Book Review: The Tiger, by John Vaillant


(I had done a mini-review of this on my end-of-the-year post, but thought it merited its own entry)

I found myself flipping through the Globe and Mail book section one weekend in the fall of 2010, and found myself staring at a review for a non-fiction book called The Tiger, by author John Vaillant. Let me begin by saying that I am a prolific reader, yet not someone fazed by what’s new so much as what interests me. To this extent, given my eclectic tastes, I will switch from Turgenev to Bukowski, from John Ralston Saul to Stanislaw Lem, and so on. I sometimes don’t have a lot of time to read books, period, owing to a fairly full schedule of projects (which includes working on a novel). As a result, I sometimes feel a little out of touch with the contemporary world of books, especially when there are people on Twitter who are aiming to read fifty books this year.

Getting back to me and the review, I glanced at the synopsis and was struck by how meaty it was: the Russian far east, a vengeful killing machine, a dark exploration of our ties to nature. It seemed to be everything I was looking for (especially as a Russophile) and gave me an opportunity to actually read something published in the year that I was reading it.

It is, in short, a fabulous book. Fabulous, above all, because of the depth of Vaillant’s research into his subjects and his skill at balancing this collective learning against the white knuckle tension that is at the heart of the story. The Tiger begins with the stalking and subsequent killing of a tayozhnik – a Siberianism for forest dweller – named Markov and the series of events it sets in motion against the backdrop of the merciless taiga (or “boreal forest”) surrounding the little logging town of Sobolonye.

The tension is established early, not by Markov’s demise so much as the complex relationship between humans and tigers in this paradoxical part of the world, much of the relationship predicated on the aboriginal teaching that a tiger will never attack a human, so long as the former respects the latter’s spiritual and physical superiority. This superiority is laid out in full measure: from a zoological perspective, the tiger is perhaps the most sublime killing machine that exists in the world of mammals and Vaillant spares no time outlining how every inch of the beast exceeds any comparable hunter on the planet – both in physicality and mentality. The tiger thinks. The tiger learns. Most compelling of all, the tiger remembers.

It is this last quality which lends much tension, because, as the tiger is tracked by a team of professional hunters over the course of two weeks, the question is repeatedly asked: did Markov bring this on himself? And how?

The Tiger is a stunning combination of layered storytelling and educational insight into the evolutionary relationship between man and animal. Indeed, given the barren environment of the setting, it feels sometimes as if the conflicts between man and animal are staged in a prehistoric past rather than their modern setting in the late 90s. There are also some sad truths made about the aftereffects of the economic collapse of the former Soviet Union and the perennial designs China has on the taiga’s natural resources – tigers included.

The Tiger, by John Vaillant (ISBN: 978-0307268938) is published by Knopf and is readily available in your local, independent bookstore.

Share

Book Review: Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Ishiguro

Sometimes things just line up in such a way that you can’t help feeling they were put there on purpose. Early this month, as part of a course I’m taking, I went to a weekend retreat, held at a secluded compound by the Credit River. It was a bit eerie, because many of my dreams take place in expansive compounds: wherever I go, even if it seems I’m outside, I just have to look up to see that there is a roof, or some sort of enclosure to remind me that I am not free. So, what book from our library did I take with me at the last minute? Why, Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go, of course. What I didn’t realize is that much of it takes place on a compound…but I’ll get back to this.

I’ve not read any books by Ishiguro – I haven’t even seen the movie adaptation of Remains of the Day. That said, I did work on Guy Maddin’s The Saddest Music In The World, an adaptation of one of his short stories. I’d heard good things about Never Let Me Go, and had always meant to read it. With it being released as a film recently (I don’t think it did that well, despite the critical praise), and since I needed something to read during my time away, I thought it would be a good pick.

Never Let Me Go concerns the story of Kathy, Ruth, and Tommy. It’s told from Kathy’s perspective in the present. She is a carer, who drives from centre to centre, visiting those she looks after. Very soon we are introduced to their beginnings, as children, in a place called Hailsham. It’s an isolated educational enclave, somewhere in England, where the students live, go to school, and grow up. But there’s something a little odd about it all. Perhaps it’s the isolation from the rest of the world. Something in the way some of their guardians regard them. All too soon, their sun-dappled childhood in Hailsham becomes something which haunts them as they grow into young adults. It’s practically all Kathy can use to mark the passing of her time.

