Patricia Highsmith - The Price of Salt
Dec
'05
I don’t usually like it when books have to be “justified” by other books or authors. What I mean by this is that on the cover of this book, stated: “Now a masterwork, the novel that inspired Nabokov’s Lolita.” I am not sure if Nabokov read Patricia Highsmith. That’s not the point, though. The point is that this book cannot apparently stand on its own. It needs the mention of another author, a famous author, to prove its worth. Unless spoke of this, but I’m too lazy to look through and find the quote. Something about the quote of a college professor on the narrator’s previous novel being placed on the cover of the new book, and how the quoter’s name will be in font just as large as the author’s name. This has always bothered me. Taking a women’s lit course, of course, just provides material for this annoyance.
But since we’re comparing it to Lolita, I want to say this: It was just as boring. The first part of Lolita was very interesting, very in depth, very lovely to me. The second part made me feel lonely that I didn’t have anything else to do but read this uninteresting book. (Lolita is a bit different than this novel, however, in that the boringness mostly came from the 37,827 direct references to other books and specific locations. Seriously, don’t read this book until you’ve read everything else in the world, and visited all of America. But I exaggerate.) As with that, The Price of Salt was very everything I just said… In the first part. It has tension, suspense, romance, wonder, confusion. The second part? You’re travelling across America. It makes travelling and the general West seem very boring. Not a book to be used in advertising campaigns. Yawn.
The cover has nothing to do with the book. I don’t understand how people come up with covers sometimes. It shows a picture of a woman in what looks like a train station, or somewhere that connects multiple places, biting her nails, possibly crying. I imagine her sweater is pink. Covers like this make me want to go into the profession of making book covers. I will always promise to read the book before I create the appropriate cover.
This book is guilty of another thing that only started bugging me recently: the author’s name is larger than the book title. In fact, the author’s name is in a very bright orange, and the book title is in a soft white that sort of blends in with the cover. Maybe I’m just not like the rest of the world, in that I care less about the author and more about the text itself, but it just doesn’t seem right. I don’t buy books based on the author. Bret Easton Ellis has so far been exceedingly brilliant, but I’ve not bought Lunar Park because I don’t know what it’s about.
I am not very happy today, my sweet. I am drinking my ryes and you would tell me they depress me, I know. But I wasn’t prepared for these days after those weeks with you. They were happy weeks — you knew it more than I did. Though all we have known is only a beginning. I meant to try to tell you in this letter that you don’t even know the rest and perhaps you never will and are not supposed to — meaning destined to. We never fought, never came back knowing there was nothing else we wanted in heaven or hell but to be together. Did you ever care for me that much, I don’t know. But that is all part of it and all we have known is only a beginning. And it has been such a short time. For that reason I will have shorter roots in you. You say you love me however I am and when I curse. I say I love you always, the person you are and the person you will become. I would say it in a court if it would mean anything to those people or possibly change anything, because those are not the words I am afraid of. (228)
This book reminds me so much of myself and my life in ways that I won’t detail, even though it’s rather uninteresting as a whole. I can’t relate to Terese (the book is from her eye view) as a person, but I can relate to some of her ideas and perceptions, certainly parts of her situation. There were so many passages in this book that put weight on my heart; yes, I’d've felt that way too; yes, I know exactly what you mean; yes, I fear this as well. And the fear is so pronounced and so perfectly depicted. The mere ability to make my heart sink creates a worthy cause for this book. I don’t like a lot about it, but every so often something beautiful and true shone through.
Overall I didn’t find it very profound or amazing. The writing style irked me just a bit. However, if you’re looking for “cutting edge” (as they say) fiction about two women taking the course of a basic romance novel, read this. It was written in the ’50s, so of course things are a little more “secretive,” or “apprehensive,” or what-have-you. I think that’s part of the appeal, though, at least for me. I’ll never read this again, but I wouldn’t necessarily tell others not to.
Carol Shields - Unless
Dec
'05
My “in the middle” responses never quite do justice, but I like to have them to see how quickly an opinion can change, or heighten, just by reading the second half of a book. (I also like to think of myself as a thoughtful reader, and it is satisfying to read back on 10-paragraph long posts about 100 pages of a book.) I said I didn’t like it because it was too “romantic,” which is only partially still true. It’s very reflective and very individual. But it is also very feminine, which is the core of why I do not like it very much. I have never had anything against “feminists,” nor any other “ists,” because I believe diversity of opinion is essential (essential to what, I wonder?). However, there is something about “women power!” books that turns me off. The historical aspect is intriguing. I like reading the same subject in books from the 1700s, even the 1800s. Anything within the mid to late 1900s seems to trigger something in my mind that says, “this is boring.” I am certain this is not because of the feminist aspect, but because of the other I discussed in this novel’s previous post. The feminist structure adds to it. The letters complaining about authors who don’t list women writers as influence — I don’t find these sorts of things essential to reading this book properly. The idea is given perfeclty well with Alicia and Roman (the narrator’s novel characters); why add so much more to it? I’m not anti-feminist, but boy do I prefer women who know their own path.
