Emotionally stunted males feature prominently in Julian Barnes's fiction. The narrator/protagonist in this story is such a passive creature that one iEmotionally stunted males feature prominently in Julian Barnes's fiction. The narrator/protagonist in this story is such a passive creature that one is hard put to give a damn what happens to him. He barely seems to care; the author doesn't seem to either, so why should the reader? As one follows his ruminations on his emotionally bankrupt life, the obvious parallel is to "The Remains of the Day". Except that Ishiguro's story unfolds with grace and subtlety, and engages the reader's sympathy. Something that Barnes fails utterly to do. I gave it a second star, because even in the service of an emotionally dead story like this one, Barnes's writing is always well above average. But I hated every page of this annoying book....more
This was embarrassingly bad, and the news that it has met with broad critical acclaim is infinitely depressing. Take two "damaged" stick figures, defiThis was embarrassingly bad, and the news that it has met with broad critical acclaim is infinitely depressing. Take two "damaged" stick figures, define each only in terms of their 'abnormality', surround them with the standard tableau of distant parents, cruel classmates. Make liberal use of facile, offensive stereotypes, for instance that the only conceivable career option for the emotionally retarded male basket case is to become a mathematician. Because this will allow you to sprinkle in some mumbo-jumbo about prime numbers which will then be taken for some kind of hugely deep meaningful symbolism.
Really, people? This write-by-numbers dreck actually appeals to you? Or did you just give it stars because the author is young and cute? That, at least, I could understand.
This book is formulaic pretentious drivel. My actual rating is closer to zero stars....more
The bookshelves constitute the review. Though I paid only $2.98 for this smug little nugget of crap, I'm tempted to sue the estate of Muriel Spark jusThe bookshelves constitute the review. Though I paid only $2.98 for this smug little nugget of crap, I'm tempted to sue the estate of Muriel Spark just on principle. The characters don't even rise to the level of caricature; they are stick figures that Dame Muriel pushes around her chessboard for a while. Until she can't be bothered anymore. The mystery is why she bothered at all. Surely she didn't need the money, and why would she choose to have this piece of mincingly clever dreck be her last "novel"?
I appear to be in a minority of one on this book. So be it. But this is really nothing more than a case of a talented author phoning it in. Muriel Spark's conversion to Catholicism and its effect on her writing are well documented. Somewhere during that conversion process she should have learned the meaning of shame. Because this is a book to be ashamed of.
I could allow my righteous indignation to sputter on for several more paragraphs, but I think I've made my point. There is nothing in this book that merits your attention. ...more
This piece of pig manure is a good illustration of the dangers of following recommendations found on amazon.com. Described as a "comic novel" set in mThis piece of pig manure is a good illustration of the dangers of following recommendations found on amazon.com. Described as a "comic novel" set in my homeland, it has about as much wit as a lobotomized goldfish and lards on the blarney factor to nauseating excess. Other defects include lack of a discernible plot, grievously bloviated prose, and characters that don't even achieve the status of caricature. The following paragraph exemplifies its glaring inanity:
Remember the day he saved the four sons of Maggie Kerwin and the two sons of Sally Fitzgibbon, with their boat going down in the storm sent from the north. ... Lost in the waves and found and lost again, with the mountains falling right on top of him. Remember the seething water hissing at his valor, raging that he should defy them all -- the waves, the rocks, and all the nibbling fishes below. This was the day he dived down and brought up the four sons of Maggie Kerwin and the two sons of Sally Fitzgibbon, and only him still able to holler. And remember the rescue of Hanrahan's goat with the barn burning, and Kate's cat plucked from the high branches of the oak, and his clothes ripped open for all to see. Forget that his words were made of the night air and that he had the gift of transport like none other before him or since, that his closed eyes and open mouth were the surrender of all this world.... Remember what's there to remember and forget what's there to be forgot.
Kitty's face had turned from flesh to stone.
And so on, regrettably, until the reader throws up in his own mouth at the unmitigated dreadfulness of it all.
This style of writing might reasonably be termed "Blarney quaint". In my experience, most native Irish people find it ridiculous, borderline offensive, and incredibly annoying, while a surprisingly high proportion of non-Irish readers react positively (the word "charming" is often invoked).
This book was a "Washington Post Book World Best Book of 2008", and is the first volume in a so-called "pig trilogy". The mind actively boggles.
..... and all the nibbling fishes below. dear god....more
This is an odd book, and not a very good one. As someone with over 120 books on my "words-and-language" shelf, I'm a confirmed language geek. Even theThis is an odd book, and not a very good one. As someone with over 120 books on my "words-and-language" shelf, I'm a confirmed language geek. Even the remotest byways of language have the potential to fascinate me. Though my interest in language is purely amateur, it is of long standing. (When I was learning Spanish a couple of years ago, my classmates were completely spooked by my enthusiasm for the subjunctive, which they deemed "unnatural".) The point is, where books about words and language are concerned, my bar is pretty low. I'm predisposed to like anything written by someone who is enthusiastic about language, generally willing to give the benefit of the doubt.
