Peter's Pretentiously Pedantic and Prodigious Proust Project

Every year, I make it a point to read Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time, or at least the first volume, Swann's Way. And every year, I fail, big time. I can't recall a time when I made it past page 50. My editor self always feels attacked by Proust's looping sentences. And what the eff is the deal with describing one's going to bed in no less than 10 pages. Go to bed, get a kiss from mama. That's it. But not with Proust. Every act, however mundane, gets the royal treatment. Fortunately, there aren't any scenes set in the bathroom. Otherwise, we'll get long, winding sentences about a character's efforts and musings in doing the number 2.

But the hell with it—I am going in. I will read not just the first volume, but all effing seven. I will be so deep in In Search of Lost Time (or Remembrance of Things Past, if you go by C. K. Scott Moncrieff's translation) that I'll be sick of madeleines and long pages of French prose wherein nothing seems to be happening. I will laugh in the face of boredom. I will wallow in the fields of ennui. I will fight the urge to throw the books at walls or at annoying people. I will fart run-on sentences and elliptical clauses.

And why am I doing this? Because I have masochistic tendencies, and Proust's books will be my outlet. Because every time I see a picture of Proust, he seems to be mocking me. "Weakling!" "You're like the lowest form of reader? Merde!" "Tu pues du cul!" (I have my French teacher to thank for this wonderful bit of profanity. I think it means something like smelling like you came out of an ass.) Because I feel a special affinity for Proust. I mean, this was a guy who spent most of the daylight hours in bed and only left it just to go to dinner invites. The life! Also, he was gay. So we're like sisters.

But, but, but. This doesn't mean that I'll read all seven volumes in one go. There will still be the occasional suspense novel or the sappy gay romance or the latest hyped bestseller. If anything, I'll probably read a volume between one or two other books that I finish. Right now, I've rediscovered how enjoyable it is to read the Agent Pendergast novels by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. (I stopped reading the series a few years ago.) So Swann's Way after a couple of these thrillers. Because nothing makes a better palate cleanser than a French novel about French people doing French things (except for French kissing and the blowjob, which I heard the French apparently invented).

So I figure it'll take me at least 3 years for this project, no? But I'll be blogging about my progress every now and then. And probably, just to annoy some people, I'll follow Proust's writing style in my posts. It's like my "eff you" to Twitter shoutouts. Because why would you use just 140 characters to say something when you can go with 10,000? 

Kafka virgin

My two favorite quotes from Kafka's The Trial

Our book club's selection for this month is Kafka's works, beginning with the novel The Trial. I've never read Kafka, and I have this notion that his works will read like those of Russian novelists such as Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. I have a special affinity for Tolstoy's and Dostoevsky's novels. I don't mind that their main characters are drunkards (or throw themselves in front of a moving train), they live in squalor, and the weather is always freezing. Somehow, pondering about life's biggest questions seems easier if you have these unfortunate conditions. Maybe I'm just a closet romantic, no? But Kafka's The Trial is completely different in tone and subject matter. And I am jarred. Well, at least for a few minutes.

The first thing that struck me about The Trial is its pace. The writing is so frenetic that it leaves you catching your breath—long paragraphs with hardly any punctuation, dialogue that you have to decipher as to who exactly is the one speaking the lines, and events happening one after another in a span of a few sentences. I love it. The pace is perfect in evoking an atmosphere of claustrophobia and unpredictability, as these characterize the situation tha Joseph K., the main character, is going through. What exactly can K. do when he wakes up one morning to find people in his apartment who are there to arrest him for a crime unspecified throughout the story?

But pacing aside, the novel's story is told straight through. But the range of situations that K. finds himself is so vast that it forces you to question the genre of the novel. Is it absurdist? Is it metafiction? Is it a satire? But cares about genre these days anyway? I don't. I just want a good story. So, these situations—they can go from being absurd one moment to sensual the next. And it is this absurdity that makes me forgive K.'s wrongful actions or, more often, inaction to be able to get himself out of that ridiculously surreal situation. How can one act rationally if the circumstances that go your way are irrational?