Beginning, middle, end. I’m curious about Norah, the daughter, her motivations, her thoughts, her insight into the situation. The book left me wanting more; in some cases, this is a positive thing, but in this case, it’s rather frustrating, and to me a sign of incomplete writing. The book wasn’t about Norah, I know this, but to reveal so much about her and conceal all else is less than playful. I don’t need to know what she did those months on the street, but I’d like to know if she still feels anything for Ben. I’d like to know what went through her mind between being picked up by the firemen and leaving the hospital. I’d even like to know how Arthur Springer, though a rather annoying and hateful character, got home after being abandoned by an emergency. The ending seems conclusive. It was conclusive for the few minutes after I’d finished, until I started to think about the characters as more than just “characters in a book,” at which point I began to hate myself because I will truly never know. I suppose that entails a certain amount of strength (in writing), that I wish I knew more… Yet it seems the reason I wish I knew more is because the story is lacking something, not because I am genuinely curious about what happens next.
I sometimes don’t believe what I write. I can’t rely on my own sallies and locutions, my takes on the immediate and devastating circumstances. Often, the next day, looking at what I’ve written, I’m left shaking my head. (227)
In its own way, the book describes what I picked up on in my previous post: the continuing words. It explains “unless” as a turning point, sort of like if, but perhaps less hopeful. It seems to work multiple ways in the book. The theme of womens writing is ever present; a statement comes to mind: “You can’t do this unless you are a man.” But there are also so many unless-es in life, as she puts it:
Unless is the worry word of the English language. It flies like a moth around the ear, you hardly hear it, and yet everything depends on its breathy presence. Unless–that’s the little subjunctive mineral you carry along in your pocket case. It’s always there, or else not there.
Unless you’re lucky, unless you’re healthy, fertile, unless you’re loved and fed, unless you’re clear about your sexual direction, unless you’re offered what others are offered… (224)
I understand the title, now that I have finished the book, and I grasp the chapter titles moreso than I did before (though I suppose I was on the right track anyway). I am also very glad that I did not volunteer, “what’s with the chapter titles?” in class, since they are clearly explained in the last chapter.
I’ve read past responses and find myself saying things like, “I probably would have liked this if I had read it before [this semester].” I am inclined to wonder why I seem to feel this way. Perhaps it is because previously I had liked pretty much everything I had read. My tastes are maybe a little more refined, now that I have read more. Something along the lines of Socrates’ cave, but I can’t quite articulate it.
George MacDonald - Phantastes
Dec
'05
I don’t have much insight into this, because you could read it as a fantasy novel story complete with fairies, moving trees, and magical objects, or you could read it much deeper and more intriguing than just that. I only wanted to include a few random passages of why I love it so very much. They’re toward the end simply because I didn’t have this journal until then, but there were certainly many astonishing uses of language earlier on.
A gray mist continually gathered behind me. When I looked back towards the past, this mist was the medium through which my eyes had to strain for a vision of what had gone by; and the form of the white lady had receded into an unknown region. (Ch.XVIII)
As I walked over the grass towards the cottage, which stood at a little distance from the bank, all the flowers of childhood looked at me with perfect child-eyes out of the grass. My heart, softened by the dreams through which it had passed, overflowed in a sad, tender love towards them. They looked to me like children impregnably fortified in a helpless confidence. The sun stood half- way down the western sky, shining very soft and golden; and there grew a second world of shadows amidst the world of grasses and wild flowers. (Ch.XIX)
I knew now, that it is by loving, and not by being loved, that one can come nearest the soul of another; yea, that, where two love, it is the loving of each other, and not the being loved by each other, that originates and perfects and assures their blessedness. I knew that love gives to him that loveth, power over any soul beloved, even if that soul know him not, bringing him inwardly close to that spirit; a power that cannot be but for good; for in proportion as selfishness intrudes, the love ceases, and the power which springs therefrom dies. Yet all love will, one day, meet with its return. All true love will, one day, behold its own image in the eyes of the beloved, and be humbly glad. (Ch.XXIV)
It is a beautiful book, and I don’t expect it should be any less beautiful in the second read. It takes quite an interesting journey with the “shadow” and the “white lady,” both rather frequent motifs in fairy land stories (take Hans Christian Andersen’s The Shadow, for instance). It was a dream-like narrative, not in the way that it didn’t make any sense, but in the way where after reading it you wonder if you didn’t just dream all of that (and, if you did, you feel like you have “smart” dreams, and therefore feel smarter than you did before you started the book). It’s written so well that I did have dreams the nights after reading portions of it that included Anodos, the white lady, and any one of the adventures he experienced. It was dream-like because things were unexplained, but it didn’t matter that they weren’t explained because somehow you’re in this world where it makes sense, despite the fact it would never make sense in the “real” world. The writing is so well-done that you feel part of the words, as if the story is your own.
(Page numbers unavailable, as I’m reading it thanks to Project Gutenberg.)
On second thought, here’s the portion of the paper I had to write on this book. It’s choppy and partially disconnected because I also included another book in the paper. I’ve only exerpted the parts concerning Phantastes in hopes that it would give you a notion of the complexity; however, this is a very limited view (to fit with the paper assignment). I might be able to go on for much longer about the meaning of the shadow, and perhaps I will next time I read the book. Frankly, I’d like to have a hard-copy in hand when that happens, because from this experience I have learned that it really sucks to read books off the computer. Cut for length or spoilers »
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