So a language book has to suck big time for me not to like it. Secret Language manages this by fitting squarely in the category of total pointlessness. For the life of me I can't figure out why this book was written, or what the author was trying to get across. The title seems to promise a unifying theme; I'm sure Barry Blake hoped for something more coherent than this dog's breakfast of a book.
There are two main problems. First, the author's inclusion criteria are far too broad. Under the rubric of "secret language" he drags in so many different topics that the result is an incoherent blur. Major chapter headings include:
1. From Anagrams to Cryptic Crosswords 2. Talking in Riddles 3. Ciphers and Codes 4. Biblical Secrets* 5. Words of Power 6. Words to Avoid 7. Jargon, Slang, Argot & Secret Languages 8. The Everyday Oblique 9. Elusive Allusions
This doesn't look too bad, but there's less to it than meets the eye. The book runs to about 300 pages, so you might reasonably ask
"How will Barry Blake manage to tell us something coherent and interesting about so many subjects in such a short book?"
The answer is simple. He doesn't. He flits from one topic to the next, like a slightly deranged hummingbird on speed, with about as much impact. Any risk of saying anything of substance is minimized by darting rapidly from one topic to the next. The remarks that do make it in are, with rare exceptions, astonishingly banal. Here, for instance, is what Barry has to say about internet argot:
The invention of the internet has given rise to an extensive argot among those communicating by email, instant messaging, and other social media. There are a number of rebus-type substitutions for syllables such as B4 'before', C 'see', M8 'mate', U 'you', abbreviations such as LOL 'laughing out loud', and emoticons such as :-) for 'smile' and :-( for 'sad' (if they are not transparent, turn them 90 degrees clockwise). Similar abbreviations are used in texting by mobile phone.
Pretty edifying stuff, eh? There's a similar paragraph telling us how internet spammers like to incorporate deliberate misspellings in words like Ciali$ or V1agra to thwart email spam filters, whose inclusion I'll spare you, because the boredom in transcribing it might actually be lethal.
The basic problem is that most of the book is like this - the author has very little to say that's original, his writing style makes for heavy sledding, and whatever enthusiasm he might feel for his subject isn't evident to the reader. I found the final chapter, "Elusive Allusions", in which the author explains such difficult linguistic conundrums as the reason Ah-nold is referred to as the "Governator" and the origins of phrases like "Achilles heel" and "Trojan horse", particularly irritating.
*: The inclusion of a chapter devoted to such rubbish as "bible codes" and the like is dispiriting. The "History" channel has a lot to answer for....more
I've read somewhere that the main thing a novelist needs to accomplish in the first 10% of a story is to convince the reader to keep reading. John BanI've read somewhere that the main thing a novelist needs to accomplish in the first 10% of a story is to convince the reader to keep reading. John Banville obviously does not feel bound by this advice. Hell, no, with a kind of oblivious arrogance that might almost be admirable, if it weren't so irritating, he launches this grotesquely overwritten galley of pretentious claptrap, and let the reader be damned!
The domineering patriarch lies dying in the upper chamber. Assorted members of the family he's mistreated over the years are fluttering around ineffectively. Also fluttering around is the omniscient narrator to beat all omniscient narrators, Hermes, whose pappy Zeus may or may not be ravishing the in-laws, while Pan ......
Oh, never mind. Who can be bothered? Reading the reviews of other goodreaders, I notice that there is a certain type of reader that Banfield spurs on to a kind of semi-ecstatic, hagiographic logorrhea. I suggest you read their reviews, which are among the funniest things I've read in months.
Life is too short. I gave it 60 pages. That's enough.
Upon winning the Booker Prize in 2005, John Banville commented that "it was nice to see a work of art win.... There are plenty of other rewards for middle-brow fiction. There should be one decent prize for real books."
This pretentious git* is president of his own fan club. The fact that I think his writing is ridiculous bloviation aspiring to be high culture won't worry him a bit. But don't say you weren't warned.
*: the fact that he's a countryman of mine seems to make it worse, somehow....more
This is the second collection of "short stories" by Lydia Davis that I've tried, and it will be my last. The other collection, "Samuel Johnson is IndiThis is the second collection of "short stories" by Lydia Davis that I've tried, and it will be my last. The other collection, "Samuel Johnson is Indignant" had enough flashes of genuine wit to make it almost tolerable, despite Ms Davis's predilection for microscopically short "stories" (sometimes no more than a sentence long) and a preternaturally detached prose style. The kind of writing that garners raves from the usual suspects - "The best prose stylist in America" (Rick Moody), "one of most precise and economical writers we have" (Dave Eggers), "few writers now working make the words on the page matter more" (Jonathan Franzen).
