"Speedboat" by Renata Adler (1976)

It's one of them fancy postmodern collage novels, made up of hundreds of well polished, sundered fragments, scenes, observations, and episodes, told from the point of view of a well bred, well salaried journalist living in 1970s New York City. It's a little intriguing, at first, wondering how this might come together, watching it build a unique, half-lidded tension between coyness and overexposure, at times feeling seduced and at times feeling repulsed by the rhythmic, metered style, annoyed and excited by its nagging, neurotic inscrutabilities, often in the same beat. And then some time around page 100 something snapped and I just started reading the rest of it as fast as I could, just so I could get it over with, having grown deathly tired of whatever game this book is playing, almost solely just to spite the distant, somewhat patrician way it's speaking to me, toying with me. Is this more style than substance, you begin to wonder? Not that there isn't any substance—the disparate images, altogether, give you some insight into what cavorting around town as a privileged, well educated, highly observant white woman must feel like—but is there enough substance here to justify any concentration, any focused investment? Call me ignorant, but I just don't get the sense, that no, there is enough.* Two stars.

*Rachel Cusk would do pretty much the same thing but much more effectively in her Outline trilogy nearly 40 years later. Honestly, if I hadn't read Outline first I probably would have admired this one more.

"Sons and Lovers" by D.H. Lawrence (1913)

You want to write a novel that explores, as a theme, the fundamental irrationality of the human spirit? Well, one way to do it is to wrap it all—behavioral contradictions, unfulfilled intentions, unexplained hatreds, incongruous humors, self-inflicted harms, underserved friendships, and general fluttering moodiness: action in conflict with the soul, basically—within a deceptively simple outline: a mother is extremely upset by her son experiencing a love apart from her own. You don't expect the novel to be as fast and as jumpy as it turns out to be, given the era. And, being sold a fable, you don't expect to be given a narrative that really makes no logical sense, and characters who don't behave the way storytelling deems they should; in fact, the omniscient narrator doesn't seem to even know what the big picture is, often hovering the camera closely over the shoulder of someone who doesn't seem at all to know where they are going. Can a writer tasked with placing the world into narrative order actually get away with telling a story about how the world doesn't really have any, where causes have no effects, effects have no causes, lessons don't seem to even exist, there are no villians, and there are most certainly no heroes? I don't know, but this one sure comes close. Four stars.

"Sanctuary" by William Faulkner (1931)

I bet you could make the case that "To Kill a Mockingbird" stole a great deal from this book, except making sure good was good, bad was bad, facts were facts, and giving all the characters a Full House-like sheen of adorableness. Also many fewer mobsters, whores, and pitch-black instances of sexual terror. Four stars.

"Rabelais and His World" by Mikhail Bakhtin, Translated by Hélène Iswolsky (1965, 1968)

I ran into this book in The New Yorker. The author of the article brought up this Russian philosopher's examination of Rabelais's Renaissance-era comedy while discussing how Volodymyr Zelenskyy's former life as a comedian factors in the fight against Russia. What's interesting is, the book actually seems to frown on comedy as satirical resistance. In fact, you could easily characterize the book as a 500-page defense of poop jokes—he argues comedy that has an individual target is almost worthless, but comedy that joins the hoi polloi together in gleeful abandon pulls power down from cosmic, divine, virtuous enormity and gives it to the common, unsophisticated person, the kind of person who eats too much, drinks too freely, and defecates without compunction. It's basically saying the simple act of calling everyone you dislike "retarded jagoffs" removes fear. So, basically, that Ivy League-educated, well paid, richly connected writer for The New Yorker namedropping an obscure Russian philosophy book in order to produce timely content for their snooty magazine, whether or not the message of the book is actually a sensical fit for the situation (it far better explains the vulgarity embraced by the right against progressive shame) seems to me like a retarded jagoff. Three stars.

"Postmodernism or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism" by Fredric Jameson (1991)

In a word, it's exhausting. Which isn't to say it's unpleasant—there's actually a nice little (albeit peculiar) flow to this Marxist literary critic's entangled and far-ranging writing style. I'll start with this though: you get a clearer idea of whether his ideas on the tenor of our current culture hold any water now that we're 33 years out and the "postmodern" trends he identifies and argues for only seem to have exponentially exploded. Whether you're patient enough or primed enough to explore them is a whole other issue (I don't think I would have understood practically anything here if I hadn't taken myself through a university survey of literary theory a couple years ago, and that still didn't prevent a great deal of re-reading.) So why do I feel it's worth talking about if the book is so clearly difficult and esoteric? Well, attempting to take an all-encompassing, birds-eye view of the cultural era we currently live in—characterized mainly by gargantuan pluralization, fragmentation, and commodification—is frankly insane.* That Jameson does a pretty good job of it in a little over 400 pages is impressive, at least considering how many times he got me to pause and consider my own era (Have you ever spent an idle weekend considering your own era? Especially one as fucked up as this one?) There aren't many books out there that attempt to sum up THE ENTIRE STORY. And if that wets your whistle I'd say this is a pretty good one. I would think speeding through it on your one off-day away from the kids is out of the question though: you'd give yourself a stroke. Four stars.

