The Odyssey (700 BC) by Homer

It’s hard to write a review of The Odyssey without comparing it to The Iliad, which I liked. The battle scenes were viscerally affecting and it surprised me with its modernity. However, I found it a little too repetitive—I believe its English translation probably lacks the lyrical quality it must retain in its original Homeric Greek. Too many of the battle scenes are too similar; grand verse is dedicated to the poetic ways the Greeks and Trojans dismember each other, and the involvement of the gods is no minor thing, but this goes on for a bit too long and is rehashed a bit too often for my tastes, which leads to my hypothesis that The Iliad, in its original form, must have felt farm more song-like. The Fagles translation I read did a fantastic job of beautifying the language of his adaptation, but I still grew tired of it all by the end and ended up feeling like The Iliad was a bit too long in the 700+ page count of my Penguin edition. I was also surprised that it didn’t contain so many of the legendary events I’d grown familiar with via popular reputation: The sack of Troy, Achilles’ death, the Trojan horse, etc.

In general I’d say that I liked the book, but found it an uneven reading experience that’s probably far less enjoyable than it would have been in its native tongue.

I was surprised then, that The Odyssey turned out to be so different from its predecessor. Clocking in with 200 fewer pages than The Iliad, it manages to pack in a rollicking adventure tale brimming with wonderful locales and compelling, fantastical scenarios. Fantasy in general has never much been my thing, and the presence of gods, deities, and other immortal beings carelessly tossing about magic to suit the plot still turned me off, but I was nonetheless entranced by The Odyssey’s airy pace and appealing adventure. I suppose I should have expected it all along given its reputation, but I found it a fresh experience compared to its predecessor.

The Odyssey is a victim to some of the same repetitive pitfalls of The Iliad (I’d be curious to see just how many times the line “When young Dawn shone with his rose red fingers once more” and its minor variants appear in the text), but I’m not sure there’s any avoiding it if you want an accurate translation of the original. We’ll never get an English version of these stories that adequately recreates the poetry of the original Homeric Greek, but Fagles’ excellent version of The Odyssey is still a markedly more enjoyable read than its predecessor. Another criticism I'd make is the blatant deus ex machina resolutions which constantly occur throughout the book. Particularly egregious is that which occurs at the very end of the novel, in which Athena simply makes a bunch of people forget about how angry they are so everyone can live happily ever after. While this should have bothered me much more, the annoyance was dampened somewhat by the presence of so many similar resolutions throughout both The Iliad and The Odyssey already. If you can live with it up to this point then I suppose it won't wreck the story for you.

Despite these flaws The Odyssey proves itself worthy of its stature within the realm of classic literature and is recommendable to pretty much everybody considering its quick pace and satisfying conclusion. Especially recommendable to fans of modern fantasy, Homer’s tale seldom feels its age and is capable of standing toe-to-toe with the blockbuster Marvel films that are (perhaps unconsciously) inspired by it.

⭐⭐⭐⭐

The Metamorphosis (1915) by Franz Kafka

During my "I need to try and pretend I'm smart enough to read and enjoy this" pre-read research, I stumbled upon lengthy gushings by Vladimir Nabokov on Franz Kafka. Nabokov couldn't shut up about the quality of Kafka's prose, the genius of his storytelling, or the influential nature of his work. In reading The Metamorphosis, I could recognize all of these things. Kafka undeniably influenced the kitsch-loving postmodernist horde of hipsters reading his work now (not that there's anything wrong with those people, of course), and the absurd humor of The Metamorphosis in particular (I have yet to read anything else by him) is undeniable. I found myself amused immediately within reading the opening few paragraphs.

But as I continued into the second chapter, I began to realize I wasn't enjoying myself. So my question grew from "am I enjoying this?" into "why aren't I enjoying this?"

Kafka had a sad, depressing life. He lacked adequate feelings of self-worth, had few fruitful social relationships, was physically and mentally abused by his brute of a father, and was sexually frustrated. All of this shows in his work, and Metamorphosis perfectly captures these feelings via the medium of his storytelling. Therein lies the brilliance of Kafka. Though suppositions of allegory and symbolism persist even to today, I prefer Nabokov's view that this was a work which Kafka originally meant to be taken literally (or as literally as you can take it given what Kafka has written, at least). The story absent any intentions of subjectivity adequately imparts Kafka's feelings of hopelessness, shame, dissatisfaction with life. Of not belonging, and not being understood. Of being hated, even, or hating oneself.