Within these reminiscences, we are introduced to Tommy and Ruth, who become the foundational friendships Kathy clings to through adolescence, regardless that Ruth oscillates from friend to enemy – a colourful rather than careful individual who becomes a voice of danger in the fog of their relationship.

The magic of this book is the skill with which Kathy’s perspective is written. There is a purpose for Hailsham, for their being there. There is a reason she is a carer. Never Let Me Go is a capital-H haunting novel, inhabited by people who are slightly cold but reaching out, never quite managing to touch a meaning they hope is there. I can’t say much more without spoiling things, not that it’s a book laden with surprises, so much as layered with subtle, sad observations. A beautiful book for a rainy day.

Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go (ISBN: 978-0-676-97711-0) is available at an independent bookstore near you, or at various online retailers.

Share

Swirl

I am trying (desperately) to avoid a “boy, it’s been a wacky ride these last few months!” post. It certainly isn’t for lack of things to talk about, news to update you with, opinions to confess/shout.

Thing is, I don’t know who you are. Sure, I know there are some of you who are semi-regular visitors. There are others who happen upon this place by accident (via Blogger or StumbleUpon). There are also those who come here via Google searches, either via my name or – most likely – a book review (which admittedly I haven’t done in, oh, a year or so *). And no, this isn’t going to be a “Matt wittily evading accusations of being a lazy bastard by turning the camera on the reader” post.

I’ve been posting artsy stuff, writerly stuff, industry opinion stuff. I don’t mind the randomness, so long as there’s no fluff. I do mind the lack of output. I wish, for one, that I could post more photographs (which is to say, I wish I had a better selection of photos to post **).

It comes down to the fact that I’ve been working like a dog since May (note: this happens every year that I’m working on a SAW film). When I come out of these periods, I feel like Rip van Winkle: a little dazed, slow on the up-take. Whereas last year this time I started teaching, this time this year I am a student (part-time) †. I have a small (but good) feature and a small (but good and potentially controversial) TV show on my plate from now till February. If funds allow, I also hope to have an editor working with me on my novel, with an eye to approaching a publisher or self-publishing if that doesn’t seem feasible ††. I’m collaborating on a musical.

My plate is full.

– – – 

* which isn’t to say that I’m not reading or that I don’t want to do any more book reviews. I’m reading a lot of non-fiction, thank you. Much of it either out of professional or academic interest. However, if only to improve my Google ranking, here’s a quick book review of Antwerp by Roberto Bolaño: What the fuck was that? (ISBN-13: 978-0811217170)

** another casualty of working so much is my photography. I still have the same roll of film in my camera that I’d loaded in June. I think I’ve only taken 4 exposures since then. Of course, my cellphone camera gets all the fun these days, unfortunately.

† I will be continuing teaching, but for only two terms this year as opposed to three (which was exhausting and… exhausting)

†† It needs a new name, for one thing. And I know this is going to drive me up the wall more than any changes to the actual content of the book.

Share

Book Review: Night Work, by Thomas Glavinic

One of the nice things about following blogs (certain blogs at least, or at least the few that are still being updated) is the wealth (and depth) of recommendations one can find. In this case, I happened upon Ward Six one day and found a description of an interesting novel, called Night Work. I’d never heard of it before and probably would not have if it weren’t for their recommendation. This is the nice thing about the Internet.

Written by Austrian author Thomas Glavinic, Night Work tells the story of Jonas, a young professional living and working in Vienna, who one day while waiting for the morning bus finds that the bus isn’t coming. It isn’t coming because, as he soon discovers, everyone is gone. Every living soul in Vienna seems to have disappeared and there is no television or radio reception. He calls his girlfriend, Marie, who had just left the day before to visit relatives in England. No answer. Everything is silent.

