2024 reads, 24/22:

“Man’s greatest suffering is born of mistreatment by his fellow man.”

Notes of a Crocodile is a coming-of-age novel published in 1994 by Taiwanese author Qiu Miaojin. Having gained a cult following (especially in recent years thanks to this new translation by Bonnie Huie), this book follows the unnamed lesbian narrator, nicknamed Lazi, during her college years in 1980s Taipei. I bring up Lazi’s sexual orientation because Notes of a Crocodile covers themes of LGBT+ struggles, along with mental health, friendship, chosen families, and growing up in an era where it seems everything and everyone is against you.

“I love my own kind–womankind. From the moment my consciousness of love was born, there was no hope of cure. And those four words–no hope of cure–encapsulate my state of suffering to this day.”

Reading this book feels like opening someone’s diary—not as an intrusion but as an invitation from Lazi herself (even writing in the second person point of view at times). Because of this, I felt like an insider, and at times, I even felt like a character she was writing letters to. Qiu writes her characters beautifully – not only are they fleshed out, but the relationships between them feel genuine (even if uncomfortable at times).

“Those wrenching eyes, which could lift up the entire skeleton of my being. How I longed for myself to be subsumed into the ocean of her eyes. How the desire, once awakened, would come to scald me at every turn.”

Conversely, it also feels like I don't know these characters at all. Their experiences are so far removed from my own: a different country, a different time, a different sexual orientation. I’m sure there were references, themes, and motifs I missed out on. But I guess that's why we read, right? To gain insight into different experiences that transcend time and space.

I want to keep this review fairly short because I feel so far out of my depth talking about the symbolism, and I won’t pretend to comprehend what the LGBT+ community goes through; yet I loved this book so much. I really would recommend just reading it and getting a feel for the words Qiu paints on the page. If it interests you, I also highly recommend checking out some of the reviews/analyses I’ve linked below that I’ve found helpful in appreciating her work. Qiu is putting her all into this book, which hit even harder when I found out this novel gained recognition posthumously. I’m not exaggerating when I say this may be one of the most important books I’ve read this year.

“The two of us walked down the center of a deserted road. With all human commotion at a standstill, we heard the scattered sounds of nature, the passing cry of a bird overhead. Soaked from head to toe, we found our way to the lush greenery of Wenzhou Street. The trees that lined the street appeared to have been reborn in shades of emerald. No need to be silent. Are you sinking into some corner of your melancholy? In my heart, I called out to you.”

Further Reading:

An Interview with Bonnie Huie, Translator (Neocha)

Consider the Crocodile: Qiu Miaojin’s Lesbian Bestiary (Los Angeles Review of Books)

“Notes of a Crocodile” by Qiu Miaojin (Asian Review of Books)

#readingyear2024 #physicallyowned #nyrb

2024 reads, 21/22:

“Does it trouble me to write so insubstantially, with air on air? Well--my words will be as enduring as anything my father wrote, or Shakespeare wrote, or Beethoven wrote, or Darwin wrote. It turns out that they all wrote with air on air.”

Whether through the plot or the writing style, Vonnegut always plays with the concept of time in his novels. In almost every book I’ve read of his, it felt like his idea of “time” was stretched and distorted to his liking, adhering only to his rules. Galapagos is no different.

Although one of Vonnegut’s later works, Galapagos is still incredibly satirical, humorous, and sarcastic. Vonnegut takes on human evolution, survival of the fittest, and the failings of the human brain, from the perspective of an evolved human one million years in the future. This narrator consistently reiterates how the human brain is too big, and as a species, we have become too complex as we generate wars, famines, and any other horsemen of the apocalypse.

“Why so many of us knocked us major chunks of our brains with alcohol from time to time remains an interesting mystery. It may be that we were trying to give evolution a shove in the right direction - in the direction of smaller brains.”

However, the idea of human evolution is such a big one to me, and unfortunately it felt like his satire only brushed the surface of it. Through small-scale vignettes, connected by a single plot line, a cast of characters about to embark on the Nature Cruise of the Century become the only hope for humanity continuing as a species – but I felt that too much time was spent on the backstories of these characters (important, no doubt) rather than how they start anew. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but it felt like a bit of a mismatch with the overarching implications of the human race starting over.

