Love is all there is
So that's me done with Hari Kunzru's latest, My Revolutions and, predictably enough, I really don't know what to say about it. I'm beginning to suspect that phrase is code for "I didn't like it the way I wanted to like it," possibly. It was, as I said to someone earlier, sort of a cross between His Illegal Self and Babel Tower. I don't quite know what it is with British subjects and their remarkable interest in the politics of the '60s and '70s. I would swear that young Mr. Kunzru was not even alive in the '60s and, looking at the always reliable wikipedia entry for him, I see that he was born in 1969. Not that plenty of people don't write books set in a period during which they weren't alive themselves but it feels odd, to regard that stretch of time as "history." See Eclipse entry of last week for a similar vague reference to finding that things I remember are now "history."
This post wanders a bit.
So maybe the time doesn't matter. Maybe it's The Impressionist in another guise. Another hero who seeks to remake himself as someone else, as someone who will belong, as someone whose existence means something. It is, I imagine, really an existentialist sort of book, in the only sense of "existential" that ever made any, well, sense to me. Why are we here? What's the point? How do we keep from destroying ourselves? Which, given my own emotional fragility of late, are likely all perfectly relevant questions. Should the Imaginary Reader not wish to read the book, my subject line contains the answer. Should the Imaginary Reader now feel "spoiled," well, ummm, sorry. C'mon; love is always the answer.
It occurs to me that I never posted anything definitive about Michael Ondaatje's Divisadero after giving it the same sort of "well, I just don't know" initial response. It was, in the end, a perfectly gorgeous creation. Oh, I'm not sure about a lot of it or what it was really all supposed to add up to be, but the final third or so of the book didn't seem to rely so much on the earlier sections and it, that final third, that final story, was one of the most beautiful things I've read in years. It was what a Booker winner should be and that the book was, apparently, completely overlooked is just about the last straw for my relationship with the Man Booker. The Gathering, which did win, will likely make a swell Oprah Book Club selection.
In totally other news, I put air in both my bike tires, gave the brakes a quick experimental squeeze, reloaded my pannier, rinsed out my water bottle, and biked into work this morning. It's all downhill and/or flat on the way in and I was still a mite tired after the four miles. The return trip featured some uphill and a slightly longer route (just over five miles with a stop for groceries). It also offered a chance to test those brakes more seriously when a car decided to make a left turn though I was in the pedestrian/bike pathway to its left. Fortunately, I wasn't as dozy as some friends generally assume I am.
Alternative entry icon:
This post wanders a bit.
So maybe the time doesn't matter. Maybe it's The Impressionist in another guise. Another hero who seeks to remake himself as someone else, as someone who will belong, as someone whose existence means something. It is, I imagine, really an existentialist sort of book, in the only sense of "existential" that ever made any, well, sense to me. Why are we here? What's the point? How do we keep from destroying ourselves? Which, given my own emotional fragility of late, are likely all perfectly relevant questions. Should the Imaginary Reader not wish to read the book, my subject line contains the answer. Should the Imaginary Reader now feel "spoiled," well, ummm, sorry. C'mon; love is always the answer.
It occurs to me that I never posted anything definitive about Michael Ondaatje's Divisadero after giving it the same sort of "well, I just don't know" initial response. It was, in the end, a perfectly gorgeous creation. Oh, I'm not sure about a lot of it or what it was really all supposed to add up to be, but the final third or so of the book didn't seem to rely so much on the earlier sections and it, that final third, that final story, was one of the most beautiful things I've read in years. It was what a Booker winner should be and that the book was, apparently, completely overlooked is just about the last straw for my relationship with the Man Booker. The Gathering, which did win, will likely make a swell Oprah Book Club selection.
In totally other news, I put air in both my bike tires, gave the brakes a quick experimental squeeze, reloaded my pannier, rinsed out my water bottle, and biked into work this morning. It's all downhill and/or flat on the way in and I was still a mite tired after the four miles. The return trip featured some uphill and a slightly longer route (just over five miles with a stop for groceries). It also offered a chance to test those brakes more seriously when a car decided to make a left turn though I was in the pedestrian/bike pathway to its left. Fortunately, I wasn't as dozy as some friends generally assume I am.
Alternative entry icon: