animadversions

I’ve culled this entry from three entries of my anime blog – this is somewhat the evolution of what I’ve read these past few days. It starts with a short write-up on A Time to Speak and basically is an evolution of the books I’ve read from subpar, propangandist literature, to some good, classical ones.

Instead of continuing with Snow Falling on Cedars, I decided to start (and just recently finished) another book entitled A Time to Speak by Edward St John. Since I bought it out of impulse (i.e. I bought it because the cover page of the book was aesthetically appealing to me), I read through it as quickly as I could – I knew that the content of the book wasn’t as voluble or visceral as the classics that I often read – and I was correct in this assumption.

It was a decent book. It somewhat hinted to me the political climate of Australia in the late 1960s (which was tumultuous), and narrated notable historic occurrences of that time (an example would be the sinking of HMAS Voyager, or the development of the F-111). However, as I saw it, it was mainly propagandist material and the author’s defense of himself. The book, as well as the topic St John discussed was temporal and topical: from the perspective of a young adult in the year 2006, his novel was self-centered, shallow, banal and basically worthless – though I must say, I learned quite a few things from that narrative of his. I learned new words like shibboleth, percipient, contumely, animadversions, etc. It was somewhat a quasi-historical document, so I was somewhat partly informed about Australia’s history. Ultimately, however, the author seemed full of himself (this ‘virtue’ is needed when one desires to win an election or be a politician), but it was good to know who the PM of Australia was at that time: when someone asks me (most probably tangentially) who the PM of Australia was in 1969, I could say that it was John Gorton.

It is a book I wouldn’t recommend unless one is an Australian OR immensely interested in its history; even Microsoft Encarta (the popular electronic encylopedia) didn’t have any articles on Mr. Gorton or Mr. St John, or of the multitude of names that he had mentioned in that book. I do thoroughly suggest reading For Whom the Bell Tolls, however – now that was a great book.

* * *

I guess that despite shooting all that flak towards A Time to Speak the novel had more of an effect on me than I liked to admit. I did not feel warm or fuzzy, however; nor did I feel awed or inspired with the book despite the author’s mastery of the English language. (Can you use shibboleth in a sentence without consulting a dictionary? That word alone was enough to wow me.) On the contrary, the novel’s aftertaste seemed like a partaking of a most unguent and sialoid gumbo without water to aid one in swallowing it. Swallowing a bitter almond with water may have been an easier task. (Never mind that it may be poison )

The aftertaste felt quite abhorrent that even water in the analogy fails to remove it (a decent or above average novel). Right now, I need some panacea, some elixir that altogether decimates that bad taste left in my mouth – that narrative or novel is simply that horrible in my opinion. Water simply cannot cure a strong poison: one needs a strong antidote. To exacerbate this disgust that I have right now, I read For Whom the Bell Tolls before reading A Time to Speak. This is akin to riding a rickety and rusting Ford pick-up of the 1950s after riding a 2006 Jaguar or a Ferrari. The rift is that vast, that immense, that elephantine – and I quickly need something to counteract this necrosis that’s occurring in my mind. It’s because For Whom the Bell Tolls was arguably Hemingway’s greatest work, while A Time to Speak is simply some selfish defense of the author’s acts in parliament. The former is a timeless and beautifully tragic character study of people who live in constant danger and trouble through their lives, while the latter is some propaganda (not a bad one at that), but something selfish and self-centered. I did learn about Australian history, however, so it’s not the worst novel I’ve read (I guess).

This disgust is slowly becoming an unstoppable juggernaut within my soul. Even I declined reading The Moon is Down today, arguably among Mr. Steinbeck’s better (if not best) works.

* * *

I’ve finally done a pogrom against hackneyed literature with the reading of Steinbeck’s The Moon is Down. His literature is not as terse or brief as Hemingway’s or as serpentine or long-winded as Faulkner’s, but I would argue that he’s among the best writers (American or not) of short novels (and novels at that), even better than the names I’ve mentioned above. Though The Moon is Down isn’t as good a novel as Of Mice and Men, I’d say it still ranks well among the world’s classics. One can break a man’s heart; one can destroy everything important to that said man; but one can never break another man’s spirit – a man can be imposed on, but he can never be conquered unless he chooses to be. Although The Moon is Down was originally written to be a propagandist novel, I’d say it transcended that purpose and presented something more universal which are (from what I perceive) the ideas I’ve noted above. Having said that, I’m thankful that I’ve somewhat regained the sapor in reading that I temporarily lost with A Time to Speak.

I’m still plodding on with Guterson’s Snow Falling on Cedars (I’m often quite condescending when it comes to contemporary novels), and I’ve bought Yevtushenko’s Selected Poems, who wrote ‘Babi Yar,’ a poem, that somewhat subliminally impressed itself on my mind – I thus felt that I had to procure the book even without knowing who Yevtushenko was. I guess my guess was on-the-mark, because he did write good poems, and he had an entry in Microsoft Encarta which I gave importance to: only important people or people who have shaken the world are often included in encyclopedias, electronic or not.