Kokiri:

Your commentator's observation could very well be right, perhaps the observations were within the dialogue of the narrative as opposed to any narrative pauses for self-reflections and reminisces by the narrator. Or alternatively it may be that, Mantel's interpretation of the historical Cromwell was that he was not a particularly deep and reflective person - I would have to do a critical reread to comment.

With regards to the world of Jonathon Swift, it is important to know a couple of things (I will include it in bullet form for ease of access.)

- Irishman born and educated in Dublin (1667-1745)
- Defoe's Robinson Crusoe (1719) was hugely popular
- Dependency of Ireland On Great Britain Act (1720)
- A friend and contemporary of the great Alexander Pope (quoted below)

A little learning is a dangerous thing;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.

* Pierian spring - allegory to the wellspring of the Muses

A good dinner party riposte: if you ever hear someone put down another by using the proverb "a little knowledge is a dangerous thing" is to correct and quote the above. Although I cannot guarantee that you will be liked for that sort of oneup-manship.

- His printer was charged with sedition in the 1720s

Another Irish great WB Yeats on Swift

Swift has sailed into his rest;
Savage indignation there
Cannot lacerate his breast.
Imitate him if you dare,
World-besotted traveller; he
Served human liberty

Ireland through the eyes of the Irish cSwift


Garrett Morphy
Portrait of James Bryan of Jenkinstown Park, County Kilkenny, Oil on Panel, 26 x 21.1 in. / 66 x 53.5 cm.

Apparently - there is very little 'high-art' painting in the Age of Swift Ireland and prior due to war and occupation. Music and Literature appear to be the principal modes of Irish high culture during this period of Irish history.

Not being particularly enamoured with the 4 books left for this month, I decide to buy some of next month's books this morning to add to my range of choices. They include:

Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis
The Plague by Albert Camus
Notes from the Underground by F. Dostoyevsky
The Unbearable Lightness of Being Milan Kundera
Slaughterhouse 5 K Vonnegut
The Picture of Dorian Grey Oscar Wilde
Three Men In a Boat Jerome K Jerome

After Gulliver's Travel, I felt slightly 'boxed in' with my reading and slightly depressed - so I hope having more choices will lighten the spirit.

Going to start on Slaughterhouse 5 - I have never read this author before - he comes highly recommended so I hope he lives up to the wraps. My review of Swift will be up in the next 48 hours.

17th/early 18thC Ireland appears to be a real backwater of European culture - I wonder if Descartes or Spinoza were available to or read by Swift. I have been trying to see beyond the 'usual suspects' as potential objects for his socially satirical allegories.

Gulliver's Travels Jonathon Swift

It is very difficult to review this "book" in the traditional sense. It is a pre-novel narrative structured with 4 sub-stories with a variety of supporting texts to either undermine or bolster the authenticity of the narrator's voice. It requires some knowledge of the time period, but not expert knowledge, to appreciate the satirical allegory that forms the structure of the social critique.
The cultural distance manifests itself in the vocabulary, sentence style as well as the thematic and social position that the author's view critques his society from. If one carries a too critical eye to the thematic concerns of the author or if one is too naive in their understanding of the social context of the book: then the book can read as too didactic or too absurd respectively.
Nonetheless, it is a classic.
No rating.

I have the bleak anti-war Vonnegut novel to send me to sleep. Hopefully I will put this one away quite quickly - or this 100 novels will be an impossible dream methinks.

I liked this a lot more than you did. I thought it showed a funny, brilliant, thoughtful, flawed man who made the world a better place. I .read it years ago, and still remember the better parts quite clearly.

However, I am a fan of biographies, so there's that.

Part III is generally regarded as the least successful and is not much read today. (Part I, in Lilliput, is what everyone knows.) Part IV, however, may be the most interesting. It has provoked debate as to whether the houyhnhnms opinion of man's reprehensibleness is what Swift wants us to take from this conclusion, or whether Gulliver has once more lost his sense of perspective (as he can be seen to have done at the end of Part I).

