Spoilers
I’ve decided to stop browsing through my copy of 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die, as they really have no tact. Surely the vignettes are supposed to provide a short review of the book, telling you why you should read it, not give you the plot rundown in 50 words or less. Now I know exactly what happens in A Clockwork Orange, I’ve lost all desire to read it.
The only reason that it doesn’t give the plot for The Book of Disquiet is because there isn’t one. Nothing happens. Occasionally he cries and gnashes his teeth, and finds himself paralysed by metaphysical contradictions, but that’s it so far. It’s the kind of book that you need to dip in and out of if you want a taste of the, albeit beautifully written, existential ponderings of a man who feels his life has amounted to nothing. It’s most definitely a toilet book, in my opinion.
You know what though? That doesn’t do it justice. I found myself relating to alot of what he says, and marvelling at the beautiful way he has of saying it. His internal, fantasy life is so rich, that you can’t really say that he feels his life amounts to nothing – it’s just his physical existence that doesn’t do much for him. So, I can recommend it – just not all at once, which is why the book belongs in the loo.
Anyway, I decided to move onto Mrs Dalloway, which was interesting. I’ve never read any Virginia Woolf before – I always found the idea of her intimidating. Once I got used to her stream of consciousness style of writing I enjoyed it. The narrative skips from character to character, perching on one for a while, then moving on as if blown onwards by a sudden breeze. I read like I eat – with a tendency to gobble the food in record time without really stopping to taste it. I had to really concentrate on the prose in this book – every word seems to be there for a specific purpose, which can’t be said of alot of books I’ve read. Much of the pleasure comes from how she’s strung the words together, rather than the story they have to tell.
And then, once that was bagged, I started reading Candide, by Voltaire. Mercy! Voltaire! How cerebral! I was encouraged by the fact that it’s astonishingly slim – you could get through it in about 3 hours. It’s also excellent – a stinging satire on the idea of fate, and the belief held by many that everything happens for the best. It’s so irreverant. I love it. So, I won’t be astonishing party-goers with the phrase ‘Voltaire is so overrated’ tripping from my lips after all. How horribly disappointing.
Anyway, sorry if this post is on the dull side. I’ll try and make the reviews more exciting – perhaps I will inject some drama into them next time (well! I was reading Voltaire, and what do you think happened? Jellyfish invaded the earth! Anyway, I managed to finish….)