Hey Y'all! We are trying something new here, so let's jump in and see how this goes.
The next book on the list is 1984, which is a phenomenal book, and a book that everyone should read and most people want to read, so I am hoping to have some people play along. I will post my regular blog about the novel when I have completed reading it this time through, but before then, I am starting this thread to let anyone who wants to to make comments about the book.
So all you have to do to play is click on the comment area below and leave a comment. It can be anything you want: something you love about the book, a great sentence, a cool idea, a diatribe on Orwell's use of pronouns--I don't care! If you think it and want to share it, throw it in there. It's a reading/discussion group for anyone who wants to play. I've made a few comments below to get thing rolling.
I myself will be absent for the next week or so (I promised the family I would read the last two books in the Hunger Games series so they can discuss it openly!), but then I will be back and in full swing. Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves. Go get your copy of the book and dig in!
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Under the Volcano: or, Why We Read
I am a freelance videographer who works primarily for the legal industry. I have nothing that resembles a work schedule, as every day I am working at a new location. I also hate to be late, so I get everywhere obnoxiously early, and I always have a book with me to read while I wait in the car to go inside and set up my equipment. After the equipment is up, I generally have a little time before everyone else arrives to read a little more. I will often get questions from attorneys and deponents about what I'm reading, what it's about, etc.
Last week, I was in a deposition for which the doctor was late (as they usually are), so I read while the attorneys sat in awkward silence. One of the attorneys asked about the book, so I said, "It's Under the Volcano, by Malcolm Lowry." No one has heard of it. "It's about an alcoholic living in a small town in Mexico in 1938. The entire novel covers the last day of his life, Dia de los Muertos. His wife who left him has returned to try to work through their problems, and his younger half-brother, who is a jack-of-all-trades idealist who has been working as a journalist is also in town." Oh, they say, non-committally. Is it any good, they ask. "Hmm. It is very good, but very challenging. Each chapter follows one of these three characters and we spend a lot of time in their minds, and since the main character is an alcoholic, things can be very jumbled in his mind and even in his perception of what's happening. It's not light reading, but it is beautifully written." More non-committal nodding and a set of eyebrows raised in sympathy. The one attorney turns to the other and says, "I don't like to work when I read for fun. I don't read much as it is, so when I do, it needs to be easy." I laugh and nod, because I understand exactly what they mean. When we read, we are all looking for an experience of some sort. Sometimes we want high drama, sometimes funny characters in funny situations, sometimes something non-fictional that teaches us something new about the wold or some part of it we didn't know about. Sometimes we want a fast plot with some turns and an ending that strikes us because we never saw it coming, but looking back we think that we should have. Then again, those are all elements of story that are not unique to books. Movies can give us those same experiences. And who ever says to herself, I want to read something in which very little happens plot-wise, in which we spent a great deal of time in characters' heads, and which is very demanding of my mental attention? Why do we read at all, and why would we read a book like Under the Volcano?
There are two things that make the novel unique as a storytelling form. The first, of course, is the use of language. Novels have the unique ability to describe the world, people, actions, motivations, thoughts, and emotions in words, to put down in a graspable form all the vagueness that bumps into us as we stumble through this life. The author can capture a feeling, a mood, a thought and make us understand the inner workings of our own minds and our neighbors' minds. The second thing that novels can do, and this is obviously a direct offshoot of the first, is spend time inside a person. Films and TV are great at action and decisions, but getting inside a character's head is a limited thing when working with a visual medium. In film, you learn about character through her actions. In literature, the author is not limited to action (though a good author will always use action too); she can directly tell us the character's thoughts, feelings, and contradictory impulse.
It is no coincidence that the modern novel became increasingly internal and abstract as the film industry grew larger and larger. Reality was being portrayed and covered just fine in the pictures, so novelists took advantage of the unique traits of their trade and plumbed the depth of the human mind and soul like no other medium could.