Well, allow me to differ, Herr Franzen. "Break it Down" is as dismal a collection of bleak, emotionally constipated, tales of misery as I've had the misfortune to read in the last ten years. And let's be clear, Ms Davis's trademarks - "dexterity, brevity, understatement" - are not necessarily virtues. Not when they lead to passages like these, which are ubiquitous
"She stands over a fish, thinking about certain irrevocable mistakes she has made today" "My husband is married to a different woman now, shorter than I am, about five feet tall, solidly built. Next to her I feel bony and awkward .." "I moved into the city just before Christmas. I was alone, and this was a new thing for me. Where had my husband gone? He was living in a small room across the river, in a district of warehouses." "He said there were things about me that he hadn't liked from the very beginning." "Though everyone wishes it would not happen, and though it would be far better if it did not happen, it does sometimes happen that a second daughter is born and there are two sisters. Of course any daughter, crying in the hour of her birth, is only a failure, and is greeted with a heavy heart by her father.." "She can't say to herself that it is really over, even though anyone else would say it was over, since he has moved to another city, hasn't been in touch with her in more than a year, and is married to another woman." "The fact that he does not tell me the truth all the time makes me not sure of his truth at certain times, and then I work to figure out for myself if what he is telling me is the truth or not, and sometimes i can figure out that it's not the truth and sometimes I don't know and never know, and sometimes just because...."
Oh Christ, why don't I just slit my fucking wrists right now? It would surely beat reading this kind of drivel. At a guess, at least half of the 34 'stories' in this book consist of a 3rd person or 1st person narrative, centring on a clinically depressed doormat of a woman either in, or trying to recover from, a toxic relationship with a man who psychologically abuses here. None of these women has a name - they are all just "she". And Davis writes about them with a detachment that borders on the clinical.
In contrast to Jonathan Franzen, I can't imagine how a writer could make the words on the page matter less. The dreary 'stories' in this volume adhere to the dismal prevailing conventions of the late 1980s - tales of narcissistic or bipolar protagonists in which nothing much ever happens, served up in a kind of minimalist prose with that knowing ironic detachment. The kind of tripe that drives me up the wall, in other words.
(on edit, after posting this review: I notice that many of my good friends here on GR don't share my opinion - well, bring it on, Jessicas!)
I just found out that she was at one time married to Paul Auster. Why am I not surprised? ...more
This is another one for the "What were they thinking?!?" shelf. Doubly so, in fact. It's not just another lapse by the Booker selection committee, whoThis is another one for the "What were they thinking?!?" shelf. Doubly so, in fact. It's not just another lapse by the Booker selection committee, whose judgements we already know to take with a large grain of salt. But to be let down so abominably by Dame Iris, someone we know is capable of writing interestingly, though sometimes at the expense of prolixity. Regrettably, in "The Sea, The Sea" we see her giving free rein to her multiple vices, with little of the compensatory acuity that is there in some of her earlier books.
Poor writing choices all around. Or at least none that favors the hapless reader. So we are treated to the first person narrative of a monomaniacal narcissist. One who is delusional (sea-serpents haunt him when he swims) and who seems intent on tormenting us with the weird details of every bizarre meal he fixes for himself in his crumbling 'squalid to a degree only an English person would tolerate' surroundings. This kind of thing:
"Felt a little depressed but was cheered up by supper: spaghetti with a little butter and dried basil. (Basil is of course the king of herbs.) Then spring cabbage cooked slowly with dill. Boiled onions served with bran, herbs, soya oil and tomatoes, with one egg beaten in. With these a slice or two of cold tinned corned beef. (Meat is really just an excuse for eating vegetables.) I drank a bottle of retsina in honour of the undeserving rope."
i don't know about you, but a few paragraphs of this kind of drivel brings me to the end of my rope. Even if I could forgive Dame Iris and her editors for the astonishingly boring catalog of the dietary whims of a narcissist, those parenthetical comments ("basil is of course ...) are quite simply unpardonable.
Forty pages in. Not another character in sight? Righty-ho, then! Time to bale. Or bail.
In the words of a more talented reviewer than I: "This is not a book to be put aside lightly. It should be thrust aside with great force. "
In some hideous corner of the library of the damned, a doomed subcommittee is being forced to weigh the question: "The sea, The sea" represents a more shameless crime against innocent readers than "The infinities"; discuss.
Iris, Iris, Iris.... How the mighty are fallen....more
Who knew jellyfish could write? I'd use the word "emasculated" to describe the author of this pathetic "short history of Chile" if it weren't obvious Who knew jellyfish could write? I'd use the word "emasculated" to describe the author of this pathetic "short history of Chile" if it weren't obvious that to do so would be a grievous inaccuracy. Sergio Villalobos Rivera never had cojones to begin with. Hell, on the evidence, SVR doesn't even have a backbone. Which may warrant the creation of a new bookshelf in my collection - one for "written by invertebrates".
OK, OK. Let me back up. All I was looking for was a "brief history of Chile", as the title of this execrable "book" promised. Enough to get me oriented, so that I wouldn't feel like a complete tourist-dickhead during my weeks here in the hellhole that is Santiago. Enough to distinguish Ambrosio O' Higgins from his progeny, Bernardo. And maybe to figure out just why the latter is known all about town as "El libertador", even to the extent of having Santiago's main drag named after him. (Understanding why and when the O' Higginses left Ireland would have been lagniappe, as would any available information about Viscount Mackenna, after whom the street where my school is located is named).