*Here is the book's closing paragraph: "The rhetorical strategy of the preceding pages has involved an experiment, namely, the attempt to see whether by systematizing something that is resolutely unsystematic, and historicizing something that is resolutely ahistorical, one couldn’t outflank it and force a historical way at least of thinking about that. 'We have to name the system': this high point of the sixties finds an unexpected revival in the postmodernism debate."

"Pleasure: A History" Edited by Lisa Shapiro (2018)

Was reading a philosophy book about pleasure in and of itself actually pleasant? No, in fact at times it was downright maddening. Nonetheless, did I want to read it? Yes. Would I say reading it was worthwhile? Actually, very much so. In a way, it was exactly what I was looking for. But would I recommend that people pick up and read a philosophy book for themselves? Not if you don't like being driven crazy. Adjoining to the above contradictions, does it make sense that I would highly rate a book that filled me with deeply unpleasant feelings, that I wouldn't recommend to others, and in fact would advise to actively avoid, that spends a tremendous amount of time logically explaining how in the end it's impossible to understand certain things? (Why do we seek pleasant things? <24 pages later> It is because they are pleasant.) No, probably not. Four stars.

"Pale Horse, Pale Rider" by Katherine Anne Porter (1939)

It's three short novels (Porter hated the term "novella" and, much like the kinds of people who are particular about these sorts of things, was apparently a huge jerk in real life) give or take 40 pages each. The first was this fascinating indictment/celebration of storytelling itself, about how stories, which in current times tend to be hailed and exalted as some sort of magical enlightenment elixir, are in reality very very very very effective tools of delusion and deceit, in its cloaking way almost a celebration of decay, even as we can't help but rely on the lies stories feed us as a means of managing to continue trudging through life day by heavy plodding heavy plodding day. The second was an unheralded classic, such a richly woven, complex exploration of morality, responsibility, sin, laziness, and all their inherent confusions, contradictions, blessings, benedictions, and rationalizations, and about the almost inherently fatalistic way us human beings, having been granted limited intelligence, believe we can possibly, reasonably cogitate our ways through all this, because on some level we all—every last one of us!—believe our existence on Earth must (MUST!) be linked to some sort of intrinsic, universal good, even while we all secretly suspect we may actually be nothing more than spiritual orphans, abandoned, leftovers, to our own mercurial wiles, that it's a marvel the whole thing manages to hold together so extraordinarily well. These two stories, "Old Mortality" and "Noon Wine", explored enormously complex things you NEVER saw writers of this time explore in short, 40-page works, and did it in a way that was richly compelling and unsettlingly rewarding. And then the final story lands like this enormous, overwrought, sentimental, adolescent butt-turd. You'd think it wouldn't, because it's the title story, because it's an early story about a single female urban professional, because it's about the 1918 pandemic, considering what we all just went through. But it's sooooooooo boring (there are numerous dream sequences) it kills what could have been an extraordinary collection of work. I suppose the overall effect is akin to watching all three Godfather movies in one sitting. It's a god damn shame. Apparently, her entire career is just like this: wildly, frustratingly uneven. Sadly, kind of like how life is. Two stars.

"Our Aesthetic Categories - Zany, Cute, Interesting" by Sianne Ngai (2012)