There is a decided chill to the first half of Night Work, with Jonas dealing with an overwhelming fear that he is not alone, that he is being watched. His unexplained predicament, while extraordinary, is rendered in ways which make it easy to relate to. His fears are human fears: being alone, being permanently separated from those he loves, not knowing what lurks in the dark. There is a pronounced longing for his family; one of the first things Jonas does is move into his father’s townhouse. As the novel progresses, his preoccupation with his childhood and family life becomes an evolving theme, particularly – as he explores the city and the remnants of places he knew – the question of what is left when people leave the earth.

The book’s title takes its form as Jonas suspects that something may be happening around him – perhaps to him – when he sleeps at night. What begins with a single video camera taping his sleeping patterns evolves into an elaborately orchestrated multi-camera obsession: to solve the haunting clues left behind on the videotapes he watches the next day.

No matter how far the book progresses, Glavinic manages to keep taut the suspense surrounding the question of whether Jonas is truly alone. We share his childlike fears as he attempts to methodically explore his surroundings, eventually to make one last attempt to contact Marie. Obviously, it’s a challenge for any writer to keep the reader’s interest given a single character, his reminiscences, and a world filled with abandoned artifacts. Glavinic manages to do this without cheating the reader or over-spicing the soup with unnecessary (or illogical) scares. Indeed, Night Work is about atmosphere and memory: these are, after all, the only things Jonas is left with. And, despite its sci-fi/speculative nature, it evolves into a rather touching literary and philosophical tale.

There are some small quibbles: not knowing Vienna (or Austria for that matter), Glavinic’s reliance on Viennese street names/neighbourhoods to denote where the story is taking place can be a little confusing (Brigittenaur Lände, anyone?). Also, I wish at times there had been a deeper view into Jonas’ emotional realm – that said, not to dwell on Austrian cultural stereotypes, the protagonist is an entirely practical, self-reliant character. This aside, I would recommend this novel for those looking for something different; perhaps for readers who like a little speculative fiction mixed in with their personal journeys.

Night Work, by Thomas Glavinic [ISBN: 978-1847671844] is published in North America through Canongate U.S. and is available at an independent bookseller near you, or readily available online. This edition was translated into (UK) English by John Brownjohn (I mention this in case you don’t know what a lorry is, etc..).

Share

Book Review: A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, by David Foster Wallace

For those of you who didn’t know already, author David Foster Wallace took his life last September. It was an all-too-unfortunate excuse for me to delve into his work, particularly his non-fiction, having enjoyed it years ago when I was a Harper’s subscriber (see here for context).

A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again is a collection of seven essays he wrote during the 90’s (there are other collections of more recent work available as well, fyi) for such periodicals as Harper’s, Esquire, and Harvard Book Review. On display is everything I recall from my earlier introduction: his wry sense of humour, an idiosyncratic writing style (in particular his prominent affection for footnotes), and his ability to turn the subject matter back onto his own life without self-indulgence.

This is where I make a (hopefully) short (and hopefully respectful, considering the circumstances) tangent: after DFW’s death, along with the dismay of those who were fans, I read just as many comments from people who – without hesitation – admitted to simply not liking the man’s style of writing. This sentiment (though still not what I would call “the prevailing opinion”) was even echoed in Harvard professor/New York Times book critic James Woods’ recent opus How Fiction Works; for him Wallace’s prose evidently did not. I figured this mood extended itself more to his fiction which – truth be told – I have not read. His most recognized piece, Infinite Jest, is over 1,100 post-modernist pages long. Not interested.

Because I had such little exposure to his work, reading ASFTINDA was an interesting experience: I could see what his detractors must have been referring to. While there is no doubt Wallace was an extremely intelligent and talented writer (which I shall get to), there are numerous examples in this volume where he comes across as rather pompous, which wouldn’t be so bad were it not for his habit of typing huge swaths of text which any good editor would have asked him (nay demanded) he remove because of either its redundancy or its convolution of said essay’s point. He also suffers an ailment similar to what I found with Carl Wilson (recently reviewed here) where, for no particular reason, he seems hell-bent on exhuming obscure words which stick out like antlers on a house cat.

