6. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson

After the outdated tome that was Crime and Punishment, I had to reward myself somehow, and I did so with this contemporary mystery-turned-social-commentary (or is it the other way around?). For the most part I enjoyed it, and I've come away with a two lasting consequences.

The first is that, once again, religion terrifies me. I read The DaVinci Code and then Angels and Demons several years ago, after it became apparent that not having read them was a conspicuous hole in my modern reading list, and came away extremely psychologically bothered. Logically I know that there are many kind, honest, well-intentioned adherents of organized religion out there, who live their lives in a reasoned fear of consequences from above and adhere to strong moral principles. And yet there is clearly something about religion that spurs the writing of these books, that fascinate the dark side and stir up the monomaniacal. For all of the good that religion is supposed to do and spread, there is an equally secretive and troubled past that drives certain sociopaths and creates this twisted, outdated, out-of-context 'reality.' Various people have told me that the Bible should be read for literary purposes, but I really don't think I will.

The second, and far more pleasant, lasting consequence is that I now desperately want to visit Sweden someday, even though outrageously tall people make me physically uncomfortable. Yes, it's cold, and I've had quite enough of cold weather; there is probably a reason Swedish cuisine has never spread internationally, except through the mediocre cafeterias at IKEA; and there are countless other places I should rather go to first, but the truth is that Larsson describes life in Sweden with such a strange, detailed allure that it's hard to resist.

One of the simultaneous strengths and weaknesses of this novel is Larsson's attention to detail. For some reason he never missed an opportunity to specifically name the technological aspects of the characters' lives, and rattled off that Mikael Blomkvist used an iBook while Lisbeth Salander used a PowerBook, that searches were conducted in Google, that Hans-Erik Wennerstrom browsed with Internet Explorer, that characters drove BMWs and Kawasakis and Volvos, that e-mail addresses were hosted on Hotmail and Yahoo, and so forth. I've never been a fan of fiction books being so specific about real-life brand names, and my reaction this time was no exception. I probably would have been able to get over it, though, if Larsson had remained consistent and done some research. The name-dropping, for example, conspicuously ceases in matters of fashion--Salander apparently buys only "designer jewelry," and not, say, jewelry from Paloma Herrera.

The characters--are they maddening or not? Half the time I felt like I was almost reading a Nancy Drew Her Interactive game script, but thankfully the resolution of the novel was far more complicated than that. Both Blomkvist and Salander are driven by strong personal convictions of what is right and wrong, and while it is a commendable trait one cannot help but feel that somehow justice has not been served. What frustrated me most was that Salander independently made the decision to destroy all of the necessary evidence before the agreement to cover up the true story was reached. What right did she have to make such a move? Argh.

The ending, actually, confused me a little. Larsson gets lost trying to describe a complex and generally illegal plan of Salander's to trip Wennerstrom up, and what ends up happening is a series of choppy sections that describe the transfer of money into mirror accounts and the withdrawal of millions more. I mean, okay, I got the point of it all, but I still felt like I was unclear on how exactly all of the money Salander had withdrawn and then re-deposited had made its circuitous route around the world. Oh well, whatever.

I'm probably going to have to take a break before I read The Girl Who Played with Fire, but I'm looking forward to it. Hopefully it will explain a few things before taking off at breakneck speed again.

5. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

What is it about Russian literature? Endless tangents, pointless introspection, extraneous characters, frustratingly similar names... no wonder this book took me a month. It didn't help that the copy I picked up at the library--the only copy--is considered a dated translation, carried out by a more or less amateur translator who glossed over complicated or poorly understood parts. Fantastic.

Both of my parents actually hated Crime and Punishment when they tried to read the Japanese translation, but several of my friends who had read an English translation claim that it is one of their favorite books. I'm inclined to stand somewhere in the middle--I'm glad I read the book, I almost agreed with some of Raskolnikov's theories on crime, and I actually warmed to some of the characters--but it is by far not my favorite book, and not even favored among the Russian novels that I've read.

