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.

⭐⭐⭐

The Complete Short Stories (1925) by Ernest Hemingway (In-Progress)

The best short stories always seem capable of crafting a meaningful episode populated by interesting characters in such few pages, and this suits Hemingway's trademark style perfectly.

I was awestruck immediately on cracking this one open with a pair of absolute spellbinding examples of short fiction, The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber and The Snows of Kilimanjaro—both of which I found of high enough quality that they deserved their own reviews, which I've linked.

A young Ernest Hemingway

The Nick Adams stories which follow are often subtle and worthwhile. One particular example of great characterization from Hemingway was in The Battler, which sees the titular Nick Adams character absorb a beating before coming face-to-face with a former prizefighter who's absorbed far too many. The episode is notable for what isn't discussed, as perhaps Adams sees what he could become in the future should he continue on his current path as a vagabond and tramp. Ad Francis is an unstable force—friendly and talkative one moment, brooding and violent the next—and his scarred visage puts Adams off immediately, despite the initially welcoming nature of the man. Perhaps what frightens Adams most is the similarity between this man and himself, rather than the potentially aggressive and violent nature of Francis.

Also notable is the character of Bugs, who's referred to pejoratively with racist epithets through the narrative, but shows himself to be the warm, welcoming, intelligent character that Francis initially appears. Hemingway, a famous fan of Mark Twain's, plays off his contemporary readers' expectations with the character and subverts their expectations as Twain did with his stories.

Note: This review is in-progress. I'll add more thoughts as I continue to read.

A Christmas Carol (1843) by Charles Dickens

I've read most classic writers, whether in school or since, despite my lack of reviews on this website. However I'm ashamed to admit that this is my first exposure—ever—to Charles Dickens. I'm not sure how I managed to avoid all of his novels, novellas, short stories, and the like up to this point, but here we are. And after experiencing his work for the first time I can confidently consider it a failing not only of my own reading choices, but of our education system.

Perhaps most affecting in the story is how much of myself I saw in Scrooge. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that that might have been Dickens' intent. We're all curmudgeonly, miserly, and stingy with our affections at times, and Scrooge's initial character represents that quite well. While this novel did a lot to reform the Christmas holiday and popularize it, it's also a general reminder for us to be more kind, generous, and empathetic towards one-another, which, from what I understand, is a common theme in Dickens' work.

The changes Scrooge goes through in subsequent pages, though unsubtle, is touching and doesn't seem cloying, though it very well could have in the hands of a lesser writer. The dialogue and Dickens' imagination in designing the spirits are particular highlights for me.

Though it's equal parts comical and beautifully written, what's most striking is that Dickens prose remains so readable now, nearly 200 years after he began writing. I breezed through A Christmas Carol pretty easily, and I sometimes have troubled getting into Victorian literature.

I went in somewhat cynical, but Dickens changed my mind. This is every bit the influential modern fable it's reputed to be, and I'm looking forward to making up for lost time and reading more Dickens next year. Perhaps The Pickwick Papers next, followed by Oliver Twist?

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

The Snows of Kilimanjaro (1936) by Ernest Hemingway

It's easy to miss a lot of the more introspective qualities of Hemingway's work. Granted, they are often hidden behind (or perhaps overshadowed by) the bombastic, hyper-masculine chest-thumping he's famous for. But the more self-conscious passages in which he struggles with self-doubt, failures in character, and deeds left undone are present in most of his enduring works for those willing to look beyond the lion-hunting, war-fighting, cocktail-drinking, and womanizing.

Snows differs from some of his other work in that these qualities are much more readily apparent. And though less delicate in their presentation, the honesty with which they're laid bare creates an intriguing, layered main character in just a few dozen pages; one that reveals Hemingway is not lacking the self-awareness that his naysayers seem to conveniently ignore.

