Started by jenkins, August 13, 2013, 02:18:30 PM
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QuoteTN: Franzen wrote an essay describing the reader-writer relationship as either Status based or a Contract model, emphasizing the decision to either err on the side of difficulty without compromising aesthetic, or sustain the reader's trust. For whom do you write?SDLP: Are those my only two choices? If so, then I reject them both as dully simplistic. Ultimately, why or for whom I write is of no moment to me; I'm too busy writing to much care. But if I were to engage with the spirit of your question, I suppose readers would do well to manufacture a state of artistic openness.
QuoteThe White Review — What do you read apart from the classics such as Kafka?László Krasznahorkai — When I am not reading Kafka I am thinking about Kafka. When I am not thinking about Kafka I miss thinking about him. Having missed thinking about him for a while, I take him out and read him again. That's how it works. It's precisely the same with Homer, Dante, Dostoevski, Proust, Ezra Pound, Beckett, Thomas Bernhard, Attila József, Sándor Weöres and Pilinszky...
QuoteHe woke to discover that he had undergone a metamorphosis and become Gregor Samsa.
QuoteSamsa had no idea where he was, or what he should do. All he knew was that he was now a human whose name was Gregor Samsa. And how did he know that? Perhaps someone had whispered it in his ear while he lay sleeping? But who had he been before he became Gregor Samsa? What had he been?
QuoteSamsa looked down in dismay at his naked body. How ill-formed it was! Worse than ill-formed. It possessed no means of self-defense. Smooth white skin (covered by only a perfunctory amount of hair) with fragile blue blood vessels visible through it; a soft, unprotected belly; ludicrous, impossibly shaped genitals; gangly arms and legs (just two of each!); a scrawny, breakable neck; an enormous, misshapen head with a tangle of stiff hair on its crown; two absurd ears, jutting out like a pair of seashells. Was this thing really him? Could a body so preposterous, so easy to destroy (no shell for protection, no weapons for attack), survive in the world? Why hadn't he been turned into a fish? Or a sunflower? A fish or a sunflower made sense. More sense, anyway, than this human being, Gregor Samsa.
Quote"Is this the Samsa residence?" the woman said, craning her head up to look at him. Then she twisted her body all over. Much the way the earth twists during a violent earthquake.
QuoteSamsa closed the door behind her. She stood there, looking him up and down. It seemed that his gown and slippers had aroused her suspicions.
QuoteOnce again, the woman writhed suddenly. Samsa had no idea what this action meant or what its purpose was. Yet he was drawn by instinct to the complex sequence of movements.
QuoteBack bent, the young woman took the heavy black bag in her right hand and toiled up the stairs, much like a crawling insect.
Quote"Just talk?""There is so much I want to ask you," Samsa said."About what?""About this world. About you. About me. I feel like there are so many things we need to talk about. Tanks, for example. And God. And brassieres. And locks."
QuoteSamsa certainly had no idea what lay ahead. He was in the dark about everything: the future, of course, but the present and the past as well. What was right, and what was wrong? Just learning how to dress was a riddle.
Quote"Look out for birds," he called after her. She turned and nodded. Then she walked out to the street.
Quote from: polkablues on October 22, 2013, 12:26:25 AMTo be fair, I've only read 1Q84 and about half of Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. Like I said, the actual writing is fantastic, the ideas and themes are strong, I just question his capability (or possibly his desire) to frame them into a narrative. If he were to abandon plot altogether, I think he would be entirely in his element and I would enjoy his novels much more.
Quote from: jenkins<3 on October 22, 2013, 04:51:08 AMcrazy talki'm blaming 1Q84
QuoteIt was supposed to be only a temporary job--something to pay the bills until Dusty could get his feet back on the ground and raise enough money for medical school. After all, there's nothing wrong with being a bellboy at a respectable hotel like the Manton--that is, until she came along.Marcia Hillis. The perfect woman. Beautiful. Experienced. Older and wiser. The only woman to ever measure up to that other her--the one whose painful rejection Dusty can't quite put from his mind.But while Dusty has designs on Marcia, Marcia has an agenda of her own. One that threatens to pull the Manton inside-out, use Dusty up for all he's worth and leave him reeling and on the run, the whole world at his heels.A richly-imagined crime narrative of the Oedipal and betrayal, A SWELL-LOOKING BABE is Thompson at his very best--a cornerstone in Thompson's enduring legacy as the Dimestore Dostoyevsky of American fiction.
QuoteOf Williams's twenty-two novels, sixteen were paperback originals—eleven of them Gold Medals; he is described by Gorman as "the best of all the Gold Medal writers." Pulp historian Woody Haut calls Williams the "foremost practitioner" of the style of suspense that typified American pulp literature from the mid-1950s through the early 1960s: "So prolific and accomplished a writer was Charles Williams that he single-handedly made many subsequent pulp culture novels seem like little more than parodies." Fellow hardboiled author John D. MacDonald cites him as one of the most undeservedly neglected writers of his generation. O'Brien, singling him out as especially "overdue" for "wider appreciation," describes Williams as a stylist consistently faithful to "the narrative values which make his books so entertaining and his present neglect so inexplicable."As of mid-2006, only three of Williams's novels are in print in the United States: River Girl, Nothing in Her Way (1953), and A Touch of Death (1954). As of 2013, sixteen of Williams's novels were released as e-books by Mysterious Press.
QuoteRaised at the racetrack, a boy comes to live on a Texas farmBilly doesn't know how to read a book, but give him a racing form and he can tell you everything about a pony that you'd ever want to know. He and his father live on the road, traveling from Aqueduct to Hialeah and back again, until an overzealous Welfare lady demands they settle somewhere more wholesome than the track. Not knowing anyplace wholesome, Billy's father takes him to Texas instead, to live on his brother Sagamore's farm. There Billy meets bootleggers, gangsters, and the beautiful Miss Choo-Choo Caroline, a Chicago stripper who is wearing nothing but a tiny, diamond-encrusted G-string when she disappears. Uncle Sagamore, an enterprising brute, sees this as a chance for profit. For a boy with gambling in his veins, there could be quite a lot to learn.