I suppose I can elaborate on this at a later time, but the overwhelming amount of words and detail prevent me from properly sorting out my thoughts...

4. Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen

To be quite honest, circuses freak me out. It's not the clowns--for whatever reason, all of the irrational dislikes and fears that I have do not extend to clowns--but more of the creepy gap between the spectacle that goes on in the front and the cruel, dirty conditions that exist in the back. I know logically that circus conditions must be better now than they were when the stereotypes were created, but they still freak me out.

I should have considered this a bit before picking up Water for Elephants, but I was completely intrigued by the name and the random bits of praise that I had heard here and there in the past several years. By the time I realized what I had mentally dove into, it was too late--the plot was moving at breakneck speed, and I was completely hooked.

I was a little dissatisfied throughout by how the Cornell situation was never completely resolved--I mean, where did Jacob's dorm belongings go, for instance?--and also felt at times that the sheer horror of some of Jacob's experiences verged on fantasy. The fantasy was continued by Jacob and Marlena's seemingly perfect love. I kept waiting for Jacob to reveal that the wife with whom he had had five children, and whom he had lost to cancer, was in fact not Marlena. Somehow, with no true development of their relationship, they fell in love and were meant to be together forever.

By the way, why have the main characters of my last two books both been Jacobs?

Sometimes it was better if I didn't try to imagine things that carefully, and instead just let some of the more colorful details wash over me. At other times I was a little shocked by how daring Sara Gruen is as a writer, not necessarily in the sense of some groundbreaking plot element, but in her descriptions and diction. I let those parts wash over me too, and quietly wondered if this is what it takes to make it as an author these days.

I did love the book though, and not just because it was the first contemporary book I've read so far in this yearlong goal of mine. The setting is unique, the cover is beautiful, and now that I'm not always quite so apprehensive over what will happen to all the characters I care about, I could probably even read and enjoy it again.

3. The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway

To be quite honest, I hated A Farewell to Arms. I'm sure a part of it was that I read it in English class senior year with a teacher I both hated and ridiculed, but a bigger part of it is that I simply have no interest in war stories. With that in mind, I wasn't convinced that picking up another book by Ernest Hemingway would be the best idea, but in fact The Sun Also Rises isn't actually about World War I.

Instead, it's about a group of fairly young, petty, irresponsible friends--people?--who seem to spend all of their time eating in cafés, getting drunk, and hurting not only each other but everybody around them. There is both a callousness to money and a firmly arrogant belief that it can solve anything, and a conviction that each's own emotions are deeply true while completely disregarding the validity of others'. Is this characterization supposed to indirectly reflect the dehumanizing effect of war? My English teacher would probably argue yes, but I would say no.

It never ceased to be incredible to me that Brett, the only major female character in the book, has no qualms about cheating on her fiancé, and apparently with his knowledge. Mike gets angry and jealous, and yet does nothing about it, and it almost seems that they had never sat down together for a serious, sober conversation about anything, let alone their expectations for each other in a monogamous relationship. Meanwhile, Jake, who spends a considerable amount of time explaining that he is a rare, foreign aficionado of bullfighting, promptly turns around and allows Brett to destroy the Spanish purity of the bullfighter Pedro Romero. It was satisfying to see that the hotel owner Montoya stopped being friendly to him in response, but infuriatingly Jake does not seem to care.

I half-expected Romero to die in a fight, and when this didn't happen, I also sort of expected Cohn to commit suicide. That also did not happen. Actually, Cohn is never really pulled together at the end of the story, and neither is Mike nor Bill. To some extent I would have appreciated a little more narrative about Jake's war experiences, because it would have helped clarify the history and nature of his relationship with Brett, how Mike and Bill fit into their dysfunctional world, and perhaps even how the ending is supposed to be interpreted and imagined. The only reassuring part is that it seems that even when only Brett and Jake are the ones truly left in the book, they do not get together and instead maintain some semblance of actual friendship.