Beautifully written in the terse prose that influenced American literature for the remainder of the 20th century, The Snows of Kilimanjaro is quintessential Hemingway and thus not to be missed by anybody with any interest in classic American literature.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber (1936) by Ernest Hemingway

This was originally a short story I wasn't going to review. It was another solid effort from Hemingway, pretty typical of his quality and similar in theme to his other stories I'd read in the past. Worth reading but somewhat unremarkable in the presence of his canon.

I ended up doubling back to write this a month or so after I read it because the story resonated with me more over time. I read many short stories and since this I've dipped into Shirley Jackson, Pynchon, some of Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes, Poe (who's one of my very favorite writers), Lovecraft (who's very much not one of my favorite writers), etc. And still this one seems to occupy a growing amount of brain real estate.

The characters are what most stuck with me. Each of the three main characters has their own voice and their own motivations and the titular Francis Macomber makes a drastic change in a story that involves a lot of introspection on his part. There is great difficulty in being confronted with our own faults. We're either crushed by them or evolve to overcome them, and that's what the story is about for Francis.

The more Hemingway I read, the more easily I'm able to turn aside criticisms of his focus on masculinity as dampening the quality of his work. In stories like this I find Hemingway to be intensely aware of his own weakness rather than thumping his chest and celebrating himself as a pillar of masculine vigor. In turning the spotlight on Francis's cowardice, Hemingway seems to be examining his own. I found it a deeply insecure and personal story for the writer.
The other two characters are equally intriguing. I didn't hate Margot and was surprised to see that other readers did. On the contrary, when considering her situation I actually grew somewhat sympathetic to her. She is certainly not a sympathetic character, but neither did I find her to be shallowly evil. Her marriage with Francis is not a happy one and the two are left in a martial power struggle because of their inability to end their involvement. Margot uses the weapons at her disposal to wound Francis in this martial cold war, and Francis does the same to Margot. I didn't find her to be a shoddily written women-are-evil type character that reviewers seem keen to toss Hemingway under the bus for, and, frankly, I find that critique to be as shallow and dishonest as it paints Margot. There's more here than that.

The only character I couldn't find much sympathy for was Wilson, who himself can't seem to find much sympathy for anyone in the story aside from the lion. Wilson shows little humanity and rationalizes his disinterest and near-sociopathy in childlike ways. He also provides an interesting foil to Macomber and Margot: two people who seem to care too much.

Wilson is the archetypal man's man in this story—the brave and capable hunter—and he's also the least likable fellow of the bunch. I believe Hemingway was aware of this and intended it. I don't think this is a story which says to us that Wilson is the ideal, and that Francis's weakness and cowardice is what dooms him. I believe it's a story that says to us that all men are weak and cowardly, and that examining this weakness, knowing it, coming to terms with, and overcoming it, is what true masculinity—or even humanity—is all about. Wilson is "strong" because he doesn't care. He's a man alone with no family or friends. Francis becomes strong because he does.

But perhaps I'm just projecting all of this onto the story because I enjoyed reading it. Perhaps it was intended to say the exact opposite of the message I took from it and I'm a total nincompoop. Either way, I quite enjoyed The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber. I enjoyed the characters, their power dynamic, and I greatly enjoyed the ending, which I found profound. Hemingway definitely has some stinkers, but this short story isn't one of them. It serves as a great companion for the introspective, cerebral, and more well-known The Snows of Kilimanjaro.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

The Iliad (750 BC) by Homer

The Iliad is surprisingly modern in its level, deep treatments of its characters on both sides. Achilles is a particularly interesting study in what a spoiled diva not unlike an '80s glam rock star would have been had they been granted godlike skill at arms and been transported to 13th century BC Anatolia. Its realistic depiction of violence and the horrors of war was surprising to me, the rang genuine when I expected a more romanticized version. I particularly enjoyed the character of Diomedes, someone I had never previously heard of but found quite memorable in action. His duel with Aphrodite stood out as a scene I'll never forget. The hulking figure of Ajax was equally inspirational.

Fagles' translation is often beautiful and I doubt a much better job will ever be done. The caliber of his English "prosetry" was something else that greatly surprised on reading this particular translation:

"Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men. Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts with the new buds and spring comes round again. And so with men: as one generation comes to life, another dies away."

"Any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we're doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again." 

"The sort of words a man says is the sort he hears in return." 

"The proud heart feels not terror nor turns to run and it is his own courage that kills him." 

"Even a fool may be wise after the event." 

"We are perpetually labouring to destroy our delights, our composure, our devotion to superior power. Of all the animals on earth we least know what is good for us. My opinion is, that what is best for us is our admiration of good." 

Homer

As with all translations, it's difficult to tell where Homer begins and Fagles ends, but regardless, the text is littered with great tidbits such as these that make it worth reading just by themselves. But despite Fagles' best efforts, I can't help feeling like there will forever be something lost in translation to readers not experiencing The Iliad in its native language. In English, Homer's great work unfortunately falls too frequently into a repetitiveness that lacks whatever poetic musicality it must have featured in Homeric Greek to instead become filler-esque bloat that drags down the entire work in its English form and hampers its flow.

Even despite that, this is a stunningly gorgeous read—even in the modern English language so far removed from its original Homeric Greek—and well worth a read for anyone interested in a fantastic, larger-than-life war story. It stands among the best ever penned, and I can't heap enough praise on Fagles' gorgeous English prose.

⭐⭐⭐

The Greek Myths (1955) by Robert Graves

I'm not sure whether to give this a negative review because Graves' delivery is so dry it seems almost intentionally unengaging, or to give it a great review because it's an all-encompassing study of the sources available for us today. Indeed, this belongs on everyone's bookshelf for quick reference. Or at least, it would have before the internet was invented.

Probably my lack of enjoyment of this volume stems from the fact that I thought it was something it was not until I opened it and began reading it. I was expecting a collection of short fiction in which Graves skillfully imparts Greek myths, and I instead got terse blurbs describing them with each followed by a lengthy discussion on the sources and historiography from Graves himself. While this is an invaluable tool to anybody studying or teaching mythology in an academic sense, it makes for very dry pleasure reading, and I ended up putting it down about halfway through and picking up Homer's Iliad instead.

HI am familiar with this type of tome, having studied history as an undergrad. But I can't say I missed the instances of several passages discussing names, births, and progeny, droning on and on ad nauseam. But again, this is counterbalanced by the fact that this is a fantastic collection, including sources, of these myths.

Perhaps I'm just not a fan of Graves' style. I didn't love I, Claudius despite having a keen interest in Roman Civ, and I certainly didn't love this. But I still feel it holds some value due to the quality of its study and its value as a quick reference tome for anybody interested in Greek Mythology.

⭐⭐

The Fellowship of the Ring (1954) (The Lord of the Rings, #1) by J.R.R. Tolkien

Rereading Martin's A Song of Ice And Fire—something written specifically as a counterpoint to Tolkien's work, and the various works in fantasy Tolkien inspired with it—has led me to realize just how off-the-rails HBO's famous (infamous?) television adaptation has gone. While earlier seasons stick closely to Martin's work (to great effect), latter seasons begin to depart, first in minor fashion, then in necessarily major strides as they surpass Martin's books and the weight of wrapping up the series falls on their heads alone. This has had the expected disastrous effect on the show's writing quality; a series once praised for its gray characters, complex machinations, and authentic fantasy world has devolved almost completely into a Marvel-inspired fantasy epic that consistently breaks its own rules and resorts to cheap faked-death cliffhangers where once it was renowned for playing seriously with its characters lives. The show is completely unrecognizable from its source material. Its appeal remains as genre pulp; fan-pleasing mental junk food that's pretty to look at but no longer espouses the qualities that made it so revered.