"take care of thyself, gentle Yahoo." That Houinym farewell to Gulliver has always stuck with me.

That chapter is also my favorite and probably accounts a lot for Swift's rep as a misanthrope. If I remember right he prefers sleeping in the stable with the animals rather than with his wife and children.

Yes, Gulliver does choose the stable. The debate is whether or not Swift feels the same way about humanity. Or if at this point we should regard Gulliver as deranged by his contact with the Yahoos.

I finished Slaughterhouse 5 late last night. Despite its sobering message, I found it a pleasurable read. I need some time to ruminate upon what precisely I would like to say about this unusual novel. In the meantime, Notes from the Underground by Dostoyevsky will be my next book and being less than 200 pages I hope as my 6th book for this month, I will get through it quickly.

Whilst Pushkin's Russia of the first half of the 19th century was a different time to Dostoyevsky's second half - Dostoyevskey would have almost have certainly been in contact with the artistic and literary tradition of which Pushkin was one of its most powerful and recent voices. To give you a short sample of the sensibility of the upper classes of 19th Century Russian culture (although it should be noted Dostoyevsky was of a much lower professional class to the high birth of Pushkin):

An Elegy
The senseless years' extinguished mirth and laughter
Oppress me like some hazy morning-after.
But sadness of days past, as alcohol -
The more it age, the stronger grip the soul.
My course is dull. The future's troubled ocean
Forebodes me toil, misfortune and commotion.

But no, my friends, I do not wish to leave;
I'd rather live, to ponder and to grieve -
And I shall have my share of delectation
Amid all care, distress and agitation:
Time and again I'll savor harmony,
Melt into tears about some fantasy,
And on my sad decline, to ease affliction,
May love yet show her smile of valediction.

Alexander Pushkin

Slaughterhouse 5 by K. Vonnegut review.

I beg you to indulge the teacher in me for a moment but when I was reading Slaughterhouse 5 I noted to myself that the structure of more traditional narratives are to have the plot and story timelines to be relatively synchronised. We can get story divergences and 'flashbacks' into the narrator's past to provide plot or character depth for the reader but usually both narrative and story time are in a synchronised dance. That is not true in Slaughterhouse 5 where, through very short sub narratives, story time jumps manically from the past, present and future in dizzying hops through the plot. The impact of this radical structuring is to undermine the assumptions we(the reader) might have about the plot and what actually took place - I felt myself to be continually struggling and failing to pintpoint the exact 'breaking point' of Billy Pilgrim distracted and drawn into the vortex of his psychosis.
Upon reflection the conclusion I reached was that: Vonnegut's use of this structuring focuses the reader upon characterisation and the real human, 'inner' impact of war. There is no great detailing of this 'horror above all horrors' the firestorm of Dresden, instead it is the inner destruction of Billy Pilgrim's character that we are given the grand tour of. A further consequence is that the reader must confront the obvious assumptions we might have about what the consequence are for and to each of us living in this violent world because the conventional distance provided by an imaginative world are demolished with the centrality of a temporally chaotic, subtly didactic and profoundly sympathetic characterisation of Billy.
I highly recommend this book.
9/10

Just trudged my way through 40+ pages of Dostoyevsky's quasi- philosophical monologue at the start of Notes from the Underground and I was beginning to despair. Fortunately, the next 100 pages appear to be a tradtional narrative.
Incidentally, I read that he wrote a famous address at the unveilling of a memorial to Pushkin in 1880. Glad to read evidence that my memory is not completely failing me in my fortieth year. I will see if I can fossick it out in the wonders of the interwebz for you.
In the meantime, another Pushkin poem is in order...this will be publish in parts given its epic form.

The Bronze Horseman

INTRODUCTION

The incident, described in this story is based on a truth.
The details of the flood are taken from the contemporary magazines.
The curious ones can consult the record, prepared by V. I. Berkh.