I really need to treat myself to something contemporary now. Water for Elephants, here I come! Provided I actually get to the library, that is.

2. Thousand Cranes by Yasunari Kawabata

I will get back to the usual stuff soon enough (it's been a month?!), but battery issues and the like call for another step in one of my New Year's resolutions instead...

Since the book I got from the library was actually a two-novel volume, I immediately started Thousand Cranes after finishing Snow Country. I'm not sure if that was a good idea or not; on one hand, I was already in the mentality to read through the simplicity of Kawabata's writing, but on the other, I sort of took the time away from myself to actually sit back and consider the depth of the first story. But at any rate, they have both been read, so there's not much point in thinking about this now.

Based on the descriptions, I was actually looking forward more to Thousand Cranes than Snow Country, but having read both I think I might actually prefer Snow Country. The novels share the same type of frustrating male protagonist, who sabotages his chances at love through indecision and pointless mental wanderings. I could in a way relate to Shimamura in Snow Country, since in addition to feeling restless he was also conflicted about having left his family back in Tokyo and about marring the "cleanness" that defined Komako, but Kikuji in Thousand Cranes almost seems to have no moral or societal compass.

Sleeping with his deceased father's former mistress? What? Come on now. I can sort of understand his hesitation to marry the Inamura girl, since (even in miai) appearances aren't everything, and Chikako the go-between is as exasperatingly meddlesome as characters get, but allowing Mrs. Ota to seduce him because he reminds her of his father is simply creepy. Kikuji gives no thought to how the Inamura girl must feel or look--being led on that a successful match would happen, and then being ignored--and instead half-pursues the Ota girl despite her evident discomfort and all the history between their families.

Of course, the story ends with another inconclusive ending from Kawabata. It seems that in all likelihood the Ota girl also commits suicide, but the possibility that she and Kikuji end up together is also left somewhat open. And if she does commit suicide, then what happens to Kikuji? Is he as useless as ever, lounging around and occasionally going into the office? What happens to Chikako? Snow Country's ending was inconclusive too, but I found this one far more maddening.

In any case, that's it for Yasunari Kawabata, unless I feel compelled to read another, which I probably won't--not anytime soon, anyway.

1. Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata

So weird to write "Yasunari Kawabata," instead of "Kawabata Yasunari" like I'm always used to saying and hearing. Anyway, in an effort to not fail my resolutions in the first week of the new year, I pushed myself to register for a card at the local library and get a start on the books I'd always been vaguely interested in reading. None of the books I'd actually been looking for were there, but as I perused the shelves in search of something I might have forgotten about, I came across Snow Country and Thousand Cranes, which I guess is sort of a good deal. Haha.

I'm pretty sure that the chances of my reading a Nobel Prize-worthy novel in Japanese are fairly low, so I decided to go for the next best thing. I wonder if Edward Seidensticker was as creepy as modern Japanophiles. I kind of feel bad saying that about a deceased, renowned scholar, though.

Anyway, Snow Country was surprisingly easy to get through, although the simplicity of the language and vocabulary actually forces the reader to slow down and consider each word. There's imagery and emotional introspection everywhere, and by extension I felt like I had to stop and consider my own emotions and my own experiences, even if I've never been a wealthy fat man in search of a mistress. The Nobel Prize committee referenced this subdued but keen emotion inherent in Kawabata's works:

The Nobel Prize in Literature 1968 was awarded to Yasunari Kawabata "for his narrative mastery, which with great sensibility expresses the essence of the Japanese mind".

I kind of find that hilarious. "Japanese" sounds so foreign and exotic here--imagine the committee giving the Prize to someone for "being French" or "imparting a sense of being Nigerian."