Of the seven essays, three are distinctly underwhelming for reasons cited above. In particular, his essay E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction is a terribly long argument for post-modern fiction (ie. the type he writes) using academic media theory as a course of analogy (via reminiscences of 70’s and 80’s television shows). While the fact that his examples are quite dated is no fault of his (it was written in ’93 after all – hello, St. Elsewhere), it is problematic that after many excruciating paragraphs of explanation/theorizing he never actually gets around to completing his argument in a way that satisfies the effort of having read it.

That all said (he types, rolling his eyes) the remaining four essays are gold and worth the price of the book. In particular and unquestionably his essays Getting Away from Already Being Pretty Much Away from It All (an assignment from Harper’s to cover the Illinois State Fair) and the eponymous A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again (another Harper’s assignment – do you see a trend? – this time to take a 7-day ocean liner cruise of the Caribbean). On display in both is the perceptive laugh-out-loud satire of society’s absurdities as well as well-crafted reportage. There is also enjoyment in reading the essays on David Lynch (hanging out on the set of Lost Highway while opining on Lynch’s place in the American cinematic landscape) as well as tennis player Michael Joyce (set at the Canadian Open in Montreal, one of many coincidental Canadian-content inclusions throughout the book).

These four essays provide an opportunity for us to assess Wallace, the writer and person, without the willing academicism or pro-post-modernist chip on his shoulder. There is, for example, a wonderfully personal (yet appropriately witty) gem in the tennis essay where he admits, having previously questioned Michael Joyce’s IQ only to discover that, rather than a lack of intelligence it was an overwhelming physical and mental commitment by the athlete to his sport, and realizes by comparison that he can be a snob and an asshole. I like to come by my revelations honestly and it is in these four essays where Wallace’s gift shines.

So, if you don’t mind wincing a little and skipping a couple of entries, A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again is rewarding in the end. When he was on his A-game, Wallace had a unique voice and a wonderfully biting sense of humour; it makes the suddenness and nature of his passing all the more sad. I’m sure I will pick up more of his non-fiction in the months to come.

A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, by David Foster Wallace [ISBN: 978-0316925280] is available at a friendly independent bookseller near you, or online at numerous impersonal sources.

Share

Book Review: Let’s Talk About Love: A Journey To The End of Taste, by Carl Wilson

Celine Dion.

There is something about the utterance of her name which induces an involuntary sneer on some faces. As a Canadian, there is a double-whammy to this in that – of all the internationally recognized names from our country – hers is the most prevalent.

We associate her name, subconsciously, intentionally, metaphorically with everything that is crassly commercial, saccharine, and paradoxically successful in spite of the fact that “people like us” (which is to mean, those of us with cultivated tastes) can’t stand her music.

Yet, despite these reactions, are we giving her a fair shake? Are we just a bunch of snobs? Is it possible to approach her music as we would approach our cherished performer x. This is the premise of the 52nd edition of the wonderful 33 1/3 series of books (appropriately CD-sized) by the publisher, Continuum. The purpose of the series has been for various people to write about albums which influenced their lives (without constraints on form, so rather than all of them being journalistic essays, some are fictional prose, some are non-linear ruminations inspired by said album).

Whereas others wrote from direct inspiration, Let’s Talk About Love: A Journey To The End of Taste is Carl Wilson’s unique attempt to explore the Celine Dion phenomena knowing in advance that he didn’t particularly care for her music.

What begins with curiosity (the fact that Celine shared the stage with Elliot Smith, a fave of Wilson’s, during the 1998 Academy Awards) and a faint appreciation for her success turns into a deep exploration – the kind you would see a fictional FBI agent do in a movie, you know, the guy who gets into the mind of the killer, etc. – of Celine’s life story (her disadvantaged roots in a small Quebec town), the power of her music internationally (from the Caribbean to the Middle East), as well as an astute aggregation of studies done on popular taste (which show that, yeah, sneering at Celine is kinda snobby and narrow-minded when you think about it).