PROLOGUE

On a deserted, wave-swept shore,
He stood – in his mind great thoughts grow –
And gazed afar. The northern river
Sped on its wide course him before;
One humble skiff cut the waves’ silver.
On banks of mosses and wet grass
Black huts were dotted there by chance –
The miserable Finn’s abode;
The wood unknown to the rays
Of the dull sun, by clouds stowed,
Hummed all around. And he thought so:
‘The Swede from here will be frightened;
Here a great city will be wrought
To spite our neighborhood conceited.
From here by Nature we’re destined
To cut a door to Europe wide,
To step with a strong foot by waters.
Here, by the new for them sea-paths,
Ships of all flags will come to us –
And on all seas our great feast opens.’

An age passed, and the young stronghold,
The charm and sight of northern nations,
From the woods’ dark and marshes’ cold,
Rose the proud one and precious.
Where once the Finnish fisherman,
Sad stepson of the World, alone,
By low riverbanks’ a sand,
Cast into waters, never known,
His ancient net, now on the place,
Along the full of people banks,
Cluster the tall and graceful masses
Of castles and palaces; and sails
Hasten in throng to the rich quays
From all the lands our planet masters;
The Neva-river’s dressed with rocks;
Bridges hang o’er the waters proud;
Abundantly her isles are covered
With dark-green gardens’ gorgeous locks…

By the new capital, the younger,
Old Moscow’s eclipsed at once -
Such is eclipsed a queen-dowager
By a new queen when her time comes.
I love you, Peter’s great creation,
I love your view of stern and grace,
The Neva wave’s regal procession,
The grayish granite – her bank’s dress,
The airy iron-casting fences,
The gentle transparent twilight,
The moonless gleam of your nights restless,
When I so easy read and write
Without a lamp in my room lone,
And seen is each huge buildings’ stone
Of the left streets, and is so bright
The Admiralty spire’s flight,
And when, not letting the night’s darkness
To reach the golden heaven’s height,
The dawn after the sunset hastens –
And a half-hour’s for the night.
I love your so sever winter’s
Quite still and fresh air and strong frost,
The sleighs race on the shores river’s,
The girls – each brighter than a rose,
The gleam and hum of the balls’ dances,
And, on the bachelors’ free feast,
The hissing of the foaming glasses
And the punch’s bluish flaming mist.
I love the warlike animation
Of the play-fields of the god Mars,
And horse-and-footmen priests’ of wars
So homogeneous attraction,
In their ranks, in the rhythmic moves,
Those flags, victories and rended,
The glitter of those helmets, splendid,
Shot through in military strives.
I love, O capital my fairest,
Your stronghold guns’ thunder and smoke,
In moments when the northern empress
Adds brunches to the regal oak
Or Russia lauds a winning stroke
To any new and daring foe,
Or, breaking up the light-blue ice,
The Neva streams it and exults,
Scenting the end of cold and snow.

City of Peter, just you shine
And stand unshakable as Russia!
May make a peace with beauty, thine,
The conquered nature’s casual rushes;
And let the Finnish waves forget
Their ancient bondages and malice
And not disturb with their hate senseless
The endless sleep of Peter, great!

The awful period was that,
It’s fresh in our recollection…
This time about, my dear friend,
I am beginning my narration.
My story will be very sad.



Part 1 will follow when I wake.

PART ONE

On Petrograd, sunk into darkness,
November breathed with fall cold’s harshness.
And, splashing, with the noisy waves
Into the brims of her trim fences,
The Neva raved, like the seek raves
In a bed, that has become the restless.
Now it was very dark and late;
The rain stroke ‘gainst the window’s flat.
And the wind blew with sadly wailing.
Right at this time, from being a guest
Evgeny, for his nightly rest,
Came home. This name was most prevailing
In our young hero’s name choice.
It sounds pleasantly. Of course,
With it my pen’s had long connections
It needn’t the special commendations,
Though in the times, in Lithe gone,
It might have been the most attractive
And under Karamzin’s pen, fine,
Sung in some legends, our native;
But now it is forgotten by
The world and rumors. Our guy
Lives in Kolomna: he’s in service,
Avoids the rich ones, and ne’er sad is
For his kin which had left the world,
Or for the well-forgotten old.