Imagine my surprise, then, to learn that Peter Jackson's now world-famous Lord of the Rings film adaptations are actually quite adherent to their source material. I was in high school when the film series released and had not yet read Tolkien's legendary masterwork, yet I adored the films for the ethereal, otherworldly sets, make-up, and special effects they provided, bolstered further by the iconic score constructed by Howard Shore; one now so iconic to fantasy films that it rivals comparisons of Ennio Morricone's famous spaghetti western themes.

In stark contrast to the HBO adaptation of Ice and Fire falling far short of Martin's work, I honestly believe that Fellowship works far better as a film than it ever did as a novel, and that Jackson's rendition of Tolkien's work is about as perfect as you can hope for. I'll even go as far as saying I'm shocked that this isn't a more common opinion.

In novel form, perhaps the strongest aspect is Tolkien's grasp of language. Not the English language in specific, but of the history of language: its etymology. Tolkien's background as a linguist allows him to construct the foundation of this world not with long paragraphs of exposition (although he does frequently fall victim to this), but with words; the languages present, names of structures and lands, and even the songs the characters sing. A lot of Middle-Earth feels fantastical because it's built around these languages. It does a lot to impart a feeling of foreignness that so much modern fantasy lacks.

Most disappointing to me was the constant parroted opinion that the characters of the films are much simpler versions of their book counterparts. I can confidently say, at least in this first episode, that this isn't entirely true. Are the characters altered? Sure: Gimli is used a bit too much as comic relief in the films and his people and character lack development, but honestly, he doesn't get much development in this novel, either.

And that's my main problem with Fellowship. Where the film has its fantastic visuals to fall back on, the book has only descriptions. Which is fine, but I wanted something more. I yearned for something like Martin's brilliant, colorful cast of dozens of characters, or Abercrombie's biting sardonic wit to fill these pages. The bulk of Fellowship is filled with our characters moving from place to place, experiencing this wonderful world that Tolkien has created, but we learn very little of them and not enough depth of these locales we're witnessing is provided. Tolkien breezes past description of ruins, rivers, old settlements, etc, with very little time devoted to creating any depth or substance. Sure, those ruins sound great. I like ruins! But then we're onward once again.
Instead it felt too often that Tolkien caved to his indulgence, filling his pages with something like song, which is fine as a display of this world's culture, but I wanted something more substantial to dig into.

I am admittedly not a huge fan of fantasy. I've read quite a bit of it, but very little I've liked, and maybe it's just the fantasy formula in general that turns me off of Fellowship rather than Tolkien himself. After all, this is a beloved novel. But it just wasn't for me. Too much of it was pretty window-dressing; meandering through lovely lands without meaningful history. Contrary to what Tolkien fans espouse, the characters were paper-thin and failed to grow, and the world, though pretty to imagine, never inspired me with its history like Martin's does, even when he's at his most indulgent and taking us on seemingly pointless tours through Essos in A Dance With Dragons.

After finishing, I began to view Martin not so much as the aforementioned "counterpoint" to Tolkien, but rather an evolution of him, as I believe Martin features a lot of what makes Tolkien attractive—an old, interesting world and a compelling narrative with strong themes—but Martin constructs his world and his characters with more care and roots said construction more within reality than fantasy, and provides each with exponentially more depth, thus making them far more intriguing than Tolkien does his.

Yes, yes, I know: Burn the witch. Who doesn't adore LOTR? But I can't help it: This is my second time reading Fellowship, and charming though he can be, Tolkien just doesn't work for me.

⭐⭐

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow (1820) by Washington Irving

Irving's talent for description reminds me a bit of Stevenson's, however, the story lacks the depth of something like Jekyll and Hyde and Irving's prose tends to get away from him when compared to the tighter efforts of similar work. Sleepy Hollow began to wear thin near the halfway mark of the story.

The real value here is in the richly colored depiction of early American life in the Tappan Zee area and the Northern European folkloric influences Irving adapts for this story.