Wilson’s summary of Dion’s youth and Quebec’s socio-political history, the distinction of kétaine (a sort of Quebecois kitsch), and how she is both a product and a paradox of the society in which she was raised is brilliant. It is rare to find someone (Quebecois or not) who can write about Quebec, who can encapsulate its frustrations with the rest of the country, its cultural tonality and political upheaval without either trivializing the causes and effects or isolating the province further from our understanding. The fact that Wilson can do all this in a relatively brief chapter of an already svelte-sized book is commendable.

Also of note is the book’s well researched and thought-provoking exploration of what we mean when we talk about taste and – intriguingly – whether there truly is any point in claiming that one form of art (or one artist) is intrinsically better than another. In particular the perspectives which support the (unfairly derided) trope of sentimentality, that hallmark of Celine Dion’s repertoire, are fascinating. Why, Wilson realizes, must everything be so f#cking bleak in order to be seriously respected? I found myself nodding in agreement with him and pondering the philosophical reach of the arguments.

In the end this is a personal rather than purely journalistic task for Wilson. Celine’s presence and music are weaved, sometimes touchingly, through various aspects and events within his life. However, if there is a fault it is Wilson’s penchant for using 5-dollar words; it lends an unnecessarily academic tone to the book which (thankfully infrequently) obscures an otherwise fun and fascinating read.

That quibble said, I cannot recommend this book enough.

Let’s Talk About Love: A Journey To The End of Taste, by Carl Wilson [ISBN: 978-0826427885] is available at a wonderful, friendly independent bookseller near you, or online via various impersonal vendors.

Share

Book Review: War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy

“I took a speed-reading course and read War and Peace in twenty minutes. It involves Russia.” – Woody Allen

There is a time and place for everything. The trick is having a sense for timing; the place will take care of itself, which I believe is an as-yet undiscovered Newtonian law. When I heard/read that there was a new (somewhat bally-hoo’d) translation of Tolstoy’s 500lb (226.79kg) gorilla, War and Peace, I felt it was the right time to tackle it. Santa Claus delivered and I begun my task of reading all 1,224 pages with the aim of finishing by the end of 2008. Now, normally I am not a slow reader, but because this was an exquisite hardcover edition (384cm2 in size and weighing under 3lbs) it was not something I could take with me on the streetcar to work. It became my bedside book for the entire year.

War and Peace follows the lives of several members of Moscow nobility during the Napoleonic wars of 1805 and 1812. In particular, two families are focused upon: the Rostovs and the Bolkonskys. Skirting between the two, becoming the unlikely main protagonist of the book, is Pierre Bezukhov, an awkward intellectual who inherits his ailing father’s fortune at a young age without having any sense of purpose to guide him.

The Rostovs, represented by their patriarch, the well-meaning but indebted Count Ilya Andreevich, feature the principle protagonists Nikolai and Natasha (as well as siblings Petya and Sonya – the latter an orphan). The Bolkonskys, represented by the hard-nosed military man Prince Nikolai Andreevich, feature the siblings Andrei and Marya.

Before I go any further, I bet you’re asking yourself something: “Hey, that’s a little confusing. What with both patriarchs having the name Andreevich and one of them sharing the first name with the other’s son, Nikolai. Wow – how do you keep track?”. One of the nice things about this edition (and I can only speak of this edition as I haven’t perused another) is that it has a handy list of principle characters at the beginning…which you will need for the first, oh, 200 pages.

Right, where were we. Oh, yes, Russia. Introductions are made to the principle characters in a way which seems presciently tailored to a sweeping Hollywood adaptation: colourful fêtes with dancing and ball gowns, the young Count Bezukhov at his dying father’s side, the talk of war amongst the men. It is from this point that the eldest sons – Nikolai and Andrei – ready themselves to join the military: Nikolai as a member of the corps, Andrei as an adjutant. During the build-up to the first battles, Pierre, a reluctant member of the nobility perennially in search of meaning without any family or friends to guide him walks through the lives of both the Rostov and Bolkonsky families, acting as both an outsider and confidante.