So, he is home – our Evgeny,
Took off his greatcoat, undressed,
Lay in his poor bed, but oppressed
He was by his thoughts, so many.
What did he thought of? Well, of that
That he was poor and that his bread,
His honour and his independence
Just by hard work must be achieved,
That God should send to him from heavens
More mind and money. That do live
Such idle, fully happy creatures –
The lazy-bones, quite ludicrous,.
Whose life is absolutely light!
That he had served for two long years;
And that the weather, former fierce,
Hadn’t come less fierce, that the flood
In the Neva is getting higher,
The bridges might be got entire,
And that his sweet Parasha’s place
For two-free days wouldn’t be accessed.
There sighed Evgeny with his soul,
And dreamed as dreams a real bard:

“To marry then? Of course it’s hard.
But why don’t marry, in a whole?
I’m of the young and healthy sight,
Ready to work for day and night;
I’ll someway find the good repose,
The simple and shy place, at last,
Parasha will be there composed.
The year or, may be, two will pass –
I’m in position, to my dear
I’ll give all family to bear
And bring our children up, at once...
Such we’ll start life, at last repose,
With hand-in-hand, such we’ll come both,
And our grandsons will bury us...”

Thus he did dream. And a great sadness
Embraced his soul in that night,
He wished the wind’s weep to be lesser,
Rain’s siege of windows – not so tight.
At last his sleepy eyes were closed...
And now the night is getting gray –
That night, so nasty and morose,
And it is coming – the pale day
The awful day! During the night
Neva had strived for sea ‘gainst tempests
But, having lost all her great battles,
The river ceased the useless fight…
And in the morn on her shores proud,
Stood people in a pressed in lot
And saw the tall and heard the loud
Fierce waters’ mountains, it had brought.
But by the force of airy breathing
Blocked from the Gulf, the wide Neva
Came back – the wrathful one and seething -
And flooded islands, near and far;
The weather grew into the cruel,
Neva – more swelling and more brutal,
Like in a kettle boiled and steamed,
And then, as a wild creature seemed,
Jumped on the city. And before it,
All ran away from its strait path,
And all got emptied there; at once.
The waters flew into the cellars,
And raised up to the fence of canals –
And, like Triton, Petropol sails
Sunk in the water till his waist.

Siege and assault! The evil waters
Thrust into windows, like slaughters.
The mad boats row into a glass.
The stalls are under the wet mass.
The wrecks of huts, the logs, roofs’ pieces,
The stores of the tread, auspicious,
The things, carried the pale want from,
The bridges got away by storm,
The coffins from the graveyards - float,
Along the streets!
The populace
Sees God’s great wrath and waits for death.
All is destroyed: bread and abode.
And how to live?
The monarch, blessed,
Tsar Aleksandr, in a good fashion,
Still governed Russia that year, dread,
And from the balcony he, sad
And pale, said: “Ne’er the God-made nature
Can be subdued by any tsars.”
And, in a thought, looked at the evil’s
With his full of deep sadness eyes.
The streets turned into the fast rivers,
Running to made lakes, dark and grievous,
The Palace was an island, sad,
That loomed over the blackened waters.
The Tsar decreed – from end to end,
Down the shortest streets and longest,
On danger routs over the waves,
His generals set into the sailing –
To save the drawing and straining
On streets and in their homes-graves.

Then on the widest Square of Peter,
Where with his glass a new pile glittered,
Where on its porch, too highly placed,
With their paw raised, as if they’re living,
Stood two marble lions, overseeing.
On one of them, as for a race,
Without his hat, arms – tightly pressed,
Awfully pale – no stir appeared –
Evgeny sat. And there he feared
Not his own death. He did not hear
How the wrathful roller neared,
Greedily licking his shoes’ soles,
And how flagged him the rain coarse,
And how the fierce wind there wailed,
Or how it’d blown off his hat.
His looks of deepest desperation
Were all set on a single place
Without a move. The waves, impatient,
Had risen there, like tallest crags,
Lifted from waked deeps in a madness,
There wreckage swam, there wailed a tempest …
O, God! O, God! – Right on that place,
Alas! so close to the waves,
And by the shores of the Gulf Finnish,
A willow-tree, a fence unfinished
And an old hut: there they must be –
A widow and her child Parasha –
His soul’s dream … Or does he see
It in a dream? … And, like the usher
Of dreams – a sleep, is our life none –
Just Heavens make of Earth a fun?