Now, believe me, I understand completely that your average goodreads member probably gives a flying Wallenda about the history of Chile. (Though if you were a U.S. citizen of voting age back in 1973, you might want to ask yourself if such insouciance is wholly justifiable, know what I'm saying?). But please bear with me here. If I don't get some of the incensitude that this "book" has provoked off my chest, I may just blow a gasket. And I shudder to think what Kaiser Permanente's coverage of gasket replacement in a Latin American capital might be.
What's so appalling about this book? Well, everything, really. Here's a short list:
* Despite its 200-page length, it's virtually devoid of information. There's a plethora of generic, meaningless, illustrations which help to take up space, but add nothing whatsoever. Examples: page 78, woodcuts of "mujeres chilenas" in quasi-national garb; page 73, drawing of generic pirate ships; page 66, peasants using wooden ploughs; page 67, a generic grain mill; page 117, drawing of a gentleman in the costume of the era; page 124 drawing of an impoverished peasant; page 114, a ball in the governor's palace; page 93, woodcut of the "building of the tribunal of the consulate", page 58, daily life under the conquistadors. Any of these freaking illustrations could be inserted into the history of any 'brief history" of any Latin American country and nobody would be any the wiser.
* Such text as there is in the book has the texture of cotton wool. Cliche follows platitude follows cliche follows platitude. After a couple pages, you have to stop, because you can actually feel your brain rotting inside your head.
* that spineless quality, alluded to earlier. the fall of the government of Allende is dispatched in less than a paragraph. the atrocities that followed under Pinochet get fewer than 3 lines, including the desultory observation that "more than 3000" people died. The closest Sergio ("Medusa") V-R comes to expressing anything approximating a point of view is to allow that the political situation in 1973 was "very confusing".
"Bah, humbug!", say I. If you are incapable of formulation an opinion, motherfucker, then you are not qualified to be writing history books.
On the plus side, I only paid $8 for this piece of basura. But, to put it another way - I PAID 8 DOLLARS FOR THIS PIECE OF TIME-WASTING RUBBISH?
Caveat lector. If, for whatever reason, you are interested in learning more about the history of Chile, be assured you won't find anything pertinent here.
Gaaaaah! Fade, to the sound of gaskets blowing....
Reading "Stoner" gave me another one of those parallel universe experiences. In the goodreads universe, where everyone else lives, this is apparently Reading "Stoner" gave me another one of those parallel universe experiences. In the goodreads universe, where everyone else lives, this is apparently a much loved and lauded book. Heck, those good folks at the New York Review of Books tell us it's a classic. And has this to say about the main protagonist:
William Stoner emerges from it not only as an archetypal American, but as an unlikely existential hero, standing, like a figure in a painting by Edward Hopper, in stark relief against an unforgiving world
I'm sorry, but that's just a crock, even allowing for reviewer hyperbole. The very best that you could manage to say about Stoner is that he's a wraithlike nebbish who manages to glide through this dismal story without leaving an impression on anyone, least of all the reader. People seem to admire John Edward Williams's writing. The thing that baffled me is how any author can use so many words to write about a character and end up describing someone who is utterly devoid of a single distinguishing trait, or even a semblance of a personality.
Stoner is a stick figure who, over the course of the book, gets to interact with other stick figures (the resentful wife, the condescending academic colleagues, the college friend with a lust for life who gets mowed down before his prime in the Great War, etc etc ad bloody nauseam) as they act out standard plot #24*. Now I know the number of plots is finite, so it might seem unjust to fault an author for serving up the same story yet again. Fair enough. But it's considered good sport to mess with the template a little bit, to inject one's own authorial "spark", to add *something* to make the story rise above the generic template. Maybe you take the A.J. Cronin slant and stir in a little rage against the system. Or you might just add a big ladleful of chicken soup for the soul and give the story a Mr Chips vibe. What you can't do, and hope to keep the reader's interest and sympathy, is just trot out the bare-bones generic version of the tale, with no embellishment**. But this is exactly what Williams has done here. What's the point?
I wasn't looking for much. Hell, I'd have settled for the odd chunk of snappy dialog. A sense of humor. Anything at all, really. But even the most basic dialog seems to exceed Williams's capacity, and decent characterization eludes him completely.
Anyway, the bottom line is that, in my universe, this book was bleak, predictable, excruciatingly dull. Like one of those dreadful Thomas Hardy books where everyone is miserable all the time, but without the local color. One star, maximum. Though it isn't quite dreadful enough to earn a slot on the "intellectual con artist at work" shelf.
(Story #24: Intelligent {farmboy/kid from slums/juvenile delinquent/will be played by Matt Damon in the movie} transcends hardscrabble background to be first in the family to attend college. Lurches into an unfulfilling marriage that ends up making everyone miserable, teaches college, is left wondering if that's all there is. Alienation everywhere you look.)
**:Several authors have written intelligently within the framework of the "academic novel" (Francine Prose, Jane Smiley, James Hynes, Kingsley Amis, among others), even managing to be funny. But those are authors with, you know, discernible intelligence, an affliction which John Edward Williams has apparently been spared.
