It has been a quiet year in terms of posting on this blog. I have been working on two books at once, went on another adventure abroad, and adopted a new pet, all while continuing my work as a software developer. It has been a great year, and the books I've read have reflected that.
5: The Things They Carried
I had actually read two of the chapters of this book back in my Junior year of high school. I remember vividly talking in my American Studies about what it could mean to die in a field of shit. I did not fully appreciate even then, however, the artistry in writing that Tim O’Brien puts on display. The book is a collection of war stories, but not like a typical set of tales of comradery and bravery. Instead, it focuses on the weight of war, from the physical burdens and tolls to the memories that lay siege to one’s mind long after the fight is over. It reveals the awful truths of war, and how bravery is sometimes simply a fear of embarrassment. Though I tend to struggle with enjoying short story collections over a longer, cohesive storyline, these war stories tie in so deeply with one another that although they can be read individually, it is still very fulfilling to take them in their entirety. When my biggest complaint is that I wish the book was longer, I know I found a jewel.
4: One Hundred Years of Solitude
I will be the first to admit that I have not read many books by South American authors. Paolo Coelho is the only one, and the book I read by him did not take place in South America. Thus, for my trip to Patagonia earlier this year, I decided to take along Gabriel García Márquez’s most esteemed novel. I can see why; it brims with beautiful language and powerful prose. One of my favorite aspects of his writing style is the way he reveals big or shocking details as if they were footnotes. Take the first sentence, which rivals Salman Rushdie in opening lines: “Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.” Though you know the protagonist faces the firing squad, you then wonder, “how?” and that catapults the reader forward. It is both a charming story, while also being an indictment against war and colonialism.
3: Song of Achilles
I came into Madeline Miller’s signature novel with very high expectations. I have been a fan of classic literature for a while now. I remember how the first class I chose in college was Love, Life, Death, and Family in Greek Mythology. I remember sitting with the Iliad, discussing how veterans today find solace in their own PTSD by reading about Achilles’ rage and grief at losing his companion, Patroclus. Additionally, I had just finished reading of other tales surrounding Achilles in Stephanie McCarter’s superb translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses (my Honorable Mention for the year). I sped through Song of Achilles faster than most other novels, and I attribute it to the highly accessible language and successful pacing of the book. I found myself nodding in approval at the descriptions, smells, scenery, customs, and actions. All of them felt authentic. After I finished the book, I reread the books of the Iliad that play a role in Miller’s version, and I was blown away by the faithfulness of the story. Miller makes minor changes to the myth to make the story more believable. For example, when Achilles tries to avoid the war by masquerading as a girl, according to the myth, Odysseus catches him by bringing in toys and spears, and Achilles picks the spear, revealing himself. Miller, in a stroke of genius, adds a detail: war drums pounding outside the hall. Thus, thinking he has to prepare for battle, Achilles takes up the spear and reveals himself in a much more plausible way. Even the cast of side characters are faithfully presented. It is a stupendous take on a classic tale.
2: Pnin
Going into the book, I listed Vladimir Nabokov as one of the greatest writers of all time. The way he wields language is truly astounding. I was not surprised to find phrases of perfection I had never conceived before, such as describing a tongue as “a fat sleek seal” that “used to flop and slide so happily among the familiar rocks” of his teeth. I had no idea, though, that Nabokov could also write humor as well as he does everything else. The book starts with the wonderfully naïve and sentimental professor Pnin heading to a lecture unknowingly on the wrong train, and it bounds forth from there. I found myself laughing heartily across the span of the book. Unlike with some novels, which are funny in action or situation alone, Nabokov uses juxtaposition in language to heighten the humor. Though the last chapter takes a more sinister twist and causes us to pause and ask about the role of narrators, it also ends on a phenomenal punchline and left me once again in awe of a man who manages to control a second language with more agility than its native writers.
1: The Count of Monte Cristo
Technically, I did not read my favorite book of the year. I had inherited an abridged version, but when I realized it didn’t have all the details I wanted, and would have to consume a 1200-page novel otherwise, I switched to the audiobook version. After finishing the book however, I am certain I will return to this book again. Alexander Dumas is not the best at humor, nor at language, nor the most faithful to realism, and certainly not at brevity. There admittedly is a bunch of fluff, several slow chapters, and some questionable dialogue and psychology, as well as weaker female characters. Nevertheless, this book is my favorite of the year for the simple fact that it’s a lot of fun. Edmund Dantes (the main character, and who I named my new kitten after), who after escaping prison seeks revenge against those who wrongly put him there, creates some of the most incredible scenes I’ve had the pleasure of reading.
The book is full of delicious situational irony as Edmund’s enemies, blinded by his riches and knowledge, fall from their various heights of power without understanding what could be causing this sudden change of fortune. Although in many ways, the book is a fun tale about revenge, it explores questions of divine purpose, the role of forgiveness, the chasm of time, and what brings true fulfillment in life. It’s rare that the reader gets to simply watch a protagonist excel and prosper for so many pages; if the protagonist can always get what he wants. there is usually not enough conflict to keep the reader engaged. But here, Dumas invites us to play the thought experiment of: if you had unlimited resources, what could you do to get back at those who’ve wronged you? And how would you do it in a way that maximizes their suffering keeping your own hands bloodless? How would such power affect you? Would you be satisfied? This book helped kickstart my foray into French literature, which will continue into this coming year. There is also a new movie version of The Count of Monte Cristo that came out. Unfortunately, consolidating such a large book to less than three hours is risky. It would be easy to cut the extra details that make the book so wonderful and special. But I guess I will simply have to do what Edmund Dantes did: wait and hope.
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