I've been reading a lot of long novels lately, most recently John Crowley's
Little, Big (which at ca. 600 isn't
that long, but it felt much longer--the effect, no doubt, of what one reviewer describes as its languorous prose).
I had previously greatly enjoyed Crowley's
The Translator, one his non-fantasy novels, but I had been hesitant about this because I don't read a lot of fantasy. However, I decided to give it a shot after I learned it had been called an overlooked masterpiece by Harold Bloom. (I was also impressed by the various accounts of readers who have become entranced by
Little, Big.) But, as a sampling of Goodreads or Amazon reviewers shows, this is one of those book that sharply divides readerships—between those that love it for the meandering modern fable it is and those that are impatient with its leisurely movement across time and its lack of strong narrative progress.
For my own part, I'm glad to have read this, though it was sometimes easy to put down and hard to pick up ... Still to read it is to enter a dream-like state.
For those that like meta-fiction, there's quite a lot of fun self-reflexiveness in the book, especially as one gets deeper in. See, in particular, one of the character's thoughts about the soap opera that he is writing (“A World Elsewhere”):
Quote:
What a form! Why hadn’t anyone before caught the secret of it? A simple plot was required, a single enterprise which concerned all the characters deeply, and which had a grand sweet simple single resolution: a resolution, however, that would never be reached. Always approached, keeping hopes high, making disappointments bitter, shaping lives and loves by its inexorable slow progress toward the present: but never, never reached.
Last edited by RussellinToronto; 03-02-2019 at 09:22 PM.