I just read David K's excellent review and realize that I am a hero, albeit a "Master and Margarita"-loving hero. So be it.
RATED IN CATEGORY "BOOK" : 1 STAR RATED IN CATEGORY "SLEEP AID" : 5 STARS
I acknowledge that many goodreads reviewers profess to find this book "fascinaRATED IN CATEGORY "BOOK" : 1 STAR RATED IN CATEGORY "SLEEP AID" : 5 STARS
I acknowledge that many goodreads reviewers profess to find this book "fascinating". I understand that it is regarded by some as an "American classic". There is something distinctly impressive about George R. Stewart's sheer stamina.
What I cannot do, based on empirical evidence from extensive trials, is read more than a page of this book without lapsing into prolonged, profound slumber. It may be the most boring book ever written.
On the plus side, the book's soporific effects are remarkably consistent, with a median time to sleep onset of just under a minute. The side-effect profile is quite favorable, with no potential for addiction, or adverse drug interaction with other therapies. The most prevalent adverse effect observed in trials was chronic bruising of the reader's ankle, the most common site of impact when the book slides from the subject's grasp at the moment of sleep onset. Use of the product near an open flame is a distinct fire hazard and is contraindicated.
My experience with this product suggests that repurposing it as a sleep aid, for subjects with mild to moderate insomnia, represents a practical option well worth considering. Viewed as a potential remedy for subjects experiencing insomnia, the risk-benefit ratio is quite favorable.
If you have difficulties falling asleep, and worry about Ambien-induced "sleep-snacking", "sleep-driving" or - God forbid - "abnormal thinking", or the addictive potential of benzodiazepines, you might want to consider "Names on the Land" as an inexpensive, safe, surprisingly effective alternative. I imagine that an audio version of the therapy would be equally efficacious. ...more
What an overhyped addition to the already overcrowded "20-something inspects navel, whines unattractively, and expects the world to care" shelf this wWhat an overhyped addition to the already overcrowded "20-something inspects navel, whines unattractively, and expects the world to care" shelf this was....more
There are exactly two faintly positive things I can say about this book, so let's get them out of the way.
i. It was mercifully short. ii. It wasn't quiThere are exactly two faintly positive things I can say about this book, so let's get them out of the way.
i. It was mercifully short. ii. It wasn't quite dreadful enough to go on the 'utter dreck' shelf, though its brevity may have been a key mitigating factor.
Although it didn't quite make the 'utter dreck' cut, it was an overhyped, forgettable waste of time. One of those books where, when I read the glowing reviews it has garnered from others, I feel that maybe I live in a parallel universe. I mean, look at everything that the book has going against it:
* it's a first person monolog by Bennie, a writer and translator * Bennie takes a look back at the mess he's made of his life * he's a failed poet * a failed alcoholic poet * who suffers from terminal omphaloskepsis (OK, no more airport jokes, I promise!) and logorrhea, a combination that bodes ill for the reader * Bennie has poor impulse control, which unfortunately leads to * way too many barroom brawl scenes, which are nowhere near as fascinating as the author appears to think; * introducing New Orleans as a backdrop to spice things up might have worked for John Kennedy Toole; here it smacks of sweaty desperation * Bennie done his woman wrong; calling her Stella and giving him a locked-outside-the-house-drunk-in-the-alley-scene goes well beyond sweaty desperation and crosses right over into bankrupt imagination territory * Bennie done wrong by his daughter too. And by his second wife. But I think we could have guessed that * padding out Bennie's tale of woe by including big chunks of the book he is translating (from Polish), giving a second narrative that unfolds in parallel, sounds like a real neat idea in theory * but all it did was muddle a story that already had way too many flashbacks even more
The "trapped in O' Hare" aspect of the book is appropriate, however. Because the sensation I had the entire time reading it was the overwhelmingly claustrophobic feeling of being trapped next to a drunken, boorish loudmouth, intent on boring me with every last insignificant detail of everything that had ever happened to him in his insanely uninteresting, fucked-up cliche of a life.
There must be something wrong with me that I actually finished it.
(Bold type indicates a word, phrase, or cliche I've always wanted to use in a review)...more
I loathed this book. Privileged narcissists commit adultery and their marriage breaks up. The characters were so vapidly self-centered, I couldn't briI loathed this book. Privileged narcissists commit adultery and their marriage breaks up. The characters were so vapidly self-centered, I couldn't bring myself to keep reading this lushly written chronicle of solipsistic privilege.
Salter's short story collection "Last Night" featured similarly narcissistic characters. Reading about rich a**holes might be tolerable for 20 pages at a stretch; beyond 100 pages it's pure purgatory.
A sloppily written, profoundly irritating, book. Brohaugh obviously believes himself to be enormously witty; in fact, he's a crashing bore.
Nothing to A sloppily written, profoundly irritating, book. Brohaugh obviously believes himself to be enormously witty; in fact, he's a crashing bore.