⭐⭐⭐

The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890) by Oscar Wilde

Wilde probably had written so many plays and so much poetry despite having only a single novel and a relatively small amount of short stories because prose doesn't seem to feature his particular talents—describing beautiful things in a witty fashion using beautiful words, and coming up with scandalous scenarios—as much as the other media of writing do. Certainly this novel seems to expose some of his flaws as a writer.

I found I couldn't connect with any of the characters, who felt more like talking heads existing to pass on Wilde's philosophical diatribe than human beings to which interesting things happen. Most glaringly, I couldn't understand the other characters' attachments to Dorian Gray, who, by my estimation, was nothing more than a pretty face. There certainly wasn't anything substantial within his character that drew me or, indeed, would draw anybody else. He's an empty vessel; we're told he's beautiful and he is wealthy, but he displays nothing at all of his own character in the entire first half of the book, never mind anything interesting.

I often felt that the three main characters blended together. They seem to lack many differentiating beliefs and they all speak with an almost identical voice. There was very little separating them whatsoever; especially Lord Henry and Dorian. The three seemed all to be facets of Wilde himself, indeed upon my research of the book I learned that he thought of them as such, too. None have their own unique character, save small differentiating factors: Basil has a sentimentalist streak, Lord Henry is just Dorian, but a bit older and more experienced.

Wilde's prose is littered with the witticisms he's known for and it's beautifully constructed, but I still can't help but think he makes a better poet and playwright than novelist. Dorian Gray reads more like a collection of nicely packaged Oscar Wilde quotes than it does a stand-alone novel. The pacing felt uneven as well; it's front-loaded with a slog of philosophical soliloquy as we're immediately piled on with Wilde's new Hedonism as provided gleefully by Lord Henry. Dorian is immediately taken with it, but from there the story takes a bit too long to get going as Wilde indulges himself in depictions of London's high society at the turn of the century, opera and plays and dinner parties and the like. Subsequent to this is Dorian's years-long slide into debauchery, which, disappointingly, is summarized within one chapter, punctuated by a peculiar set of forgettable paragraphs that drone on while listing all of passions which he indulges over the years. This was disappointing to me since the development of Dorian Gray as a character was what I was most looking forward to in the story. However Wilde recovers himself towards the end and remembers he's writing a damned novel, and eventually does add some characterization and move the plot along through the last 60 pages or so.


If you like Wilde's work, you'll probably like this. He chooses a spectacular premise to build the book around but my dissatisfaction stems from my feeling that he failed in constructing the pillars the story needed to rest upon. His philosophy is interesting as well, but I feel it failed in its application.

There's enough here to recommend a read, as Wilde is particularly well-suited to the description of beautiful things. I certainly came away with a bevy of new highlights. But I found it all ultimately superficial, Wilde's attempt at throwing a gloss over raw philosophical ramblings, something highly ironic considering the subject matter of The Picture of Dorian Gray.

⭐⭐⭐

Dubliners (1914) by James Joyce

James Joyce isn’t scary.

At least, not in Dubliners. I was nervous to read Joyce, as I’m somewhat of a neophyte to classic literature, and Joyce’s reputation is that of a nearly impenetrable etymological, historical, and poetic genius. But, luckily for me, this is no Finnegans Wake (which I once peeked into to see what all the fuss was about and set down almost immediately, feeling like I was reading a different language). It’s no Ulysses, either. Hell, even A Portrait of the Young Man As An Artist is a measurably tougher read than Dubliners. I came to learn after beginning that Joyce purposely wrote it to be the most approachable of his works; the polar opposite of Finnegans Wake, which requires the footnotes and annotations of an almost post-graduate level of study to be rendered even somewhat coherent. No, Dubliners is Joyce at his most consumable, most easily digestible, and still provides as much soulful nourishment as any other work I’ve ever read—which is admittedly not very much, yet.