And that brings us to Lowry's Under the Volcano. Under the Volcano is in the tradition of Joyce's Ulysses and Finnegans Wake. Under the Volcano is literature, with a capital L. Reading this novel is not a casual affair; it is work. It provides many moments of great pleasure through its language, its use of symbols, its honesty, and its insight--but it cannot be said to be "fun." When I began this novel, I had no idea that is hailed as one of the great works of English literature. (Sure the cover says something to that effect, but it seems like a lot of covers do!) But it didn't take me long to feel that a very competent mind was putting this story together. The language is incredibly rich, and while it is more convoluted than is my usual preference, the sentences are beautiful, and when concentrated on, make perfect sense. Every sentence feels worked over, like it has something crucial to say. Some writing moves through us like water--it's refreshing and enjoyable while we are drinking it, but it leaves us with no lasting impression, it keeps us alive, but it gives us no nutrients, nothing for the body to convert into energy. These sentences are filled with good stuff, but as such, they demand an incredible amount of attention. The brain has no room to wander, to work on other events of the day that have already or are yet to come. And the brain is a restless animal, unaccustomed to being tasked with singular focus. It wants to multitask, and Lowry's novel won't let it, at least not if you want to follow the story. I had to reread the first chapter in its entirety twice (and some portions thrice) to feel like I had a firm grasp on the world and events of the novel.
And it's not just the sentences that are challenging. This is one of the most referential novels I have ever read, and it offers explanations for none of the references. Set in Mexico in the late 1930s, you need to know about Mexico's history, economic and political. Hugh, the half-brother, has traveled the world and served as a journalist in revolutionary Spain and Stalin's Russia. And Europe is of course popping with the early stages of World War II. Layer on top of those things untranslated passages in Spanish and phrases in a dozen other languages along with cultural and literary references from the history of world literature. I found myself reading through Wikipedia nearly every day to understand the politics and factions throughout the book.
The amazing thing, and the thing that makes this novel so incredible, is that Lowry actually feels in control of all this information. Each reference has purpose and weight--not the vain flexing of intellectual muscles, but the artistic placement of structural features in an impressive landscape. Everything has its place, and it can be a marvel to behold. The repetition of playbills, of the film Las Manos de Orlac, of the dead Indian and his horse branded with the number 7: Lowry's symbolism beats like the syncopation of a dozen drums that all make up the rhythm of this story. And his ability to portray Geoffrey's mescal-rattled brain is worth the price of admission alone.
When I finish a novel like this (not that there are many like it at all), I do not derive the same joy that I do when concluding a more plot-driven novel, or a character-driven novel. Those praises I have given to other books on this list do not apply hear, for I did not end emotionally drained or charged, taken to some height by the struggles of a character. It is a much more intellectual state of wonder for me. For those of us who embrace this sort of novel, why do we do it? Why do we submit ourselves to its demands and its challenges? Perhaps we take them on for the same reason that some people scale Mount Everest. We do it to say we've done it, to conquer something monumentally larger than ourselves, and to push ourselves to do something we don't entirely feel up to. And I would venture to say that the rewards are similar. We gain not just personal satisfaction in our inner strength and determination, but we are rewarded with beautiful sights and sublime visions. And yes, sometimes we are too frostbitten, bleeding, and torn up to appreciate the sights at the time, but we have the memories of our visit and can say, "I was there, and I saw wonderful things."
Last week, I was in a deposition for which the doctor was late (as they usually are), so I read while the attorneys sat in awkward silence. One of the attorneys asked about the book, so I said, "It's Under the Volcano, by Malcolm Lowry." No one has heard of it. "It's about an alcoholic living in a small town in Mexico in 1938. The entire novel covers the last day of his life, Dia de los Muertos. His wife who left him has returned to try to work through their problems, and his younger half-brother, who is a jack-of-all-trades idealist who has been working as a journalist is also in town." Oh, they say, non-committally. Is it any good, they ask. "Hmm. It is very good, but very challenging. Each chapter follows one of these three characters and we spend a lot of time in their minds, and since the main character is an alcoholic, things can be very jumbled in his mind and even in his perception of what's happening. It's not light reading, but it is beautifully written." More non-committal nodding and a set of eyebrows raised in sympathy. The one attorney turns to the other and says, "I don't like to work when I read for fun. I don't read much as it is, so when I do, it needs to be easy." I laugh and nod, because I understand exactly what they mean. When we read, we are all looking for an experience of some sort. Sometimes we want high drama, sometimes funny characters in funny situations, sometimes something non-fictional that teaches us something new about the wold or some part of it we didn't know about. Sometimes we want a fast plot with some turns and an ending that strikes us because we never saw it coming, but looking back we think that we should have. Then again, those are all elements of story that are not unique to books. Movies can give us those same experiences. And who ever says to herself, I want to read something in which very little happens plot-wise, in which we spent a great deal of time in characters' heads, and which is very demanding of my mental attention? Why do we read at all, and why would we read a book like Under the Volcano?