I can't decide whether Snow Country moves slowly or quickly--there isn't much action, but the character development progresses quite rapidly, and several years' worth of events are contained in 175 widely-spaced pages. There's something vaguely irritating about Shimamura, who does not work because he inherited money and instead abandons his wife and children in pursuit of a geisha named Komako. The thing is, though, he seems emotionally immature and incapable of actually acting upon his pursuit, and instead she is left always wanting more from him and living in fear that he will leave for what will be the last time. Shimamura's inability to truly connect with Komako is in some ways refreshing, because somehow that makes his transgressions and abandonment of responsibilities less abhorrent, but at the same time it is frustrating to read. I felt for Komako, maybe because a dead-end relationship is something I relate to very closely.

At the same time, Komako has very clear flaws as well, which prevents anybody from seeing her as purely a victim or a tragic heroine. Her work is less than ideal and honorable, and she is flighty, hysterical, and possibly an alcoholic. Just as I was pulled into feeling for her situation, I would be reminded that entertaining men and forging superficial relationships lie at the center of her profession.

The ending is vague and somewhat dissatisfying, but it goes well with the overall feeling of the story. Things are unclear and muddled, in stark contrast to the Milky Way and the clarity of Komako's skin. I wanted to shout at Shimamura to do something, anything, for the fire and for Yoko, but predictably he does not. Instead, Komako runs crazily to Yoko's fallen body, and it is this action vs. inaction that emphasizes the true gulf between the two main characters.

I think, all in all, I really did enjoy this novel. Kawabata's prose can take getting used to, but after a while the genius of his simplicity comes through and justifies the first--of only two--Nobel Prize ever awarded to Japanese author.

A Year's Accountability

1. Learn United States customary units.
2. Learn about the technicalities behind my camera functions.
3. Make a perfectly fluffy sponge cake.
4. Apply to medical school.
5. Learn NYC geography.
   
6. Have one of my recipes achieve 話題入り status.
7. Read 50 books, of which three must be The Lord of the Rings trilogy.
8. Learn Japanese geography.
9. Fall in love with someone who doesn't make me hate myself.
10. Watch 12 movies.
11. Travel to 5 completely new places.
12. Get drunk, if only just once.
    

I Have Been Waiting for Godot

Blogging is more time-consuming than I realized, and so is having a constant social life. These forces came together in the past two weeks or so, and now here I am, facing the end of 2010 and not completely clear on what I last wrote. I will, however, attempt to catch up, especially as this incoming blizzard demands me to do little else than try to stay warm in my apartment.

Anyway, in sophomore or junior year of high school--I had the same English teacher both years so it's difficult to differentiate--I had to read Waiting for Godot. Like most, if not all, of my classmates, I was irritated by this play, the only redeeming quality of which was its length, or lack thereof. There was really no point to the plot, and if meeting with this Godot was so important, then why didn't the characters actually go after him? Why did they stay in the same place and expect him to appear, even after it became reasonably clear that he probably wouldn't? Do something, I mentally screamed. At the very least, don't make me read and analyze your nothingness.

The irony of my frustration now hits with the force of a 2 ｘ 4.

I was sitting on a crowded, snow-delayed train, on my way back to my apartment after a brief Christmas weekend back home. For whatever reason my past several days have been filled with these extremely detailed scenarios of what I would do, what I would say, what he would say, what I would be wearing, how I would act, how he would act, where we would be, of everything, if he were ever to come back and try to make things right. This monotonous train ride was particularly conducive to these pointless scenarios, and as I wandered in and out of sleep I started running through the details again. I have it all in my head and therefore am prepared if anything similar were to ever occur.

I realize and generally accept the idea that nothing probably will.

And all of a sudden, Waiting for Godot made sense to me. I have been waiting for my Godot for five years, if not more. I am the very characters that I despised, and I have been wasting my time leading that pointless, frustrating life. I would hate myself for this more than I already do, but my background self-loathing is already at its maximum level. Instead, I've developed a sort of sympathy for Vladimir and Estragon, and realize that, perhaps and hopefully, they are not as stupid as we then-teenaged readers assumed. Sometimes, even after you lose track of why, things are just too important to abandon, even after they've abandoned you or were never around in the first place.

There are a lot of things I don't want to be anymore, and most of all I don't want to wait for my Godot.