If I may take this moment to say the following: it’s a really long book, and so I’m not going to draw a quaint plot summary. If anything, the book follows the travails of the Bolkonsky and Rostov siblings – through war, personal tragedy, love, and faith. Tolstoy renders the winding lifelines of Prince Andrei, Count Rostov, Pierre, and Natasha in a knowing way. He knows that, between idealistic teenhood and adult maturity, people’s lives do not often move in diagonally vertical lines; mistakes are made, passions are erupted, and past conflicts infect our clarity. In short, Tolstoy has formed unique characters who capture the spirit of their day (and class) while also imbuing them with strengths and weaknesses which seem tangible.

It is important to note several things about W&P and Tolstoy. First and foremost, that, as a book, it is not really easy to classify. In his own words (from the Appendix): “[…] it is not a novel, still less an epic poem, still less a historical chronicle.”. Secondly, that it was first published in serial form, which may explain its girth (assuming he was paid by the word). Third, that regardless of its size, its ornate complexity as regards relationships between characters, regardless of Tolstoy interrupting the story from time to time to philosophize about the nature of war or critique the narrow-minded assumptions of historians, you will probably not read (or find) a book like this again.

There are three predominant voices in the book: Tolstoy the storyteller/character-driver, Tolstoy the military historian, and (as noted above) Tolstoy the agit-prop polemicist. I didn’t expect that latter. I thought I was getting a thick slab of story wrapped in history, but what I didn’t realize is that the wrapping is heavily spiced. In several places Tolstoy makes asides to the reader, and whether it is describing the clock-like movement of troops or the erroneous presumption of Napoleon’s genius, I felt closer to Tolstoy the writer; although some will find these sections a bit out of place, his commentaries are poetic and philosophically powerful.

Excerpt:

“As in the mechanism of a clock, so also in the mechanism of military action, the movement once given is just as irrepressible until the final results, and just as indifferently motionless are the parts of the mechanism not yet involved in the action even a moment before movement is transmitted to them. Wheels whizz on their axles, cogs catch, fast-spinning pulleys whirr, yet the neighboring wheel is as calm and immobile as though it was ready to stand for a hundred years in that immobility; but a moment comes – the lever catches, and, obedient to its movement, the wheel creaks, turning, and merges into one movement with the whole, the result and purpose of which are incomprehensible to it.” (Volume I, Part Three, Chapter XI, p. 258)

 

It is at this point where I return (briefly) to the translators of this new edition, Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. They have (thankfully) preserved the Russian-ness of the book, unlike previous translations. Character names are left as-is and not Westernized, nor are elements like religious ornaments (such as the ever-present ikons) given Westernized names. When French is spoken, it is left in French w/ English footnotes at the bottom of the page. While this may require a little more dexterity on the part of the reader, this edition also comes with a handy 20-page appendix of reference as well as historical notes.

Will one’s life be less if one doesn’t read War and Peace? Only you can answer that. I’m happy to have read it, yet by the time I’d reached the end I barely had room in my head for Tolstoy’s more essay-like commentaries on Napoleon, his so-called genius, and the philosophical symbiosis between freedom and necessity.

I will say that it is not light reading, in case this hasn’t been sufficiently communicated in this review. Truth be known, there is much (much) more I could write on this book, but this is a blog and not the NYT Book section. I do, however, recommend W&P to anyone catching up on classics, or who are curious about non-traditional styles of literature.

War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy (translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky)[ISBN-13: 978-0307266934], is available at a fine independent bookseller near you, or via any number of places on the Internet.

Share

Completion

A quick note: I’ve just finished Tolstoy’s War & Peace. I’ve been reading it for just over a year – the gi-normous, anti-public-transit hardcover version of the Pevear/Volokhonsky translation – and finally read the last of the last pages last night (if that sounds awkward, the thing has an Epilogue in two parts, each spanning several chapters, plus an Appendix by Tolstoy). I would’ve finished sooner had the second half of the Epilogue not consisted of an essay by the author on the philosophical/socio-historical implications of freedom vs. necessity in society.

So, yes, in the upcoming days, I will post a formal review. There shall be more book reviews in general in the coming months, seeing as those are the things which are responsible for 50% of this blog’s traffic. I’m assuming this percentage consists, in equal measure, of both curious readers-to-be and desperate students cramming for their essays/tests (Question 2a: “What are the themes in Hesse’s Siddhartha?”).