There are two things that make the novel unique as a storytelling form. The first, of course, is the use of language. Novels have the unique ability to describe the world, people, actions, motivations, thoughts, and emotions in words, to put down in a graspable form all the vagueness that bumps into us as we stumble through this life. The author can capture a feeling, a mood, a thought and make us understand the inner workings of our own minds and our neighbors' minds. The second thing that novels can do, and this is obviously a direct offshoot of the first, is spend time inside a person. Films and TV are great at action and decisions, but getting inside a character's head is a limited thing when working with a visual medium. In film, you learn about character through her actions. In literature, the author is not limited to action (though a good author will always use action too); she can directly tell us the character's thoughts, feelings, and contradictory impulse.
It is no coincidence that the modern novel became increasingly internal and abstract as the film industry grew larger and larger. Reality was being portrayed and covered just fine in the pictures, so novelists took advantage of the unique traits of their trade and plumbed the depth of the human mind and soul like no other medium could.
And that brings us to Lowry's Under the Volcano. Under the Volcano is in the tradition of Joyce's Ulysses and Finnegans Wake. Under the Volcano is literature, with a capital L. Reading this novel is not a casual affair; it is work. It provides many moments of great pleasure through its language, its use of symbols, its honesty, and its insight--but it cannot be said to be "fun." When I began this novel, I had no idea that is hailed as one of the great works of English literature. (Sure the cover says something to that effect, but it seems like a lot of covers do!) But it didn't take me long to feel that a very competent mind was putting this story together. The language is incredibly rich, and while it is more convoluted than is my usual preference, the sentences are beautiful, and when concentrated on, make perfect sense. Every sentence feels worked over, like it has something crucial to say. Some writing moves through us like water--it's refreshing and enjoyable while we are drinking it, but it leaves us with no lasting impression, it keeps us alive, but it gives us no nutrients, nothing for the body to convert into energy. These sentences are filled with good stuff, but as such, they demand an incredible amount of attention. The brain has no room to wander, to work on other events of the day that have already or are yet to come. And the brain is a restless animal, unaccustomed to being tasked with singular focus. It wants to multitask, and Lowry's novel won't let it, at least not if you want to follow the story. I had to reread the first chapter in its entirety twice (and some portions thrice) to feel like I had a firm grasp on the world and events of the novel.
And it's not just the sentences that are challenging. This is one of the most referential novels I have ever read, and it offers explanations for none of the references. Set in Mexico in the late 1930s, you need to know about Mexico's history, economic and political. Hugh, the half-brother, has traveled the world and served as a journalist in revolutionary Spain and Stalin's Russia. And Europe is of course popping with the early stages of World War II. Layer on top of those things untranslated passages in Spanish and phrases in a dozen other languages along with cultural and literary references from the history of world literature. I found myself reading through Wikipedia nearly every day to understand the politics and factions throughout the book.
The amazing thing, and the thing that makes this novel so incredible, is that Lowry actually feels in control of all this information. Each reference has purpose and weight--not the vain flexing of intellectual muscles, but the artistic placement of structural features in an impressive landscape. Everything has its place, and it can be a marvel to behold. The repetition of playbills, of the film Las Manos de Orlac, of the dead Indian and his horse branded with the number 7: Lowry's symbolism beats like the syncopation of a dozen drums that all make up the rhythm of this story. And his ability to portray Geoffrey's mescal-rattled brain is worth the price of admission alone.
When I finish a novel like this (not that there are many like it at all), I do not derive the same joy that I do when concluding a more plot-driven novel, or a character-driven novel. Those praises I have given to other books on this list do not apply hear, for I did not end emotionally drained or charged, taken to some height by the struggles of a character. It is a much more intellectual state of wonder for me. For those of us who embrace this sort of novel, why do we do it? Why do we submit ourselves to its demands and its challenges? Perhaps we take them on for the same reason that some people scale Mount Everest. We do it to say we've done it, to conquer something monumentally larger than ourselves, and to push ourselves to do something we don't entirely feel up to. And I would venture to say that the rewards are similar. We gain not just personal satisfaction in our inner strength and determination, but we are rewarded with beautiful sights and sublime visions. And yes, sometimes we are too frostbitten, bleeding, and torn up to appreciate the sights at the time, but we have the memories of our visit and can say, "I was there, and I saw wonderful things."
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