Monday, November 27, 2006

Psychedelic Literati -- Sparkles

We here at Psychedelic Kimchi are all

(depraved perverts)

extremely well-read, yet rarely on this site have I or any of my handsome cohorts expounded deeply on literature, a subject close to all of our (cold, cruel) hearts. Why? I'm not sure. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that 90% of expatriates in Korea can't read*. 'Member my -- unfinished -- serial review of Capote's In Cold Blood? You don't? Then, in a way, I just proved my point. I did so.

Look, I can't force you to read this**, either, much in the same way I can't make everyone who visits this site and isn't interested in God's sport (aka basketball) read my NBA-related posts, nor can I hope to

(convert the wicked)

change your mind on matters literary; but since that has never stopped me before, I don't plan on stifling my "write about shit that I think is cool" muse now. (As an aside, 'Melo for MVP? I like the sound of that.)

The original plan, envisioned many moons ago, was to have a back-and-forth discussion with TMH on the works of Ernest Hemingway. As you probably know already, I'm not a fan. But I wanted to try, I wanted to at least do that (word to R.P. McMurphy). I wanted to try to get Hemingway. I realize that may be impossible, but I also realize that it's quite ignorant to go on and on about how Joe Novelist is overrated/talentless when one doesn't do their utmost to make an effort and try to understand why he or she has brought joy to so many with his or her words. (However, as another aside, V.C. Andrews can rot in hell.)

I'd still like to take on that task, but somewhere along the way Idealjetsam/B.A. Baracus entered the picture with his belief that Fyodor Dostoevsky was a hack writer***, and I thought maybe we could have ourselves a 3-way literary discussion cage match. Only problem was, I'm unaware that I hate any of Idealjetsam's favorite authors.

But the whole point of this was to remain civil, and thus really have a meaningful discourse on the books we love and hate. We are all passionate individuals, but we're also gentlemen. And as such, I'm confident enough to promise, no discussions of literature amongst the Psychedelic Kimchi braintrust can possibly turn into pseudo-intellectual dick waving, the pretentious version of "my dad can beat up your dad."

What I want to do, essentially, is talk books. This post is going to be a (brief) refutation of two separate comments by THM and Bad Name, but that doesn't mean follow-up posts by my esteemed colleagues have to be. In fact, perhaps they shouldn't; that way it makes me look like I'm right.

One final thing before I set it off: I've always believed that the main point of books (or any artform) is to stimulate the imagination and thrill the reader with an interesting tale. Pretty radical, right? Reading should not be a chore, especially if you're no longer a student. Simply put, that's why I don't like certain novels and authors, acclaimed or no. James Joyce's Ulysses, I will admit, is a bold approach to writing, but to me it's also an uninspired story, one which cannot be redeemed by its supposedly innovative avant-garde style. I'd rather read Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, a novel similarly esoteric, similarly daringly composed, but, in comparison to Ulysses, a damn fine tale. Bottom line, if one needs to be told why a certain novel (or song, or film...) is great, chances are one will never truly appreciate it anyway. And while it's noble to try, there comes a point where one has to give up and concede that a work of art simply isn't right for oneself****. To do otherwise is to lie to oneself, and people who do that are, in this writer's opinion, infinitely more loathsome than those who just don't know any better. Ignorance is a fault, self-deception is a sin.

That out of the way (you still with me?), I just wanna say:

1) Of Human Bondage is, to me, the most realistic novel I've ever read. Philip Carey is a real person to me. Everything in that book seems real. I know TMH found it boring -- and, yes, I can see how some may find it so --, but I think it's the greatest novel ever written not titled The Brothers Karamazov, mostly because it is so wholly believable. And Mildred, for better or worse, is the best written female character any male author has ever created.