And these themes are fine. Plenty of literature explores these types of things. But so much of Metamorphosis—perhaps due to Kafka's outlook on life—is relentlessly cynical, cruel, and depressing, that I couldn't enjoy it. Though very different in style, it felt like reading Cormac McCarthy—another extremely popular literary writer that I don't care for, despite my easy recognition of the wordporn qualities of his prose. To me, the core message of both is "life sucks, people are mean, and then you die". They both try and temper the hopeless bleakness of their work, of course; McCarthy tends to slip a sliver of hope into his stories, and Kafka tends towards snippets of absurd, black humor, but I could never find that the bits of levity created by either did enough to balance the level of cynicism in either.

In addition to this, much of the mode of Kafka's storytelling is simply not to my taste. I've never been a fan of absurdity and many of the tenets of the postmodernism that Kafka inspired fall flat on me. Perhaps I'm too old-fashioned; indeed I tend to prefer 19th century literature to its 20th century counterparts. Or perhaps I lack the imagination to deal with the subjectivity provided by postmodern literature. Whatever the case, I am at least able to grasp the quality of Kafka's storytelling. But it's something that simply falls well outside my taste.

So I've got to go with the laziest, safest, and lamest of all critiques: I didn't really enjoy this, but I can see the value of it. I can easily see why other people like it, and I don't fault them for it.

As I read this and thought about how I'd write my review (because I guess that's what I do now; think about my blog reviews as I'm reading like the massive internet nerd that I am), I tried to work through various different ways to apologize to the legendary late Mr. Nabokov for disliking Metamorphosis. I couldn't really come up with anything better than to admit to being a tawdry mouthbreather. And unlike Kafka, who seemed to hate himself, I'm okay with being who I am. Bad opinions and all.

⭐⭐

Norwegian Wood (1987) by Haruki Murakami

Norwegian Wood was a book I devoured.

I typically read multiple books concurrently. One in physical form, one on ereader. An audiobook for driving or menial tasks like washing the dishes. A short story collection in the bathroom.

Everything slipped into the background as I continued reading my first Murakami. Dumas' Monte Cristo and Kafka's Metamorphosis faded into a pleasant bokeh as Murakami's mood and characters sapped my whole focus.

I'd pick it up and disappear down his well for a few hours. It felt like drifting off into a nap. So much of this book is built on imparting a feeling; his prose flows even through translation and carries the mood without resorting colorful words. It reminded me of my favorite film, Lost In Translation, not so much in that they're both set in Japan, but that the real experience comes not so much from the plot, but the feel and the discourse between the characters. It's hard to get much more into discussing the plot without ruining its impact, so I'll just make a couple of lists instead.

Things Norwegian Wood is about: Estrangement, loneliness, sex, relationships, isolation, depression. The value of finding somebody who gets you, whether platonic or romantic. Having a flask of whisky or brandy handy when the going gets tough.

Things reading Norwegian Wood feels like: Firing up an electric blanket on a chilly day. A cup of tea steaming in front of a sunny, morning window. Rain and wet leaves and threadbare sweaters. My girlfriend's dorm room in the winter in sophomore year of college. The song Optimistic by Radiohead.

Since finishing it I've read many reviews calling this book sad, depressing, or melancholy. I was surprised to see this, as the book struck me very differently. It's certainly not a happy book, and plenty of sad things happen within its pages, but I didn't find it overly bleak either, and it's almost totally absent of the cynicism at the root of similar efforts. To me, it's hopeful; a rumination on death, its impact, and how it's a necessary part of life. It's about perseverance and dealing with tragedy rather than being about tragedy itself. I found the ending few paragraphs masterful in this respect; they left me with my head buzzing. I finished the book, closed it, and stared off into space for a few minutes while I thought about what I had just read. I decided that, more than anything else, it left me hopeful.

I loved this book. I found its characters human and real and I enjoyed the way it made me feel. Maybe you will, too.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

The Count of Monte Cristo (1844) by Alexandre Dumas

It feels like I've been reading this one for years, though it's only been about 3 months.

I plodded through what is perhaps Dumas' most famous work in fits and starts; devouring it by the chapter here and there, before reverting to consuming only a few pages per week, and back again. The Count of Monte Cristo has some really damaging pacing issues, possibly a quirk of its publishing format. It was originally published as a serial, and after reading through about half of it I ceased focusing on it by itself and began reading some other stuff concurrently. I enjoyed it a bit more when regularly spelling it with other books, as it's heavy enough that it needs some air here and there.