Share

Book Review: Unended Quest, by Karl Popper

“Pfuel was one of those theorists who so love their theory that they forget the purpose of the theory – its application in practice; in his love for theory, he hated everything practical and did not want to know about it. He was even glad of failure, because failure, proceeding from departures from theory in practice, only proved to him the correctness of his theory.”

– Leo Tolstoy, War & Peace, Vol. III, Pt. 1, Chpt. X

 

My self-guided study in philosophy brought me to Karl Popper this past summer. Yes, another 20th century Austrian (seeing as the last philosopher’s book I reviewed was Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico Philosophicus). Another logician as well, but what’s compelling about Popper is that he did not limit himself to one particular field of study (in his case, science). He was just as passionate and knowledgeable about social dynamics, art, and politics.

Popper approached the long-held observational scientific method with distrust; rather than prove a theory to be correct with empirical evidence, he took inspiration from Einstein’s openness to critique (when he released his theories on relativity) and insisted that falsification was a better method (ie. allowing one’s theory to be refuted by opening it up to the community-at-large for inspection from more angles). This, he argued, protected the world from the success of pseudoscientific “pet theories”. His inspiration for this came from his disenchantment with social and academic institutions of the day which rigidly held the works of Marx and Freud in high esteem.

Allow me to stop here and say the following: there is no way in hell I can sufficiently (to my own or anyone else’s satisfaction) and clearly lay-out the man’s theories, justifications, and *how* he came about his all in what I always hope and aim to be a succinct blog entry. It has taken me a day to revise the above paragraph and I’m still not particularly happy with it.

That said, I found Unended Quest to be a fascinating portrait of a great mind who refuses to stop questioning. His way of thinking about the underpinnings of logic and about systemic, ingrained assumptions in society is nothing short of radical. Under Popper’s means of demarcation such seemingly scientific pursuits as economics, climatology, and even dietetics are left looking like…well, not quackery, but certainly not anything approaching science.

So, yes, feet get stomped on, lines get drawn…and this brings me to what makes a great philosophical treatise: it forces you, whether you like it or not, to recalibrate your assumptions about society. Even if you have fundamental disagreements, you are forced to work hard to justify them. In other words, it’s the perfect way to give your brain a shake (perhaps even your foundations of understanding).

Unended Quest is full of ideas and strong opinions, with the socio-political history of the 20th century as its backdrop. This is a man who lived through two World Wars, whose early experiences as a social worker with neglected children made him fundamentally question the learning process, and who ended up being on a first-name basis with some of the greatest minds of the then-burdgeoning realm of quantum physics (Einstein, Schrödinger, Bohr).

That’s it. That’s all I can write without this becoming a term paper. All I can add to this is that I aim to re-read this book on a yearly basis, which is perhaps the best complement I can pay to an author.

Unended Quest (ISBN: 978-0-415-28590-2), by Karl Popper is available at an independent bookstore near you, or online at any number of vendors.

Share

Book Review: H.P. Lovecraft: Against the World, Against Life, by Michel Houellebecq

When I first noticed a series of novels in a local bookstore by a writer I’d never heard of, with a strange last name (reminiscent of Benelux origins rather than French), I proceeded to do some research – as I often do when faced with a writer I’ve discovered – to find which book I should read first. This writer was Michel Houellebecq.

I ended up picking The Elementary Particles, which I reviewed earlier this year. However, during my search I discovered – to my astonishment – that he had written a biography of H.P. Lovecraft (!)…complete with an introduction by Stephen King (!!?!). I will tell you that, even if I ended up throwing Elementary Particles across the apartment in disgust, I would still have purchased the biography. How do I put it… It’s as if Vincent Price wrote a biography of Boris Karloff, or if David Lynch wrote a biography (inevitably it would be a Faber edition, you know this) on Andrei Tarkovsky. Irresistible to this mere mortal.