And he, like under conjuration,
Like in jail irons’ limitation,
Cannot come down. Him around
Only black waters could be found!
And turned to him with his back, proudest,
On height that never might be tossed,
Over Neva’s unending wildness,
Stands, with his arm, stretched to skies, lightless,
The idol on his brazen horse.

Karamzin = 18th C Russian Poet and Historian - wrote a 12 Volume History of the Russian state.

Parasha = appears to be the narrator's daughter - I tried to find a meaning for the word, the closest I found is that Parashah is a weekly reading of biblical sections during the Jewish Sabbath.
** There is nothing to suggest a Jewish ancestry in Pushkin (although in his maternal side is a famous African former slave in Peter the Great's court)

Neva - is a river that flows into the Gulf of Finland near St Petersburg (the setting of the poem)

If you had not worked out who the bronze Horseman is..... perhaps you should just read the poem again or check spoiler



Part 2 in a couple of hours

How the Alexander in the poem - wanted the world to see him...an official portrait.

The Bronze Horseman Cont...
PART TWO

But now, sated with distraction
And tired of its rude attack,
Neva, at last, was coming back,
Looking at ruins with satisfaction
And leaving with a little attention
Its prey behind. A reprobate,
With his sever and low set,
Thus, thrusting in a village, helpless,
Breaks, slaughters, robs all and oppresses:
The roar, rape, swore, alert and wails!...
And, under their large booty posted,
Afraid of chases and exhausted,
The robbers speed to their old place,
Losing their loot along the road.

The waves were gone, the pavement, broad,
Was opened, and Evgeny, stressed,
With heart half-dead and stifled throat,
In a hope, fear and awful pains,
Runs to the stream, just now restrained.
But, in the winning celebration,
Waves still were boiling with a passion,
As if to flames, under them fanned;
They still were with white foam covered,
And Neva’s breast was heavily moved,
Like the steed’s one after a race.
Evgeny sees a boat here;
He runs to it – a find, revered, –
He calls a boatman at once –
The boatman, a guy quite careless,
Just for ten kopeks, with great gladness,
Takes him into the waves’ wild dance.

And for a long with these waves, close,
The much trained rower was in fight,
And to sink deeply mid their rows,
The scuff, with its brave sailors both,
Was apt all time… The other side
Is reached, at last. And the frustrated
Runs through the so well-known street
To his old places. He doesn’t meet
A thing, he’d known. The view’s rated
As the worst one! All’s in a mess –
All is failed down or swept or stressed:
The little houses are bent down,
Some – shifted, some – razed to their ground
By awful forces of the waves;
The bodies, waiting for their graves,
Are lying round, like aft fight, merciless.
Our poor Evgeny – his mind’s flamed –
Half-dead under the tortures, endless,
Runs there where the inhumane fate
Would give him the unknown message,
As if a letter, sealed to bear;
He’s now in the suburbs’ wreckage,
There is the Gulf, the house is near…
But what is this? He stopped, frustrated,
Went back, returned a little later…
He looks… he walks … he looks once more.
There is the place their house for
And willow-tree. The gates were here –
They’re swept… But where’s the house, o grace?
And full of troubles, hard to wear,
He walked and walked around the place.
Told to himself in voices loud –
And suddenly, as if all’s found,
Struck his forehead and fell in laugh.
The night embraced the city, stuffed
With all its woe. And still for hours
A sleep was running from each house –
The folk recalling the past day.
Now, through the clouds, weak and pale,
The morn ray flashed o’er the mute city
And did not found e’en a trace
Of the past woe. The dawn, witty,
Had safely screened the doing, base.
The former life had got its place.
Along the streets now free of flooding,
With cold indifference, folks are moving.
Just having left his lodge of night,
The clerk is going at his site.
The petty tradesman, very dauntless,
Is opening his cellar – wet,
Robbed by the waves’ impudent set –
Intending to revenge his losses
On brothers-humans. From the yard
Is pulled the boat, full of mud.
Count Khvostov, a pet of Zeus,
Now is singing his songs, deathless,
To the Neva shores’ former plight.