But don’t take my review to be a dislike of this book – if it sounds interesting to you, you should pick it up. Three stars, to me, is a simple “I liked it” with no real sway in either direction. And remember, Vonnegut is like New Jersey pizza: it’s always going to be at least pretty good.

“Some automatic device clicked in her big brain, and her knees felt weak, and there was a chilly feeling in her stomach. She was in love with this man. They don't make memories like that anymore.”

#readingyear2024 #scifi #humor #physicallyowned #environment

2024 reads, 17/22

“Snow-Balls have flown their Arcs, starr'd the Sides of Outbuildings, as of Cousins, carried Hats away into the brisk Wind off Delaware,-- the Sleds are brought in and their Runners carefully dried and greased, shoes deposited in the back Hall, a stocking'd-foot Descent made upon the great Kitchen, in a purposeful Dither since Morning, punctuated by the ringing Lids of Boilers and Stewing-Pots, fragrant with Pie-Spices, peel'd Fruits, Suet, heated Sugar,-- the Children, having all upon the Fly, among rhythmic slaps of Batter and Spoon, coax'd and stolen what they might, proceed, as upon each afternoon all this snowy December, to a comfortable Room at the rear of the House, years since given over to their carefree Assaults.”

The textual equivalent of a cinematic long take, the first sentence of Mason & Dixon sets the stage of the story into which you are about to embark. On a cold December evening in 1786, Reverend Wicks Cherrycoke sits down with the children of his family and commences an epic retelling of the lives of astronomer Charles Mason and surveyor Jeremiah Dixon. Already, we’ve got two levels of narrative: Pynchon, the author, is relaying to us the Reverend’s retelling of the history of Mason and Dixon, and on a greater level, the birth of America. It’s a fitting book to finish this past Independence Day weekend.

What is History?

Within the Reverend’s retelling, however, he is noticeably absent from most of the events with Mason and Dixon, only crossing paths with them a few select times when they are not travelling together in America. So, how do we know that the Reverend is relaying an exact story, down to the exact dialogue? How do we know that Pynchon is communicating the Reverend’s exact story? The narrative framing of M&D brings us to the first major theme: what is history, who tells it, and how we can trust what we learn about the truth of America’s past?

“History is hir'd, or coerc'd, only in Interests that must ever prove base. She is too innocent, to be left within the reach of anyone in Power,— who need but touch her, and all her Credit is in the instant vanish'd, as if it had never been.”

While M&D is rife with accurate historical fiction, Pynchon also fills this book with anachronistic references to Star Trek, Doctor Who (“the stagecoach is bigger on the inside than the outside!”), and other future events. Maybe it’s all just fun for us readers of the modern era, but on a deeper level, is Pynchon saying that history is continuously doomed to repeat itself?

For now, let’s put aside the fact that history is interpreted and retold, possibly by those with an agenda. What happens in M&D? Why should we believe what the Reverend (or Pynchon) tells us?

Brutality Uncheck’d

In the first section of the book, Latitudes and Departures, Mason and Dixon stop at Cape Town, South Africa on their way to observe the Transit of Venus. Here, they are horrified to see how the Dutch colony treats their slaves, raising the question early on: what happens when colonialists are given unrestricted power, out of sight from the laws that govern them? I’m sure you can tell where I’m going with this, as it’s in the middle section, America, we see this lawlessness continue as Mason and Dixon set sail toward America in 1763.

“The long watchfulness, listening to the Brush. Ev'ry mis'rable last Leaf. The Darkness implacable. When you gentlemen come to stand at the Boundary between the Settl'd and the Unpossess'd, just about to enter the Deep Woods, you will recognize the Sensation”

Upon reflection, I really appreciated this first section: not just for foreshadowing the colonialist regimes in early America, but also getting to know our main characters before traveling west. To be honest, their personalities and dialogue reminded me of Crowley and Aziraphale from Good Omens: Mason, ever so depressive and gothic, recovering from the death of his wife, while Dixon being wide-eyed and optimistic, happy to work with Mason and go on this journey together.