In general, I found the first and final thirds of the book consistently entertaining. While Dumas can dip into melodrama here and there (I swear some portions of Robin Buss's English dialogue feel more like an episode of the Simpsons lampooning The Count of Monte Cristo than the actual book itself), and, at times, his stubborn Romanticism bleeds through into places that call for a more realistic tone, I couldn't help but to enjoy the ride. It veers from Arabian Nights-like hashish-inspired dreams, to political drama and court intrigue, to classic Romance, and back again. As I made my way through its final pages, I found myself impressed at how tidily Dumas was able to tie up all of the loose ends.

When plodding through the middle of the book, however, I found myself continuously bogged down in new characters, new settings, and even callbacks to other more minor characters' backstories. There are several hundred pages in which the Count doesn't really do anything except plot his next move while attending the opera every damn night, which really slowed my progress and made wonder if I was reading the same "rollercoaster ride" everyone else praises as being action-packed. Once it does get moving again, though, it does reach a more than suitable conclusion as Dumas tidily clips each plot thread. There are a lot, and he manages them well, it just takes him some time to do so.

The greatest strength of the book is its plotting, and how differently it tells its story from beginning to end. I was shocked to find Dumas building up his protagonist, Dantes, only to have him switch gears several hundred pages in and begin to tell the story from several different points of view. While initially a bit bewildering, I felt it ended up giving me a strong viewpoint on just how much Dantes had changed from the beginning of the story, which was something that might not have been made obvious had our viewpoint remained aligned with Dantes' limited third person narration. Afterwards he becomes something of an enigma, and often I felt that I had forgotten for a moment who the titular Count actually was, thinking of him as a wholly different character, until Dumas would remind with a line here or there (one of my favorites is one of the Count's servants mentioning in passing that he never sleeps with the windows shut, as he always requires a view of the sky when indoors--a clear reference to his prior 14 years of imprisonment). In this way Dantes' character splits noticeably from the likable, naive protagonist of the first few pages, and becomes the cynical, driven Count, and we only see the two personae merge once again at key moments later in the story. The impact on me as a reader was astounding.

While telling such a grand story isn't without its pitfalls of convenience to help bring things together when necessary (there are not one, but two instances in which characters conveniently hear some privileged information by hiding in bushes at precisely the correct moment), I still felt amazed that Dumas was able to weave such a story together in such a deft manner. Perhaps most impressive is the way in which Dantes is able to attain his various revenges. None involve anything so trivial as open violence, as Dantes' prefers instead to rend his opponents' very souls in the most mentally destructive, ingenious ways possible. Dantes takes everything away from them, in the most painful ways possible, using only their own misdeeds. This is a game in which they've provided the pieces, and Dantes, moving as an unknown, using his persona of the Count as a mask, merely aligns these pieces against those who initially added them to the board. They aren't even aware someone is plotting their downfall until it's too late, and in many places of the story, we aren't either, until something clicks. Dumas arranges everything with subtlety, though sooner or later each new revelation or piece of minor information leads the reader to the outcome that Dumas has set up. Dumas is subtle with Dantes' movements; he doesn't insult his readers' intelligence, and prefers to leave the clues in front of the reader rather than tell them outright. It's something I grew to love about the story.

I found that some of the other characters lacked a compelling depth, though. There were a number I had become interested in who existed to drive the plot in a relatively artificial manner, and I felt like Dumas already had ample wordcount to turn them into something more. Dantes is fantastic, and I quite liked Caderousse's casual cowardice and opportunism, which requires no deep motivation to explain. Other characters, however, could have used some. Valentine serves as nothing more than the object of Morrel's affection, and some backstory as to just why Villefort is so driven and ambitious could have made the punch of the courthouse climax hit even harder. At times I felt that these characters didn't really have any reason as to why they are the way they are, or why they're making the decisions that they do. They simply do it because it suits the plot.

The Count of Monte Cristo is oddly uneven considering its reputation on the internet. Every time I see it mentioned it's met with nearly universal praise, but I found it pretty clearly flawed, though still enjoyable. I still can't shake the feeling that I seem to have read a different book than everyone else. Is the passive peer pressure of popular opinion really that strong? Did everyone secretly read an abridged copy and pretend otherwise? Am I just a nincompoop?