Nothing to see here folks. Trust me. Unless you'd care to witness the usual suspects* poked and prodded by someone who is neither particularly bright nor articulate, and whose writing style is strongly suggestive of ADD, do yourself a favor and give this dismal effort a miss. There is nothing in this book that hasn't already been discussed, with far greater wit and insight, by Bill Bryson and Richard Lederer, among others.
The only thing even remotely noteworthy about this book is Mr Brohaugh's stunning lack of any semblance of wit.
* You know: those fake etymologies for 'posh', 'golf', and 'f**k'; the usual defense of split infinitives, singular data and criteria; several amazingly banal observations along the lines that a peanut is not a nut, there is no toe in mistletoe, no cow in coward, and so on at tedious length. All delivered in smirkingly dreadful prose.
Updated review on November 2nd
I generally enjoy books on English word origins and usage - this book was a notable exception. The author covers generally familiar terrain - the kind of material that one might reasonably expect in a book of this kind. This means, of course, that it has also been covered by several other authors already.
Roughly speaking, the material in Brohaugh's poorly organized book falls into two categories - discussion of word origins and advise on usage. Virtually all the etymological material has been discussed, more clearly and with far greater insight, in David Wilton's excellent "Word Myths : Debunking Linguistic Legends", and by Richard Lederer, as well as on a variety of word-related websites. As far as usage is concerned, one would do infinitely better to consult the excellent Garner's Modern American Usage, or Martha Brockenbraugh's hilarious "Things that make us Sic".
As a guide to usage, Brohaugh's book is completely unhelpful. For one thing, as a kind of extended, stream-of-consciousness rant, it lacks any kind of organization, structure, or discipline. Then, sentences like the following are regrettably common: 1. 'And a nother thing' is not necessarily bad grammar. 2. 'Giving someone a kudo' is not bad English. 3. 'I am here to defend the downtrodden, the outcast, the hopefullys and the ain'ts and the possessive it'ses and the banished double negative'.
To which I can only point out that 1. Yes it is. 2. Yes it is. 3. here the author is just being unhelpfully provocative, since he never offers any kind of coherent defense for it's as a legitimate possessive form.
Ironically, the results of Brohaugh's professed disregard for the rules of English usage are evident on every page of this rambling, poorly written, idiosyncratic rant. Whole sections are completely incomprehensible - for instance, the page and a half of text following the bizarre statement that Z is not the final letter of the alphabet, or the five rambling pages (188-193) about vowels.
Brohaugh's undisciplined prose is not improved by his insistence on scattering a variety of words of his own invention, along the lines of "bullshitternet", "babblisciousness", "catapostrophe", and "persnickitor", throughout the text. A kind of juvenile belligerence, aimed preemptively at anyone who might disagree with him* is the straw that broke the camel's back for me, and convinced me that this is not a book that deserves to be taken seriously.
*: He refers to them as "persnickitors" and offers the following defence against their "whining". "Stop your crying or I'll give you something to cry about. If you're going to play by those rules, let's follow them to their logical conclusion. In other words, we are here going to fully exercise to the fun game of Xtreme Etymological Stasis (sic)." The preceding sentence could mean almost anything, of course, but in practice it appears to amount to nothing more than the tired old trick of ascribing (incorrectly) an exaggeratedly extreme position to anyone who dares to disagree with the author, then using that extreme position as a straw man to attack. ...more
In response to several thoughtful comments that take issue with the nastiness of my initial review, I have come to the Further update, June 19th 2012.
In response to several thoughtful comments that take issue with the nastiness of my initial review, I have come to the conclusion that the comments in question are essentially correct. Please see my own response in comment #32 in the discussion. And thanks to those who called me on this, apologies for my earlier vitriolic responses. In general, I try to acknowledge the validity of other opinions in my reviews and comments, something I notably failed to do in this discussion. I should have been more civil, initially and subsequently.
Update:
WELL, CONGRATULATIONS, PAUL AUSTER!!
I wouldn't actually have thought it possible, but with the breathtakingly sophomoric intellectual pretension of the final 30 pages of "City of Glass", you have actually managed to deepen my contempt and loathing for you, and the overweening, solipsistic, drivel that apparently passes for writing in your particular omphaloskeptic corner of the pseudo-intellectual forest in which you live, churning out your mentally masturbatory little turdlets.
Gaaaah. Upon finishing the piece of smirkingly self-referential garbage that was "City of Glass", I wanted to jump in a showever and scrub away the stinking detritus of your self-congratulatory, hypercerebral, pomo, what a clever-boy-am-I, pseudo-intellectual rubbish from my mind. But not all the perfumes of Araby would be sufficient - they don't make brain bleach strong enough to cleanse the mind of your particular kind of preening, navel-gazing idiocy.
All I can do is issue a clarion call to others who might be sucked into your idiotic, time-wasting, superficially clever fictinal voyages to nowhere. There is emphatically no there there. The intellectual vacuum at the core of Auster's fictions is finally nothing more than that - empty of content, devoid of meaning, surrounded with enough of the pomo trappings to keep the unwary reader distracted. But, if you're looking for meaning in your fiction, for God's sake look elsewhere.