It’s not altogether correct to describe Joyce’s Dubliners as a short story collection. It may be technically accurate, sure. But while these can be read stand-alone–and indeed, I began reading Dubliners with the goal of reviewing each story individually on Goodreads – they’re better taken in as a singular work as each story elevates the others. It’s far greater than the sum of its parts when approached as a novel rather than a collection of short stories.

There were some chapters I deemed forgettable when I tried to analyze them in a vacuum. But reading Farrington’s despicable character in Counterparts prior to Maria’s sweet, independent loneliness in Clay before finally wading through Duffy’s regretful heartbreak in A Painful Case provides such a rollercoaster of emotions that consuming the three in one sitting is a far different experience than reading one of the trio by itself. Thus I’d recommend against approaching this like a typical short story collection and suggest reading it as a novel instead.

A number of the stories depict the more mundane aspects of Dublin life, but Joyce’s prose elevates everything to a higher level. From Joyce’s pen the mundane springs beautifully and the beautiful emerges jaw-droppingly. Joyce is at his best when he writes about love. I have yet to read any author from any country in any time period who is able to approach depicting the feeling of love as skillfully as Joyce does.

These are not all happy stories, though. This is realist literature, after all. And they’re not always coherent, either—modernist, too. Joyce assumes his readers’ intelligence and often leaves it to them to fill in the blanks. While this can be frustrating when attempted by a sub par writer, it works beautifully when done by Joyce, and adds another facet of quality to the stories rather than detracting from their impact with ambiguity.

Perhaps the only negative (albeit a subjective one) I experienced when reading this was my own lack of consistent understanding regarding the constant references to the city, its social norms, and its religion. This struck me particularly with the story Ivy Day in the Committee Room, which centers upon several men attempting to create a fire of Catholicism in their friend, a converted Protestant, who takes little interest in the religion and only converted in order to marry his Catholic wife. I’m too ignorant of Catholicism to dig deeper than the surface of what they were discussing and initially it seemed nothing more than a relatively dry story of a man’s friends striving to make him more religious. It was only after I referred to some analysis of the story online that I realized these friends, throughout the conversation, were blatantly wrong with many of their assertions and references to the history of the Catholic church. Another reference I missed was that the priest himself was named after a street in Dublin’s old red light district, and was surrounded by motifs of the color red through the entire final scene. With this added context, Ivy Day becomes much deeper; it morphs from a fairly bland story into a subtly scathing criticism of many of Dublin’s denizens in what Joyce depicts as a fair-weather form of Catholicism which saves nary a soul.

The fact that I’m not a Catholic and not from Dublin constantly detracted from my enjoyment of the book throughout, and caused me to regularly refer to the gratuitous endnotes my edition contained, along with exterior internet analysis, to get the most out of Dubliners. This is very much a subjective criticism, of course, but something to note nonetheless.

Perhaps due to this ignorance of so much of its subject matter, when I think of my time reading Dubliners, I think first about emotion: love, melancholy, relief, sorrow, regret. Joyce’s writing left such a specter roaming my brain that I recall the raw emotion I felt while reading Dubliners more than I recall any of its rumination upon Dublin’s character, religion, and politics. I’m not sure I’ve ever had the written word affect me so much as some of these stories have, and the fact that I’m neither from Dublin nor, obviously, a 100+ year old man who lived at the time in which Joyce was writing, is a testament to Joyce’s skill in conveying these ideas. Doing so with such mundane, everyday stories of regular people renders Dubliners even more impressive.

Even apart from their context, his words are powerful:

“One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.”

“He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances. He had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third person and a verb in the past tense.”

“Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.”

“I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.” 

“When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street.”