Well, one thing that sets it apart from every other book for me is its length: it now occupies the mantle of being the longest book I've ever read. So there's that.

⭐⭐⭐

Anne of Green Gables (1908) by L.M. Montgomery

As a mid-30-something year-old American man living in a New York City suburb in 2019, I chalk a lot of this Christian-inspired children's book set in rural Canada up to being very much not my thing, yet Anne's character still ended up appealing much to my hidden inner optimist. Lessons abound of accepting the good with the bad, always trying to look at the brighter side of things, and holding onto your childhood imagination. Anne is the spirit of perseverance and this book a reminder that there is always good present, no matter the situation, and that sometimes you just have to look a bit harder to find it.

Montgomery uses pithy, quotable prose, and balances her charming protagonist with the equally likable characters of Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert. The dialogue is excellent as well. Anne of Green Gables is one of the better examples of childrens' literature I've come across, and despite falling far outside my typical sphere of interest, has earned a permanent spot on my bookshelf.

⭐⭐⭐⭐

A Scandal in Bohemia (1891) (The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, #1) by Arthur Conan Doyle

I'm very much a fan of Holmes in the short story format and I can see why it's classically been the most popular format for the stories.

Doyle does masterly work in minimal pages in introducing the character of Irene Adler, whom I find to be equal to Holmes and Watson and hope to see much more of in future stories. Further, I enjoyed the King quite a bit despite his small screen time. Doyle has a knack for writing entertaining characters.

Doyle captures the details of Victorian London as well as ever, adding just enough detail to intrigue readers nearly 150 years after it was produced. The loafers scuffling about one another to try and earn a copper for opening a rich woman's cab door, the description of the more quiet streets of London after the sun has set, etc. Surely his goal was not to transport us backwards to his time so skillfully, since he was writing for a contemporary London audience, so it's strange how well A Scandal in Bohemia accomplishes this.

⭐⭐⭐⭐

The Sign of Four (1890) (Sherlock Holmes, #2) by Arthur Conan Doyle

The Holmes stories are surprisingly timeless; one might be shocked at how modern many of the characters and stories are. Holmes, as a character, will never go out of style. He's the quintessential mad scientist type; drug-addicted, uneven in social circumstances, and deeply brilliant on the topics which affect his chosen vocation while remaining ignorant on those that do not. Watson is not the "sidekick" he's so often depicted as, but more an interested bystander with his own goals and desires who becomes friends with his roommate, Holmes, and tags along. He's a protege only in that he's interested in Holmes' activities, not in that he has any real wish to train under Holmes or follow in his footsteps. You get the sense that, despite his age, he's already had his story and is settling into a sort of retirement, or second life. And that allows him to be a fully formed character in his own right, with the charming flaws that make characters so likable: On the surface he's a typical soldier; he's known women across the world, he loves gambling, etc. But we get to see him below the surface, as the observant, intelligent man he is. And having that surface coat of soldierly paint makes us like him all the more, privileged as we are to know his inner thoughts.

Probably most surprising to me when reading The Sign of Four is how much the characters and tone match Guy Ritchie's 2009 film. I've got a far different picture of Holmes in my head than Robert Downey, Jr., but the overall tone of that film—it's light-hearted strangeness, and the camaraderie of its two leads—very closely matches Doyle's original work.

The more time Holmes and Watson spend together, the more fun they are for us to spend time with. Like real-life best friends, they begin to speak more familiarly with one another, leading to fun dialogue between the two, with which we chuckle along like somebody at a party laughing at a joke from outside the discussion circle.

The mystery narratives are spiritual successors to Edgar Allan Poe's The Murders in the Rue Morgue. Poe may have blazed the trail, but Doyle's stories are far more polished in terms of characterization, pace, and setting. From Poe Doyle also picks up the strangeness that makes the Holmes tales more colorful: Perhaps inspired by Poe's inclusion of the murderous ape run amok, Doyle throws at us peg-legged criminals and malformed midgets from across the globe in The Sign of The Four, or the spontaneous, mid-narrative break into the story of Joseph Smith and the founding of the Mormonism in the Americas in Doyle's previous episode, A Study In Scarlet. These stories are apt mysteries without these quirks, but they serve to break up the pacing and seriousness of a crime story that might have become too dry or bleak without them.

The only criticism I feel comfortable leveling at the story is the way the conclusion is presented via an expository dump. Perhaps there might have been a way of more organically fitting it into greater story. I suppose this is going to become a norm among Holmes stories moving forward.