Ghosts of America’s Past

After smoking a joint with Colonel George Washington, and drinking some ale with Ben Franklin, our two protagonists set off westward from Philadelphia (“a Heavenly city and crowded niche of Hell”) to create the boundary that today defines the border between Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Delaware.

“They saw Brutality enough, at the Cape of Good Hope. They can no better understand it now, than then. Something is eluding them. Whites in both places are become the very Savages of their own worst Dreams, far out of Measure to any Provocation.”

The colonialist tendencies mentioned above noticeably continue in this section, as they arrive just after the Paxton Massacre. Like the Herero genocide in V. and Gravity’s Rainbow, it makes for uncomfortable reading, even if our main characters aren’t actively involved in these travesties. When Dixon wonders (absentmindedly) to a group of Native Americans if they are in any danger in America, a Mohawk chief responds: “‘Yes of course you are in danger. Your Heart beats? You live here?’ gesturing all ‘round. ‘Danger in every moment.’”

Throughout the novel, there’s also this constant examination of man-made and natural borders, and more importantly, the consequences as to when these artificial boundaries are imposed in our natural world; the biggest example of course is the Mason-Dixon line itself. This border separated the free northern states from the southern slave states, with consequences for years to come. M&D uses this example among others to ask us about the consequences as humans try to fight against the “natural order” of things, and I’m reminded of the concept of “desire paths,” where again, imposed boundaries are no match for human nature — this theme throughout the book was one of my favorites to think about.

“Mason groans. ‘Shall wise Doctors one day write History's assessment of the Good resulting from this Line, vis-à-vis the not-so-good? I wonder which List will be longer.’”

Mystical Beings of Control

Much like history herself, this book is veiled in a fog of uncertainty, the narrative always slightly out of focus. And with this, we get to the theme that pervades throughout all of Pynchon’s work: control. But in an age where the highest form of technology is represented by John Harrison’s marine chronometer and a mechanical digesting duck , the “shadowy technocratic forces” that I’m used to seeing in Pynchon’s other books must resort to a more primitive means of control – and what was more controlling at the time than religion?

“If Chimes could whisper, if Melodies could pass away, and their Souls wander the Earth...if Ghosts danced at Ghost Ridottoes, 'twould require such Musick, Sentiment ever held back, ever at the Edge of breaking forth, in Fragments, as Glass breaks.”

These sinister back-room societies emerge from the shadows just enough to steer our heroes under the guise of “free will,” withholding a kind of necessary gnosis from them. And it’s not just the Catholic church that has the invisible hand: the mystic arts play their own key role, as ley lines pervade their voyage, Jesuits control their messages, and forest creatures such as golems and fairies all surround our two characters. As they explore caverns, temples, and mountains, I could imagine a soundtrack of Gregorian chants in the background – or even Enya.

Religious allusions pervade their entire quest throughout America, as their journey is compared to the Stations of the Cross – some scholars even suggest that their daily morning cup of coffee is one of the blessed sacraments. These allusions had me doing a deep dive into religious mysticism, the occult, and other fantastical beings. Some are harmless, such as the TARDIS-like stagecoach or ghastly visits from Mason’s deceased wife. But remember when we put aside the fact that history is told to us through someone else’s rose-colored lens? M&D leads me to believe that these theocratic forces were the ones ultimately controlling not just Mason and Dixon, but steering America down the wrong path from the very beginning.

“Hell, beneath our feet, bounded,— Heaven, above our pates, unbounded. Hell a collapsing Sphere, Heaven an expanding one. The enclosure of Punishment, the release of Salvation. Sin leading us as naturally to Hell and Compression, as doth Grace to Heaven, and Rarefaction.”

Where is She Now?

The dynamic duo returns to England in the third section of the book, Last Transit. This section is more of an epilogue, filled with hypnagogic expository and much less “action” overall, which I think works really well after reading 700 pages of misadventures. It’s in this section that the true friendship of Mason and Dixon blooms, something that you realize was growing the whole time – I can see why people say that Pynchon’s later works showed a lot of character development, as this last section was heartening and bittersweet at the same time.

