un ragazzo), ma Saba mostra un turbamento psicologico di un’adolescente in una penna molto chiaro e a volte – se si potesse crederlo – anche un po’ dolce.

Saba ci presenta un diciassettenne triestino che sta alla frontiere della maturità, raccontandoci la sua formazione sociale per cinque episodi di cui delle questioni profonde della mascolinità, del desiderio, e delle speranze per la vita sono posati e digeriti tramite un linguaggio semplicissimo di un giovinetto come Ernesto.

Prima di rivolgere i miei pensieri, devo esprimere un’apprensione che provo io verso la discussione generale a proposito del romanzo. Mentre riconosco che questo libro è considerato il primo racconto gay della letteratura italiana, secondo io non si tratta di tanto – non affatto, anche direi – dell’amore queer, o della genere in modo abbastanza profondo. La relazione fra l’uomo ed Ernesto è più vicino alla pederastia (una cosa decisamente diversa dall’omosessualità). Sì, può darsi che sia un modo interessante per esplorare il turbamento dell’adolescenza in un racconto d’invenzione, però credo che sia importantissimo staccare la relazione fra l’uomo ed il ragazzo dall’etichetta di ‘gay’ oppure ‘queer,’ poiché classificarla come ‘gay’ perpetua dei narrativi falsi e malefici contro le persone queer; e poiché questa non rappresenta l’amore proprio, però invece è della sfruttazione dei un giovane curioso e del suo desiderio immaturo da un’adulto. Ciò detto, riconosco anche che questo libro rivolge alcune verità del desiderio queer, dei concetti e delle teorie queer, e degli atteggiamenti verso (o contro) le persone queer, e perciò magari questo libro può essere analizzato in modo più profondo. Rimango, insomma, in conflitto su cosa ne penso.

Detto tutto questo, mi è piaciuto tantissimo questo racconto.

Ernesto non è un ragazzo ideale – come si vede in altri racconti – già dotato di una moralità ed un senso di sé degli adulti (o meglio, che si aspetta dagli adulti); invece Saba crea un personaggio imperfetto e fallibile, cioè, reale, che sta sempre cercando il medesimo nei posti e nelle persone che (in Trieste negli 1890 ma anche, in un senso, nell’attuale) vanno in contrario alla la coda sociale. Il protagonista si avvia per l'adolescenza con una certa innocenza, svelata dall’opacità con cui Saba descrive tutto tranne quello che vede e pensa Ernesto, e dall'uso liscio (e, secondo io, anche poetico) della lingua Triestina. Inoltre, Il linguaggio semplice, oltre di enfatizzare l'innocenza giovanile del protagonista, mette tutto in un punto di vista obiettivo, senza pregiudizi o rimproveri verso Ernesto. Non siamo giudici del giovinetto, ma spettatori – basta che lui si accorga delle conseguenze da sé.

“Le sue preferenze gli erano dettate unicamente dalla sensualità del momento; ed era una sensualità molto variabile: incerta perfino – come si è visto – per quanto riguarda la meta. Non si era mai chiesto, per esempio, se l’uomo era bello o brutto; lo aveva ascoltato per ragioni estranee all'estetica: desiderava di essere amato, e l’uomo l’amava.”

Trovo anche affascinante la dinamica del potere fra l’uomo ed Ernesto, e come cambia attraverso il racconto. La fine della storia (se si potesse dare una fine a un libro non finito) mi è piaciuta assai, sebbene io non possa trovare le parole specifiche per esprimere il perché (sto scrivendo nel mezzo della notte). Vorrei sapere quello che sarebbe accaduto fra Ernesto ed Ilio.

Insomma è una lettura abbastanza bella, e lo consiglio a quelli che piacciono le storie leggeri, psicologiche, e letterarie.

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_marco_'s reviews 41 reviews

_marco_'s reviews
41 reviews