A dense academic book (accordingly, a fairly slow read) nonetheless it might be interesting for the casual reader as it focuses on three things we're culturally, irresistibly drawn to: things that are cute, things that are interesting, and things that are zany. Why these three and not, say, the most familiar aesthetic category: beauty? Because Ngai believes a focus on these three will help us understand much more generally "what hits" in our current era, the postmodern era*—cute is a "claymation"/dollhouse Airbnb commercial, interesting is an ongoing Wendy's "staffers" campaign, and zany is Flo's ever-shifting role in Progressive ads—you see these three "hooks" pop up again and again and again, and in combination, in any commercial break or, for that matter, in any social media post (YouTube video essays commonly, strenuously aim for all three at once.) Now, I'm not going to claim I've read enough books on philosophical aesthetics to confidently say exactly where Ngai is or isn't off-base with her arguments (cuteness=commodity, interestingness=information, zaniness=performance), or whether her focus on these three aesthetic categories is even justified, though I certainly have some thoughts (tying zaniness to the ever-consuming demands of capitalism on femininity kind of makes sense, but still feels somewhat shoehorned in—I don't think that explains why I enjoy watching "I Think You Should Leave.") I sure don't want to drag this out too long, so what I'll say is: there must be a reason why people in, say, advertising or social media reliably turn to these three things in order to nab our attention/affection in a crazily overstuffed field, and there must be a reason why these three things are often relied upon by ourselves to procure our own likes. And in a very extensively, very diversely sourced book that gets you to pause on and consider these seemingly disposable aesthetics—things we encounter every day that actively and powerfully and somewhat silently influence our behavior, things we barely give a second thought to—any serious examination is welcome, even if inevitably at times it feels "off," even if it's naggingly dominated by Marxist ideas. There's more than enough "on" there to encourage eyeing the world through an askance view: Ever notice that tech companies overwhelmingly embrace a cute visual style? Ever notice that whenever you're drawn to something cute, they're usually "little" and "submissive" and "weaker," which implies a power differential between you and the cute object? Ever notice that that power differential, much like with a newborn baby, inspires a kind of protectiveness, which means that the cute object is now making demands off of you? So who exactly is the powerful one here?—Ngai makes you think about stuff like that. Four stars.

*"The zany, the cute, and the interesting are not really 'minor' in the sense of being unimportant or marginal. The specific social transformations and/or aesthetic problems to which they intimately speak—the convergence of art and information; the loss of tension between art and the commodity form; the rise of an increasingly intimate public sphere and of an increasingly exchange-based private one; the proliferation and intensification of activity in both public/private domains that cannot easily be dichotomized into play or work—are ones that significantly affect the making, dissemination, and reception of all culture. These three particular categories thus help us totalize the contemporary repertoire of 'aesthetic categories'; indeed, they help us understand the meaningfulness of this very concept for doing aesthetic theory in general."

"On Writing" by Eudora Welty (2002)

I feel like we all forgot about her—sure, Flannery O'Connor wrote better short stories, and sure, Flannery O'Connor was so enticingly mean, and sure, it's a little odd that a fellow Southern writer wouldn't mention Flannery O'Connor once in her book about writing (Faulkner gets gushed upon), but Eudora Welty was still good. At the very least, Eudora Welty was more generous in her thoughts about it, even in this short, 100-page book (Flannery O'Connor's mysteries and manners kind of feels like a scolding.) What's different about this one? First, it starts from a base of: Not everybody can write. So it immediately dispenses with "Writing 101" issues. Hence, it also dispenses with the Writing 101 idea that writing should be a mirror reflection of life, and insists that good writing is really more an imitation of life, similar to how Van Gogh's sunflowers don't quite look like real sunflowers, and that's what makes it beautiful. The rest of her thoughts lie on this elevated level: how does the writer work with the reader to, together, create something beautiful? The effect is to expand your understanding of how beauty is achieved beyond, say, describing landscapes using exquisite words. And you could see her focus on beauty across each page: this is probably the best written treatise on writing I've ever read, wordsmith-wise. As I went through this I couldn't help but think that the prevailing writing advice I've received: "Just keep reading and writing," is flat-out horrible advice—yes, I've learned how to pack an enormous amount of big thoughts into one small paragraph and still make it digestible, but is what you just read beautiful? I would say no. Four stars.

"Oreo" by Fran Ross (1974)

Of all the novels I've been told were "really funny" I'd say maybe 2 percent actually were. This one's packed with wacky characters and jokes, mostly of the kind kids in honors classes might find funny—upon hearing his Black daughter was marrying a Jewish man, an anti-Semitic father goes into a paralyzing coma, his body rigidly molded into the shape of a half-swastika. The main character, Christine Clark, is called "Oreo" not because she's necessarily "white on the inside," or because she's of mixed Black-Jewish blood, but because her Black grandmother speaks with a heavy southern accent and tried to give her the nickname "Oriole"—it's humor like that. It's also postmodern and Pyncheon-esque and it parallels Theseus of Greek mythology and it's littered with Yiddish and mixes math jokes with dick jokes and mixes wordplay with physical comedy set pieces and mixes feminist bad-assery with a naggingly odd fixation on Jewish culture and there's a mute man who has to hold up a series of cartoon bubbles next to his head in order to speak and if this all sounds like a try-hard tedious mess to you I can assure you that it very much is. One star.