If you are interested in reading this one, know that M&D is written in 18th century style English (as you've probably surmised from the quotes above), even though it was published in 1997. This took some adjusting when I started reading, but it really helps with immersion, making you feel like you’re reading an actual primary source re: the travels of the Reverend, Mason, and Dixon. And even though M&D is set in the 1700s, it is still incredibly relevant centuries later. Are there still invisible hands at play, pulling our strings under the guise of free will? Are there still colonialist tendencies, patriarchal hierarchies, and systemic racism? I'll let you answer that yourself.

“Does Britannia, when she sleeps, dream? Is America her dream?— in which all that cannot pass in the metropolitan Wakefulness is allow'd Expression away in the restless Slumber of these Provinces, and on West-ward, wherever 'tis not yet mapp'd, nor written down, nor ever, by the majority of Mankind, seen,— serving as a very Rubbish-Tip for subjunctive Hopes, for all that may yet be true,— Earthly Paradise, Fountain of Youth, Realms of Prester John, Christ's Kingdom, ever behind the sunset, safe till the next Territory to the West be seen and recorded, measur'd and tied in, back into the Net-Work of Points already known, that slowly triangulates its Way into the Continent, changing all from subjunctive to declarative, reducing Possibilities to Simplicities that serve the ends of Governments,— winning away from the realm of the Sacred, its Borderlands one by one, and assuming them unto the bare mortal World that is our home, and our Despair.”

#readingyear2024 #american #history #postmodern #physicallyowned #pynchon

2024 reads, 14/22

On Haiku is a collection of previously written essays by Hiroaki Sato on the art and history of haiku. Although not straightforward nonfiction, the organization of these essays brings about a naturally flowing and cohesive text on one of the most famous and down-to-earth poetic forms.

“In simplest terms, haikai [the predecessor of haiku] meant rejection of poetic diction and adoption of language in daily use. Orthodox court poetry did not tolerate references to quotidian, down-to-earth things like shiru, "soup," and namasu, "fish salad," so incorporating daily elements was haikai.”

This is probably more of an “intermediate” text on Haiku… if such a thing even exists. There is really no introductory chapter or definitions to ground you as you read, and it feels like Sato assumes you are somewhat familiar with haiku masters, e.g., Bashō, Issa, and Shiki. Furthermore, he drops a lot of Eastern history and philosophy which can be daunting (especially as someone with a limited education on this topic). But nowhere does Sato come off as a know-it-all, in fact his tone is very conversational and light – albeit opinionated – as he shares his knowledge.

Sato not only analyzes haiku, renga, and haibun (among other Japanese literary forms), but discusses the historical and societal context in which they were written. This connection of haiku to other facets of Japanese culture enhances haiku analysis, such as in the essay Issa and Hokusai. Here, Sato compares haiku poet Issa to ukiyo-e artist Hokusai, creator of the collection Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji (which contains the famous painting The Great Wave off Kanagawa). Both had a similar upbringing, and used that to exaggerate different perspectives in their work.

“O snail Climb Mount Fuji But slowly, slowly!”

“Old pond — frogs jumped in — sound of water”

“A lonely pond in age - old stillness sleeps . . . Apart, unstirred by sound or motion . . . till Suddenly into it a lithe frog leaps.”

“Into the calm old pond A frog plunged — then the splash.”

“Breaking the silence Of an ancient pond, A frog jumped into water — A deep resonance.”

“An old pond A frog jumping Sound of water”

How do five different translations come from the same written Japanese language? It’s really interesting stuff, and goes to show how translation between languages is itself an art.

Not only is this a collection of essays worth coming back to, but On Haiku is also a great reference book – not only are there a glossary of terms and a list of important people at the end, but each essay contains a wealth of information for further reading. Definitely worth reading if you are interested at all in haiku, or Japanese literature/history.