What’s of Evgeny, our poor hero? …
Alas! His agitated mind,
Against the immense woe’s billow
Didn’t stand untouchable. The wind’s
And Neva’s noise was always growing
In his poor ears. Mute and half-blind,
With awful thoughts, he was a-roaming,
Being quite tortured by some dream.
A week, month passed by as a stream,
At his past home he wasn’t returning
And his landlord, when the rent’s time
Had gone, gave his corner to some
Bard, sunk in a poverty unduly.
Evgeny didn’t come for his stuff
And soon became a stranger, fully,
To world: his day wasn’t long enough
For walk; he slept on wharfs till morning
His bread was one a beggar has,
He wore the dirt and rotten dress.
The evil children, with cries joyful,
Sometimes threw stones to his back,
Often the coachmen’ whips, wrathful,
Stung his thin body – for his track
Was cast without choosing direction –
He seemed to notice nothing else –
He was quiet deafened and oppressed
By noise of inner agitation.
And thus he strayed in his life’s mist –
Not humane being, nor some beast –
Not fish, nor flesh – not living creature,
Nor ghost of dead … But once he slept
By Neva’s wharf – the summer’s features
Were now like autumn’s. The wind, bad,
Was breathing there. The roller, sad,
Was splashing its complain and groan
And striking ‘gainst the steps of stone,
Like the offended at the door
Of justice that doesn’t hear him more.
The poor waked up. All was gloom round:
Falling the rain, wind wailing loud,
And it was answered through the night
By some alone distant guard...
Evgeny got up in a hurry,
He recollected his all flurry,
Stood on a spot, began to walk
And stopped again, almost choked,
Intently gazing him around
With a wild terror on his face...
It seemed that he himself had found
By a big house where were placed,
With their paw up, as if quite living,
Two marble lions, overseeing,
And in the height, strait o’er him posed,
Over the rock, fenced with cast iron,
With arm stretched into the skies, sullen,
The idol sat on his bronze horse.

Evgeny startled. Became clear
The strange thoughts, torturing his mind –
He named the place where played the flood,
Where ran the waters-spoilers, fierce, –
Merging in one rebellious stream, –
The lions, square and, at last, him,
Who stood without a move and sound –
The cooper head piercing black skies –
Him, by whose fatal enterprise
This city under sea took ground...
He’s awful in the nightly dark!
In what a thought his brow’s sunk!
What a great might in it lies, hidden!
And what a fire’s in this steed!
O, proud horse, where do you speed!
Where will you down your bronze hoofs, flittin’?
O, karma’s mighty sovereign!
Not thus you’d reared Russia, sullen,
Into the height, with a curb, iron,
Before an abyss in your reign?

The poor madman circled around
The foot of the black idol’s mass,
He gazed into the brazen face
Of the half-planet’s ruler, proud.
And was his breast oppressed. He laid
On the cold barrier his forehead.
His eyes were veiled with a mist-cover,
His heart was all caught with a flame,
His blood seethed. Gloomy he became
Before the idol, looming over,
And, having clenched his teeth and fist,
As if possessed by evil powers,
“Well, builder-maker of the marvels,”
He whispered, trembling in a fit,
“You only wait!...”- And to a street,
At once he started to run out –
He fancied: that the great tsar’s face,
With a wrath suddenly embraced,
Was turning slowly around...
And strait along the empty square
He runs and hears as if there were,
Just behind him, the peals of thunder,
Of the hard-ringing hoofs’ reminders, –
A race the empty square across,
Upon the pavement, fiercely tossed;
And by the moon, that palled lighter,
Having stretched his hand over roofs,
The Brazen Horseman rides him after –
On his steed of the ringing hoofs.
And all the night the madman, poor,
Where’er he might direct his steps,
Aft him the Bronze Horseman, for sure,
Keeps on the heavy-treading race.