Like Rakim, I could go on for days and days, but since I promised to keep this brief, here's a review by Doug Shaw, whom I agree with 100%:

http://www.dougshaw.com/Reviews/review66.html

2) I'm not exactly sure why Idealjetsam keeps insisting that Dostoevsky had such a dour, depressing outlook on existence, because for anyone who has read his works extensively I think it's clear that Dostoevsky believed mostly in the passion of the human heart, the redemption of the soul (figuratively and literally), and the overall goodness of man*****. To be sure, his works are teeming with blackguards and villains (*wink*), but whether his stories' conclusions end in triumph or tragedy, he always exposed the underlying magnificence of hope and altruism within his characters, and was obsessed with -- and believed wholeheartedly in -- the beauty of existence.

Dostoevsky was an optimist, but, thankfully so, one who didn't deny the evils of his time. He never overlooked the cruelty of human beings: he depicted man as a strange animal (word to Lawrence Gowan), a duplicitous, usually base figure -- but always did he did wish for a time when the transgressions of men would cease, always did he dream of a new age.

So while I can perhaps take offense if someone were to posit that F-Dot was a foolish utopist, I'm baffled when someone claims he's a depressing buzz kill.

NB - As my semi-review of Of Human Bondage attests, I love realism in storytelling, but so equally do I appreciate melodrama, and Dostoevsky was somewhat of a master in that regard. He knew the human soul/mind/pancreas like no other writer, but he also had women fainting and coming down with "brain fever" like it was going out of style. Nobody's perfect.


* That is the official statistic. I looked it up.

** Look, boobies! If I get 20 comments, I'll post a Psychedelic Kimochi, um, post every day -- in addition to my regular BS -- for one month. Scout's honor.

*** I hope this doesn't appear too biased or anything, but he totally fucking wasn't.

**** Illmatic, track 7

***** Sorry, people.

5 comments:

  1. "And Mildred, for better or worse, is the best written female character any male author has ever created."

    You, brother, have lead a less than charmed life in regards to romantic escapades.

    "I've always believed that the main point of books (or any artform) is to stimulate the imagination and thrill the reader with an interesting tale."

    How the hell can you say that and then say you don't like Hemingway in the same post? He may not have been the best writer (although the further I get sucked into the world of journalism the more I appreciate his sparse, deliberate prose) but you can't tell me he didn't tell the best stories.

    You, sir, are a contradiction wrapped in an enigma. Shine on you crazy diamond.

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  2. Perhaps my dislike of Hemingway is based on 'The Sun Also Rises,' which is his most acclaimed novel: a story of a dickless writer who never works and drinks too much.

    Wait, that's me in a nutshell! Maybe old Ernie was onto something after all.

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  3. furthering TMH's point...

    you posted a review of "the greatest novel ever written not titled The Brothers Karamazov" that had i not read the passage in context - i would have attributed to hemingway

    "The thing that is most frustrating to me is that Maugham doesn't use any words I don't know, and his language is not flowery or ostentatious, but for some reason he can put words together and make them do things that I can't, and I don't know why."

    hemingway's minimalism (the pause between the notes) is what "stimulates the imagination and thrills the reader" this is a much more precise/refined art than an overbearing wordsmith and wordy novelist.

    any thoughts on Graham Greene..?

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  4. You're an expatriate. You've lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around cafés.
    -Bill Gorton to Jake Barnes, The Sun Also Rises

    Tell me that's not true, Petunia.

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  5. I must side with Petunia AKA Sparkles here: he wouldn't be caught dead in a cafe.

    Hmmm...I need to think a bit more about this so I can give the discussion the attention it deserves. (I also need to get 6 hours of sleep tonight...)

    For now, two words to consider when considering Dostoevsky: Uninspired(and uninspiring) Pretention. I stick by it, he writes like the juvenile Pitt the Younger from the third season of Black Adder. No subtlety, no skill, no I-don't-have-a-fucking-idea-what.

    You may want to tell him that fluffy down coming in on his chest is a sign that he can stop sermonizing now. Oh, wait, he's dead. Good.

    For those who want to know where I'm coming from, some of my favored fiction writers: Mishima, Murakami, Twain, Tolstoy, MacLean, Orwell, Wright, Mahfouz and Lin Zhi Ling.

    Peace.

    P.S. *_*, Other than this, and the basketball thing, and the drinking, and the way you live your life, you are one cool cat.

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