#readingyear2024 #poetry #history #physicallyowned

2024 reads, 12/22

“I can remember thinking that war was so horrible that, at last, thank goodness, nobody could ever be fooled by romantic pictures and fiction and history into marching to war again. Nowadays, of course, you can buy a machine gun with a plastic bayonet for your little kid at the nearest toy boutique.”

Been a bit behind on reviews (and reading in general), but I think I’m starting to get back on track. It’s been a busy few months! Starting up again with Vonnegut’s Bluebeard, I actually finished this back in April, but never got around to writing up.

Our main character is (fictional) abstract expressionist painter Rabo Karabekian, and Bluebeard is his autobiography. His parents are survivors of the Armenian genocide, and after moving to America, he serves in WWII and loses an eye. So already, Karabekian has this layered trauma of not just his own experiences in combat, but his inherited survivor’s guilt; he thus says, “everybody who is alive is a survivor, and everybody who is dead isn’t,” and because of this, “everybody alive must have the Survivor’s Syndrome.”

Having lived through the bombing of Dresden as a prisoner of war, Vonnegut is no stranger to violence. These themes of post-war trauma in America permeate through all his novels (that I’ve read so far) in some way, shape, or form; Bluebeard is no different. But another major theme not often seen in Vonnegut’s other works is the morality and subjectivity of art.

Circe Berman, a writer who stays with Karabekian (and the one who encouraged him to write his autobiography in the first place), is a perfect foil for him. She publishes young adult fiction under the pseudonym “Polly Madison” and is constantly belittled by Karabekian. She, in turn, responds that her works are being read all over the world, while the paintings of the abstract expressionists collect dust. Does art need to have a message, or meaning? Does art need a legacy, or can it only have utility in certain moments?

I believe that Karabekian is somewhat modelled after Vonnegut himself; Karabekian is an extremely talented artist, yet chooses to create these abstract paintings in lieu of realistic or “proper” paintings à la Monet or da Vinci, in the same way Vonnegut chooses to use his skills of language and humor to write these absurd sci-fi novels. It may not be a one-to-one analogy, but it can get a little meta. This is all, of course, superbly concluded by the potato barn reveal towards the end (no spoilers!).

“Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?”

Though this isn’t one of Vonnegut’s most famous books, Bluebeard raises some interesting questions about what it means to be an artist, and human, in a postwar, postmodern world.

#readingyear2024 #physicallyowned #postmodern

2024 reads, 7/22

“The philosopher’s task is neither to reduce the mysterious to a neat set of concepts nor to gaze at it in awed silence. It is to follow the first phenomenological imperative: to go to the things themselves in order to describe them, attempting ‘rigorously to put into words what is not ordinarily put into words, what is sometimes considered inexpressible’.”

In At the Existentialist Café, Bakewell presents a very digestible recount of the events surrounding Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, and the lives of other philosophers in the twentieth century. The first few chapters are dedicated to Husserl and Heidegger, the phenomenologists who paved the way for the existentialists. The chapters then follow a pseudo-chronological order, exploring other philosophers such as Camus, Merleau-Ponty, and Arendt, although mostly in the context of Sartre and Beauvoir’s lives.

I read this book mostly to get the historical context surrounding Camus and Sartre, after reading some of their works. I still want to read a biography solely focused on Camus, but this book was great at providing a much larger picture of philosophy at the time, and how it still influences humanity into the twenty-first century. While a bit dry at times, especially in some of the early chapters, Bakewell expertly breaks down the dense writings of each philosopher so that us non-philosophers can understand.

“Sartre argues that freedom terrifies us, yet we cannot escape it, because we are it.”

If you are interested in this book, I would recommend first reading The Stranger and The Myth of Sisyphus by Camus, and Nausea by Sartre – these books are “spoiled” (depending how you define the word) and analyzed by Bakewell, and her discussion felt more “complete” having already read some of these works.

“The way to live is to throw ourselves, not into faith, but into our own lives, conducting them in affirmation of every moment, exactly as it is, without wishing that anything was different, and without harbouring peevish resentment against others or against our fate.”

#readingyear2024 #bio #history #philosophy #physicallyowned