And, please - spare me your pseudoprofound epiphanies of the sort that the emptiness at the core of Auster's tales is emblematic of the kind of emptiness that's at the core of modern life. Because that brand of idiocy butters no parsnips with me - I got over that kind of nonsense as a freshman in college. At this point in my life I expect a little more from anyone who aspires to be considered a writer worth taking seriously.
Which Paul Auster, though I have no doubt that he takes himself very, very seriously indeed, is not. This little emperor of Brooklyn is stark naked, intellectually speaking.
The only consolation is that I spent less than $5 for this latest instalment of Austercrap.
Gaaaah. PASS THE BRAINBLEACH.
Earlier comment begins below:
My loathing for the only other of Paul Auster's books that I had read (the Music of Chance) was so deep that it's taken me over ten years before I can bring myself to give him another chance. But finally, today, after almost three weeks of reading only short pieces in Spanish, my craving for fiction in English was irresistible, so I picked up a second-hand copy of The New York Trilogy in the English-language bookstore here in Guanajuato.
So far so good. I'm about three-quarters through the first story of the trilogy and I'm enjoying it, without actually liking it, if that makes sense. Auster seems to owe a clear debt of influence to Mamet - there's the same predilection for games, puzzles, and the influence of chance. Thankfully, the influence doesn't extend to dialog, which Mamet has always seemed to me to wield clumsily, like a blunt instrument. Auster is more subtle, but he still holds his characters at such a remote distance, it gives his writing a cerebral quality that is offputting at times. Thus, one can enjoy the situations he sets up and the intricacies of the story, without quite liking his fiction.
Who knows, maybe I will feel differently after I've read all three stories?...more
I hope that Larry Ashmead puts more effort into his job as an editor than he bothered to put into this disappointing, totally shameless excuse for a bI hope that Larry Ashmead puts more effort into his job as an editor than he bothered to put into this disappointing, totally shameless excuse for a book.
Here is page 2, almost in its entirety:
here's a recent list of babies born in Upstate New York.
Caiden Lee Tyler Ryan carly Morgan Jeremiah James Jr. Sarafia Frances Brianna Darcie Hayles Tasha Sabryn Maura Bethanyann Busta Kai Nolan Autumn Elizabeth Ashlwyn Zoe Trinity Jade
Bette Harrison, who keeps an eye on new arrivals at O' Grady Hospital in Atlanta, spotted Vaseline Glass.
If you find this kind of thing riveting, then you'll enjoy this book.
Ashmead has to be one of the laziest writers on the planet. Incredibly, he stoops to the same device again on page 9 of the book, which consists entirely of names given to babies "born in Upstate New York". Most of the names listed are unremarkable in a multicultural society, leaving one with the distinct impression, not dispelled anywhere else in the book, that Ashmead is inviting us to join him in finding such names as 'Nayraha Dmarye, Tajae Nylei, Nyeerah Oqay-lyn, Kobe, Anief, and Kody Ryan' - well, what exactly? Insufficiently WASP-y? Too foreign? Hard to be sure, since he just lists them without comment and moves on.
NEWSFLASH: The phone directory is a veritable treasure trove of names, and it's free.
But then this is an author so self-absorbed that he devotes nearly two pages of the book's introduction to the fact that his employee badge misspelled his name on his first job. Fear not - his next employers managed to get it right. Hilariously, the moron provides pictures of both ID badges, presumably to eliminate any further worries you might have on the matter.
Ashmead's shamelessness doesn't stop at reproducing lists of names gleaned from birth announcements. Fully six pages of the chapter devoted to pets' names are a verbatim reproduction of a (not particularly interesting) newspaper article about Queen Victoria and her dogs. Then there are the interminably meandering, pointless anecdotes from, or about, various acquaintances of his. Introductions like this one are typical: "Mary Tobin Adams Hedges was a dear friend in the late 1960s and '70s when I owned a beach house in Sagaponack, a small town in the Hamptons."
I have my own name for lazy, shameless authors who produce books as appallingly dreadful as "Bertha Venation":
Larry Ashmead is a complete and utter ASSMARMOT ...more
This is – hands down – the most atrocious book I’ve read so far this year, and probably within the last three years. I’m sure the author is technicall This is – hands down – the most atrocious book I’ve read so far this year, and probably within the last three years. I’m sure the author is technically competent in his field, whatever it is, but his reasons for writing this particular book are a complete mystery. I suspect he believes he has written something that is accessible to the general reader. To the contrary, this book is an incomprehensible, indigestible mess, in which all he does is manage to display his singular pedagogical ineptness. Mark Eberhart is the insufferable nerd relatives scatter to get away from at family gatherings. The kind of guy you just pray you're never stuck next to on a transatlantic flight. The kind of guy you hope you, or your kids, never have as a professor. This may seem harsh. If so, put it down to my frustration at having slogged through 250 pages of meandering text without ever having come across a coherent summation of what the book is really about.