Doyle's Holmes stories are peak entertainment; well-written and eminently readable for all generations. The Sign of Four, like its predecessor, provides us with a fun windowpane via which to gaze on late-Victorian London.

⭐⭐⭐⭐

The Quiet American (1955) by Graham Greene

A lot is said about the prescience of this novel regarding its analysis of 20th century Vietnam, Western colonialism, and the spread of Communism, but I found it most enticing just as a piece of character-driven fiction. This is my first exposure to Greene (at least, in the written form—I have seen the film The Third Man, which was penned by him), and it left me quite moved. He's a talented writer and shows his chops constantly through The Quiet American, able to make even the most mundane details shine brilliantly and the more noteworthy ones singularly affecting.

The story was at its best, in my opinion, when allowing the two main characters play off one another. Pyle and Fowler are magnificent foils for each other and I enjoyed watching them spar, though I didn't particularly like either one. Fowler is at least honest with his cynical moral laziness, while Pyle—the stereotypical American, even today—revels in his misguided, naive heroism, as if he were the star of his own Hollywood film. Frequently I detested both of them.

No matter how prettily Greene was able to present Fowler's (and perhaps his own) inner thoughts to us with his prose, I couldn't shake the discomfort one feels when at a small gathering with a group of people you dislike, but are forced together with by social responsibility; like a family party with distant relatives you'd rather not (and normally would never) associate with. Greene's lovely writing and interesting characters kept me reading, but I can't say I was enjoying myself all too often as it's far from a happy story.

Though Pyle and Fowler are interesting, fully-formed characters, I was dismayed that Phuong wasn't given more screen time. Almost all we know of her comes from Fowler's thoughts, since she is overly reserved for the vast majority of the story. I found her way of life fascinating on the surface, and her quiet strength intriguing, and would have liked to have seen more of her.

With American, Greene has managed to produce something that is simultaneously a quick and easy read, while also dense with solid characterization and the exploration of contemporary sociopolitical ideas. It's made me a fan of Greene, and I look forward to exploring more of his work soon, but first I've got to shower off with Siddhartha, Anne of Green Gables, or something similarly toned to heighten my mood.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Morella (1835) by Edgar Allan Poe

I seldom listen to novels and short stories in audiobook format these days, but was fortunate enough to come across Morella, read by Wayne June.

For me, Poe succeeds where H.P. Lovecraft so often fails, both in terms of his more concrete subject matter that I greatly prefer over the unknowable cosmic horror of Lovecraft, and in terms of craft, where he manages the same atmospheric punch as Lovecraft without so frequently resorting to purple prose.

Wayne June's narration, though unsubtle to the point of wrenching the spotlight away from Poe at times, is otherwise spot-on and added to my enjoyment of the story.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

The Lottery (1948) by Shirley Jackson

WARNING: Lots of spoilers in this review! Turn back now if you haven't read The Lottery yet!

Mom: Hi Jon! How are things?
Me: Great! Just picked up Shirley Jackson's short stories collection. Looking forward to reading some of them pretty soon. I think I'm going to start with The Lottery.
Mom: Oh, is that the one where they stone the woman to death?

Thanks Mom.

It's hard for me to review this because it was so expertly spoiled for me, and I always have a hard time reading something and giving it an honest shot when I already know the reveal, especially when the reveal is the most impactful part of the story, as it is with The Lottery.

Jackson's strength has always been maintaining an air of normalcy and serving up the weirdness with a slow-drip, as if you're the frog who doesn't notice the water temperature is slowly rising until you're speeding headfirst into a tree to end the novel with your own suicide boiling. The Lottery is similar in this regard, as there are subtle hints that something's off ("wait, why are these boys collecting rocks?") while remaining otherwise focused on the dry minutiae of daily village life.

Jackson's pacing of the story is its strength. She maintains a perfect grasp of just how much normalcy to feed the reader before dropping the bomb, and the story ends at the perfect location as well, leaving the juicy violence to the reader's imagination rather than indulging us all and describing it in detail.

My only wish is that there was more depth, but what's absent becomes the real meat of the story. Why is this tradition in place? Why haven't the people seen fit to do away with it yet, as other villages have? Jackson's depiction of tradition as being a weight around the ankle of a drowning man is nothing new now, but was core to the feeling of the time in which she was writing and provides ample chewing material beyond this short story's runtime.

A neat little story that captures what Shirley Jackson does best.

⭐⭐⭐