And from this time, when he was going,
Along this square, only by chance,
A sense of terror was deforming
His features. And he would then press
His hand to heart in a great fastness,
As if to make its tortures painless,
Take off the worn peaked cap at once,
Didn’t turn from earth his fearful eyes
And try to pass by.
A small island’s
Seen in the sea quite near a shore.
A fisherman, the late catch for,
Would sail to it with his net, silent,
Sometimes – and boil there his soup, poor;
Or an official clerk would moor
To it in a boat-walking Sunday’s.
The empty isle. Seeds don’t beget
There any plant. A player, sightless,
The flood, had pulled there a ghost, sad,
Of an old hut. The water over,
It had been left like a bush, black.
Last spring, by a small barging rover,
It was conveyed to the shore, back –
Destroyed and empty. By its entry,
They’d found the poor madman of mine
And, for a sake of the Divine,
Buried his corpse in that soil, scanty.


Alot to digest, I know, but I wanted to underline the importance that Pushkin had in Russian literary life with a concrete example.

Finished Notes From the Underground, having enjoyed all of the other works of Dostoyevsky - I found this book to be pompously didactic and his penchant for directly addressing his reader as incredibly condescending. There is almost certainly alot one could interpret into this work about Russian society, Dostoyevsky's worldview and humanity's plight but the passionate resentment I had upon completing this work precludes me from adding anything more.
As proposterous as it might read........
2/10

"Lay on, Macduff,
And damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'"

From one Anti hero to another - The Picture of Dorain Grey by Oscar Wilde is my next read. Surely I will have had my fill of craven characters after this fine read! I console myself with an expectation that the deft hand of Wilde that I read In the Importance of Being Earnest is apparent here as well.

Oscar Wilde must be one of the most quotable of all authors - dare I say it a rival to Shakespeare...

I am ten pages in and I could give you 5 gems...I cannot help myself with this particular one.
'Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far the best ending for one'....so brilliant that it could only ever have been voiced by Wilde himself. I know noone who could drop pearls like that in conversation.

I'm not a big fan of Notes, but I have to defend Dostoevsky here. It's very inaccurate to say that he's "directly addressing" the reader or that "he" is condescending to the reader. Dostoevsky never speaks in his own voice except for a brief preface at the start; the rest of the book is narrated, of course, by the Underground Man, a guy who expresses views that Dostoevsky himself despised. Our frustration with the narrator's philosophy, his pompous didacticism, rants, and crummy personality--this is all part of the point. If that's a failing of the book, well, so be it! But that's very different than any condescension on the part of the author. I think that Dostoevsky demands a great deal from his readers.

looks like you're working through some great books! I need to read Vonnegut.

Bob - I think you will find he does also do it right at the end of the novel too. Yes I appreciate the difference between his narrator's voice and the authorial voice as well as the distinction between his intended reader and his real reader.
- So I was annoyed by both his authorial asides directly to the reader (few at start and end) intensely.
- Particularly, when I had to put up with his conversational construct between his narrator and his intended imaginary listener in his attempt to provide a particular construct and critique for his intended reader. I do understand it is a caricature of a particular type of impoverished 'civil' servant, Parisian salon imitating 19thc Russian wannabe intellgentsia. I just found the whole construct grating - perhaps it was the back to back reading of Swift then this was too much - there has been not enough of a imagninary veil for these philosophical and social critiques for my taste.

Is that more precise?

The above was not meant to sound tetchy in tone but mere was purely for clarification or to be more expansive for a third party.

I found that this made him almost unreadable.