In the end, though tempted on a few occasions to throw said novel across said apartment (and/or unsaid streetcar), I liked Elementary Particles. It’s a tough novel; not “tough” in a muscular, masculine sense, but rather “tough” in a mentally-I’m-squinting-because-he’s-pouring-acid-on-humanity-in-the-way-only-a-French-intellectual-can sorta way.

Back to the book at-hand. When I was a kid I read a lot of horror/mystery books, and yes, Stephen King was among them. I also recall reading H.P. Lovecraft, whose style I found to be as instantly recognizable as, say, a painting by Mondrian or Kandinsky. One only needs to read the first paragraph (or sentence) and you know it’s Lovecraft. The same instant familiarity cannot be said of many writers, whether they be pigeon-holed in lit or genre fiction. The thing is, I never really got around to reading much of Lovecraft’s work, seeing as the time at which I discovered him was a sort of indeterminate period in my teenhood, from which I have few fond memories; as often happens when you step away from darkness, you also step away from everything else that was appended to the darkness, good or bad.

Lovecraft has always been at the back of my head as a writer I wanted to read more of, so this biography served a dual purpose; not only does it have the introduction by King, but it also contains two of HPL’s “great texts” (as Houellebecq refers to them, rightly so), The Call of Cthulhu and The Whisperer in Darkness.

Indeed, King’s introduction is as predictably King-like as one familiar with his work would expect: engaging, funny, poignantly personable. And yet, when you stand back, you realise he probably just read the first twenty pages of the biography and, as they say, phoned it in. The thing is, I’ll take an introduction that’s phoned-in as long as it is two things: short and good. An introduction to a book, after all, is a like an opening-act at a rock concert; as long as their instruments are tuned and they keep an eye on the clock, I’ll clap.

The biography itself is not a traditional (read: dry, linear, boring, historicist) one. One must first understand, as I had an inkling of going in, that H.P. Lovecraft wasn’t a happy man. Nor was he likely to win a Humanitas Award for his insights into the enriching possibilities of mankind’s potential. And so, with his biography being written by Houellebecq – arguably a misanthropist’s misanthropist – the reader will have a unique opportunity: to see darkness filtered through another, somewhat sympathetic darkness.

Houellebecq does a very good job of tapping the man who was Lovecraft – his deep prejudices, his emotional and intellectual isolation from society – as well as postulating how the events of his life influenced the outcome of his work without the current populist habit of divining what isn’t known for sake of milking controversy. Lovecraft was a man who based much of what he wrote on dreams, whose one and only relationship with a woman ended with financial destitution and heartbreak. His racism leaked into the grim depths of his “weird tales” in the form of the onlooking “savages” and “half-bloods” who – particularly in The Call of Cthulhu – seemed to aid and abet the ancient evil lurking among us. Not a pretty picture in retrospect. There is also some interest in how Houellebecq calls to attention HPL’s habit of never mentioning two things in all his work: sex and finances.

And yet, while we may not wish to embrace Lovecraft the man, one cannot dismiss Lovecraft the writer. In reading The Whisperer in Darkness, arguably his masterpiece, one beholds a very seminal kind of horror; a slow, creeping alien night descending upon a remote Vermont farmhouse, revealed mostly through correspondence with the narrator, a professor of literature in Massachusetts. There is a poetry in Lovecraft’s prose, and by that I mean the ability to articulate flourished description with condensed, exacting verbiage. It is for this reason that HPL was (and is) such a seminal literary influence, not just in so-called genre circles.

I would not say Against the World, Against Life is essential reading. In fact, if you were to just read The Whisperer in Darkness or any of his other “great texts” you would be well served. However, there’s something alluring about having the life of such a tortured soul (remember that Lovecraft never lived to know his fame and fortune) rendered by someone so well-placed to plumb his depths. I suppose the question I would ask is: to what end? In this, I would say the book is not a great success, but there are nuggets of great interest for those drawn to both H.P. Lovecraft and Houellebecq alike.

H.P. Lovecraft: Against The World, Against Life, by Michel Houellebecq (ISBN:1932416188) is available at an independent bookstore near you, or online at any number of vendors.

Share