"Of Elephants and Toothaches - Ethics, Politics, and Religion in Krzysztof Kieślowski’s ‘Decalogue’" Edited by Eva Badowska and Francesca Parmeggiani (2016)

It's an academic book that's only worth reading if you enjoyed watching all 10 hours of "Dekalog". That said, because of the film's subject matter—10 films based on The Ten Commandments, centering on realistic stories about everyday people during communist Poland—the book is allowed to dive into psychology, theology, cinematic craft and analysis, philosophy, morality, the nature of love, drama, politics, human behavior, parenthood, the legal system, and even comedy, all in less than 230 pages or so. Of course, with so many different perspectives you won't necessarily agree with everything, but one of these 12 scholars is bound to talk about something intriguing that viewers hadn't before noticed. In fact, it's a little astounding that the film can bear this much scrutiny and still maintain its integrity. I think, in all the years I've spoken to people about this movie, I've convinced roughly 0.0 percent of them to sit down and watch it. Which, I suppose, is just as well. Three stars.

"Never Come Morning" by Nelson Algren (1942)

I know this is an early book, but if I were to explain why I think Nelson Algren isn't nearly as good a writer as some seem to think (mostly people who hail from Chicago) it's not because he isn't capable of turning a nicely poetic phrase, it's that he tends to overwrite what probably should be underwritten and underwrite what probably should be overwritten—in other words, I think his writing instincts are wildly off. One star.

"Nonconformity - Writing on Writing" by Nelson Algren (1996)

A humanist railing against how "being American" is a dehumanizing force, a treatise teetering on the edge of unhinged rage. Good thing I didn't really get into Algren when I was younger. Because if I did I would probably now be dead—I didn't really need an avowed nonconformist to fan my flames; if so, I would have exploded. Three stars.

"Nickel and Dimed - On (Not) Getting By in America" by Barbara Ehrenreich (2001)

Something irked me about the book back when it was prominently displayed in all the Borders, and I never picked it up. But over the course of 20 years I became a bit of a fan (her take on breast cancer was the kicker) and after she died I figured, sure, why not read her most popular book. Well, I find it irksome. I won't bore you with the obvious reasons why it's irksome, and in fact I won't even mention them. I'll just say that, given the subject matter of the book, of all the lives I've come across in these pages the one I least care to be around all the time is hers. Two stars.

"Natural Causes" by Barbara Ehrenreich (2018)

You would imagine a book that tries to marry biology with religion, psychology with philosophy, quantum physics with selfies, astronomy with medicine, oncology, sociology, holistic wellness, immunology, history, exercise, cellular anatomy, diet, and humanism to be a bit of a mess. And it is, very much so. But I will say after reading it, the everyday behavior of many people I know now and have known then seems flat-out moronic. Four stars.

"My Face for the World to See" by Alfred Hayes (1958)

It made me vividly remember relationships I found volatile, female gaslight-y, and far too melodramatic, which are the relationships I usually spend a great deal of energy trying to erase from memory. And while it paints a far more realistic, far more nuanced picture of two mismatched Holllywood dreamers than, say, the movie "La La Land", you're also left with the nagging sense that it didn't go far enough. That's speaking with a psychological eye. As far as the sensual eye goes, I don't know how the book does it, because it never gets explicitly sexual, maybe it's an exquisitely arranged accumulation of images, maybe it's the confused fragments of thought, a writerly way to capture the struggle to recognize and connect with another person's signals, but I thought the touch of flesh came across rather tactile-ly, especially given that most of it was achieved through indirect techniques. Bravo to that; I would have just used an outpouring of moist, evocative, three-syllable words. So overall, it just smacks of nothing all that novel. Still kinda good though. Three stars.

"Mrs. Dalloway" by Virginia Woolf (1925)

Is this considered a classic just because it's written oddly and structuralist matrices get quite the workout out of it? Because it did exactly what Ulysses did or exactly what Middlemarch did but in a much less compelling, much more tedious way? I could see how aspects of it (the bisexual attraction, the female viewpoints, the metaphysical connections, the prismatic modernism) sort of stood your hair up back in the day. But now that those things aren't so rare, they don't feel strong enough to carry the book—I suppose you could make the argument that I'm not empathetic enough to get it, but I would counter that empathy isn't something that you can demand from people point blank; empathy is such a difficult emotion for people to attain that, once you're enveloped within a fictional work, it's the responsibility of the author to find a way to help you ascend there. But here, as it stands, you drift in and out of the minds of a large cast of characters and it was done in such a way that, no matter whose mind I went into, I barely cared. I mean, what the fuck. This is a classic? I don't get it. One star.