Despite this beauty, reading through Dubliners was up-and-down for me. Joyce's prose is clearly enrapturing and I always feel myself settle into the reverie that comes with reading a really, really good writer each time I sit down to continue reading. While all his short stories in this collection deal with some sort of epiphany or another, I find that not all of these epiphanies have hit me as hard as he probably intended. Perhaps some of this is the fact that I'm reading this 100 years after he had written it. Perhaps it's also due to the fact that I am not Irish, or that I've spent nowhere near long enough in Dublin to grasp its eccentricities. This has left me with the feeling more of reading some good word porn rather than being impacted by a great story, and I'm thankful my paperback copy has a healthy amount of annotations to help me grasp a bit of what Joyce is assuming is colloquial knowledge regarding Dublin's early 20th century neighborhoods, popular restaurants, streets, and buildings.

To add to this difficulty, I often have the feeling when experiencing sparse modernist work like this that the artist, rather than being purposefully ambiguous for greater impact, is being purposefully obtuse in an attempt to obscure the fact that the story is rather threadbare and create a facade of more depth than actually exists. I couldn't shake that feeling while reading the very first story in the collection, The Sisters, despite Joyce's reputation as a literary Titan.

Don't get me wrong; The Sisters is a beautifully atmospheric work by Joyce despite the fact that it leaves the reader to fill in the blanks and place their own suppositions. Though I enjoyed his skill at setting the tone and found some portions of his prose outright gorgeous, Sisters didn't do enough for me. Maybe I'm too old-fashioned, concrete, and objective; too much a philosophical Luddite to really get modernism? But that's unfortunately not a question I'm equipped to answer.

“I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.”

As I continued reading I found myself more and more invested in the sheer beauty of Joyce's words, even if I couldn't fully relate to the stories themselves. The third story, titled Araby, is a stunningly beautiful coming-of-age vignette in which a boy becomes aware of his unrealistic idealism. Joyce's style is subtle almost to a fault, but engulfing. He assumes the reader's intelligence and floods his prose with gorgeous personification and simile. Reading this was more like experiencing a painting than it was reading a short story. Wonderful.


However, it wasn't until the eighth story, titled A Little Cloud, that I found the first story I could truly relate to; one not centered upon examining Dublin, Irish Nationalist politics, Catholicism, or alcoholism.

Centered around Little Chandler, a 32-year old timid, introverted, married man with a child who, upon meeting an old friend Galleher, realizes the path his life has taken and begins to yearn for Galleher's more well-traveled, Bohemian lifestyle. Joyce's class as a writer allows him to impact the melancholy of the existential worry Chandler feels, even though as a single, childless, 30-something travel junky my own life is more similar to Galleher's than Chandler's.

A Little Cloud is particularly appealing to me because it explores an internal, subconscious conversation I've had with myself constantly: Am I missing something important by choosing to live this way? Is it a 'grass is always greener' situation? Am I making the right choice? These questions are asked of themselves by more Western adults in 2018 than in the preceding decades, given our economic and political climate—particularly in the United States—and thus I wouldn't be surprised if this story is similarly impactful to other millennials who might choose to break into reading Joyce with Dubliners.

In addition to the story's particular appeal to me, there are the usual nuggets of Joyce's poetic brilliance nestled into the prose that make it a complete joy to read:

"The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks. It cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the moving figures — on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths and on everyone who passed through the gardens."

And then, finally, comes The Dead. Joyce saves his best for last. The Dead is a wonderfully written; a melancholy short story that encapsulates Dubliners very well. It touches on the same subject matter; Irish nationalism, the Catholic church, alcoholism, the city of Dublin. The closing lines are particularly moving and do a fantastic job to end Dubliners as a whole:

“His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.”

The Dead is considered a masterpiece of short fiction, and I feel it makes a perfect endcap to Dubliners, being literary while also remaining approachable enough to be easily recommended as the jumping-off point for anyone interested to read Joyce. It's the only story I believe truly works as a stand-alone within this collection.

Dubliners's impeccable craft is impossible to deny, but I couldn’t shake the fact while reading it that it wasn’t written for me. It encapsulates the city of its namesake and will resonate most with its denizens. For the rest of us, though, Dubliners's other strengths do more than enough to suggest a read—and even a re-read if you’ve already walked the streets of Dublin with Joyce once before.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