Bureaucracy is one of the prevailing themes of The Trial. No matter how many people that K. meets who can help him with his coming trial, no one seems to have a clear idea on how to help. K. is forced to consult a lawyer, listen to a preacher, and talk to a painter and court reporter. They all present a grim outlook for the trial. It's a bleak picture that Kafka paints in this story. It's not exactly entertaining, but it certainly makes you pause and think. I have so many questions after finishing the novel. Thank goodness for Google.

The cover of my copy of The Trial kicks ass.

Artsy fartsy AF (part 2)

A continuing series. If you give an eff, you can check out part 1 here. Also, my Instagram here. A warning though, my IG is a bit all over the place—food the bf and I cooked (a good number are pics of frittatas), travel, chihuahuas, and the occasional random shot.

Probably my favorite book of 2018 (so far)
Couldn't recommend this enough

Woot, woot! An LGBTQ young adult novel!
Such a profound question this novel poses—Is humanity worth saving?

Another wonderful read, with fully realized characters. Worth the hype.
Loved all the characters' voices that each take you to a different time

I've been waiting for so many years for Miller's next novel
This one feels different though, but still has lots of drama

Had no expectations for this one, so was surprised that I really liked it
Shoved this book into the faces of a few peeps at the office

And of course there will be horror, and one that uses the story of the Donner party as context
Second half wasn't as good as the first, but still satisfying overall

Embrace the DB

When I saw the newest novel of Dan Brown, I rolled my eyes. I rolled my eyes so hard that I almost got a migraine. Two reasons for this. One is that "here we go again" dilemma. I just knew that I would eventually get a copy and read it. This time though, I held off on getting the hardback. There's no way I'm spending $15 for something that I would eventually hide in my shelves. All my DBs are placed behind my first edition of Infinite Jest. But unlike all the DBs, Infinite Jest remains gloriously unread. (I say "glorious" because just the idea that I own a first edition gives me serious reader cred. #PretentiousBastard) The second reason is the inevitable, "Wait, did I just enjoy that?"

We can all agree that DB's novels are formula, and it's a formula that works. "Works" in this sense means that readers get suckered into it. And by "suckered" I mean spending a few hours being engrossed in the novel and then immediately forgetting 90% of it just a few minutes after finishing. It's like the Fifty Shades books. You can bash them all you want, but there's no denying the millions of readers that got their rocks off because of them. I read the FS books out of curiosity, because hetero copulation fascinates me, but in a scientific non-climax-inducing way. It's like the Elvis Presley sandwich, the one with the peanut butter, bananas, and bacon. It's probably good, but I won't ever have it. Blecchhh.

The books that I've brought to the office
Because one cannot live on Dan Brown alone.
Unless you like your reading testosterone-y, one-dimensional, and pseudo-intellectual.

So when the paperback recently came out, the bf fortunately gave me a copy. "Give" in this sense means forced to buy a copy. And when I got home, I immediately wrapped the paperback in plastic and started to read in bed. As expected, I read 50 pages of it in one go. Yes, the formula's still there—the religious conspiracy, the art and symbology shiz, the token woman companion who is gorgeous and brainy, and the cliffhangers. I wallowed in these elements. I'm like a happy pig in a mud puddle, soaking in all the wet grime. I'm reminded of an episode in Somebody Feed Phil, where Phil Rosenthal says that the reason places such as the Fountain of Trevi are tourist traps is that these places are beautiful. I guess it's the same thing with DB novels, no? People keep reading them because they are satisfied in one way or another.

I'm sure that you can think of many authors who are much better thriller writers than DB. And I've heard of Umberto Eco (The Name of the Rose, Foucault's Pendulum) and Katherine Neville (The Eight) being referred to as the "thinking man's Dan Brown." Whut?! Does this mean that DB's readers are people who don't think, or at least those who don't like to think when they're reading? It's a very backhanded thing to say. I say let people enjoy themselves. And let he who sticks to formulas make his millions.