Unless you consider this kind of thing coherent. In a chapter where he is explaining to the reader that he likes to play games with anyone unfortunate enough to ask him what he does for a living:
When I want to have fun, however, I say, ‘My research is concerned with the study of why things break.’ Usually a look of satisfaction appears in the questioner’s eyes as he says, ‘Oh, so you are a mechanical engineer (metallurgist, ceramist, or materials scientist).’ Now the fun begins as I say, ‘No, I study why things break, not when.’ The questioner is now doubtful. I sometimes break down at this point and explain my research in detail, but I have been known to milk the when/why distinction until my questioner is just fed up and moves on. ... It is a common misunderstanding, confusing when with why. What people really understand is when things break. Fracture, as with almost every other phenomenon, is composed of two parts, cause and effect. The question of when deals with the cause, while that of why deals with the effect.
Yeah. And I am Marie of Roumania.
You may not have a problem with this kind of stuff, but I do. There’s his juvenile satisfaction in somehow outsmarting the misfortunate soul who just asked him a polite question, the smug superiority about his sacred when/why distinction. Followed by a completely batshit crazy ‘elucidation’ of said distinction. One which divorces ‘why’ from cause. Humpty Dumpty has nothing on this guy.
And it doesn’t get any better. In fact, it gets infinitely worse. You might get an inkling of how much worse if I tell you that, despite the technical nature of the subject matter, the book contains not a single formula, equation, graph, or diagram. Think about that. One can admire the bravery of trying to write a book which eschews the use of equations. But only a fool would choose not to include charts, diagrams or pictures. There were at least a dozen places in the book where a simple diagram might actually have made the point clearly and spared the reader several paragraphs of tortuous, confusing prose.
Chapter 5 –- Shocking, Simply Shocking – exemplifies what a sorry mess this book is. Opening with some pointless bitching about how fracture mechanics didn’t make anyone’s list of top accomplishments of the millennium, he segues into a pedantic discussion about how people misuse the term ‘quantum leap’. There follows a two-page account of the hearings following sinking of the Titanic, ten-pages about the Challenger (including a ridiculous mile-by-mile account of where exactly the author was on his commute during the countdown), four pages on a lawsuit against GM for safety issues with the Chevy Malibu fuel tank placement, and six pages about an industrial accident where the author was called as an expert witness. It all seems to lead nowhere in particular. But I’m stubborn, so I read the chapter twice more. Eventually I figured out that he was trying to make a point, namely that public attitudes about how to react to such highly publicized cases of failure have evolved from “failure is inevitable, avoid circumstances likely to produce it” to “improve design to the point where the risk of failure is essentially negligible”. An evolution he characterizes as a ‘quantum change’. At which point you just want to strangle the bastard. By his own admission, this is a characterization that is confusing to most people, but rather than seek out simpler, less ambiguous language, instead he adds a page and a half of bitching about how everyone else in the world misuses the term (which does nothing to eliminate the potential for confusion) and goes ahead and uses it anyway. What a sanctimonious dickhead!
I think Eberhart is constitutionally incapable of correctly gauging the actual level of his audience's understanding. So, about three lines into any of his explanations, he and the reader part company - he continues obliviously (after all, it's all obvious to him), leaving the reader to seethe in a muddle of incomprehension. Some readers might be tempted to blame deficiencies in their own technical background, effectively giving Eberhart a pass on the wretchedness of this effort. Don’t. The only person who deserves excoriation for this appalling dog’s breakfast of a book is Mark E. Eberhart. And possibly his editor, though it’s hard for me to believe he really had one.
**spoiler alert** An astonishingly dull book, remarkably devoid of intellectual content.
Here is what you might learn from this book.
SPOILER ALERT!! **spoiler alert** An astonishingly dull book, remarkably devoid of intellectual content.
Here is what you might learn from this book.
SPOILER ALERT!! SPOILER ALERT!! (tee-hee)
Chapter 1: Most 'spoonerisms' are probably apocryphal. Chapter 2: There is less to Freudian slips than meets the eye. Chapters 3-5: Mistakes and hesitation are an intrinsic part of verbal communication. Everybody makes mistakes, and while the particular pattern of doing so is specific to an individual, ascribing some deeper significance to verbal 'disfluisms' is generally misguided. In other words, the answer to the question implicit in the last part of the book's title is "precious little". The origin of verbal mistakes lies in the fact that speaking is essentially complicated. People who are tired, or distracted, are prone to more frequent errors; similarly, variation in frequency of errors with age follows a predictable, unsurprising pattern. Chapter 6: The Toastmasters hold speakers to a higher, error-free, standard than is actually consistent with normal human speech. Chapters 7 and 9: People are often amused by other folks' hilarious bloopers, particularly when committed by celebrities and captured on camera. Chapter 8: (probably the only chapter with the germ of an interesting idea) the frequency of occurrence of particular mistakes does shed some useful light on how the brain acquires language. Chapter 10: President Bush makes a boatload of verbal blunders.
Amazingly, the author manages to stretch this thin gruel over a total of 270 pages.
If most of the revelations above strike you as either blindingly obvious or completely banal, then you will understand why I give this book only a single star. ...more
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