sunn_bleach's Reviews (249)

 "Ulysses" is about the totality of experience. For Joyce, it's the totality of a single man's day in the life. For Melville's "Moby-Dick", it's not just whaling, but the essence of adventure and being out of one's element, then looking back on those salad days with the knowledge and pity of older age. For books like that... of course you won't get everything. It's not your life. It's Starbuck's life, or Ishmael's life, or Bloom's life.

If someone wrote a comprehensive story about your particular existence, then there would be thousands of allusions that a reader wouldn't pick up on simply because the minutiae of everyday existence is filled with nuance and even encyclopedic level of experience. So, I'll recommend that you don't look up footnotes. Just read it. Experience what you experience. Then, whatever you walk away with from "Ulysses" (and other modernist literature) will be completely and uniquely yours as you bring your own allusions and experiences to the book.

That lesson is why this is one of the top five books I have ever read in my life - and that's not even getting into the prose, the deep satire, the idiosyncratic all-caps Dublin, the allegories... life also goes on.

"Lingo" purports to be a book about the whimsy of language, but I frequently found that Dorren is just kind of a dick. There's a huge ethnocentrism here about languages that are worth it and ones Dorren finds pointless, thereby discarding a lot of the potential for information and good-faith ribbing. Tons of promise here, tons of failed execution as the writer gets in the way of the message. Ironic for a book about language.

I read "The Left Hand of Darkness" in 2018 and didn't really get it. Yeah, I got the subversion of man-as-default, but I didn't get some of the deeper considerations Le Guin was going for regarding societies that previously did not know war and totalitarian systems that don't match one-for-one to our earthly systems. I also found Genly and Estraven's trip over the icefield monotonous - but after four years of serious mountaineering pursuits, it's anything but that, and Le Guin masterfully captured the sheer stress of being on the run for one's lives while also underneath the beauty of the stars. I'm tempted to argue that the gender fiction aspect falls prey to TVTropes' "Seinfeld is Unfunny" given how much has progressed in half a century (like the he/him pronoun aspect not being as radical), but the fact it still makes me think shows it's relevant 25 years into the new millennium. Masterful book, and a good example of "the worst criticism I have is that it could be longer"... and the ending felt a little saccharine, losing the conceit of it being a report. But still!

This is a fascinating book that's a whole lot deeper than either the initial or secondary conceit (eald anglisc, post-apocalypse 1000 years ago). "The Wake" is one of those books with a high Thinkability Index; regardless of whether or not I enjoyed it, I keep *thinking* about it. By Kingsnorth's own words in foreword and afterword, it's tempting to think you're supposed to consider Buccmaster a hero of the story. It's not a spoiler to say that's... not the truth - but the sheer destruction and horror of William the Conqueror's arrival is nonetheless demonstrated everywhere in this novel. Buccmaster himself is a dirty fucking coward in every sense of the imagination, from his obsession with the eald gods (that don't even align with the reality of their worship, as other characters call him out for) to how jealous he is that other men fight for Angland despite him saying he's for the struggle, too. But *how* that cowardice is evoked and how it plays with the broader Wake and Buccmaster's green men is a fascinating psychological profile that emphasized the "history" part of the "historical novel".

 “And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.”

Rereading "The Haunting of Hill House" after my initial foray in 2018 showed how important rereads can be. Six years is a long time, and I've grown as person and artist (dichotomy intended). I love Shirley Jackson, but I thought this book was hella boring. Nothing's scary and nothing happens! Whats-her-face just drives into a tree! How is this the "scariest horror novel" or whatever?

... but this time, I've realized a mastery of Jackson's prose: your imagination is what makes it scary, just as the characters' imaginations bring forth the House. Jackson doesn't outright describe the pathway through the forest that Eleanor and Theo take, because she knows anything your mind uses to fill in the gaps makes it far creepier. You might read about the room in the center of the house that the characters' sing and dance and hang out in, and as we all know merriment dispels ghosts... but what if you expand outward and consider the whole house? What if you imagine this island of ostensible happiness as a silent, dark, house leans over them in what is its absolute focal point? Jackson's stark prose came off as beige in 2018, but that couldn't be further from the truth; what she did was provide me the outline, knowing what whatever I sketched in would be far more terrifying and bring me closer to Eleanor than anything else. And *that* is the horror of Hill House within the book... and without.

A spectacular addition to my "where'd the funny parts go?" heuristic in books chock-full of hilarity that become all the more poignant toward the end where the humor falls away and the true heart of the book comes forth. My Eastern European friends say it was never funny to begin with; the early Soviet happenings are simply too close to home.

I finished this half a year ago and am still thinking about it. This could be a 5-star book in time. Impossible not to recommend to anyone even remotely interested in fantasy/magical realism, religious fiction, and Russian/USSR fiction.

edit: is now a 5-star book for me

My favorite thing about this book is it shows how messy grief is. Grief is not a neat package of sadness -> anger -> acceptance, or however many stages there might be. Grief is disgusting, indulgent, and (occasionally) violent. This book shows that - from the cursing to the despondency to the piss and shit. And it's interwoven with absolutely heartrending statements on what it is to lose someone and the mess they leave behind. As stated early on in the book, it's an apartment of "no-longer hers", and it doesn't have the care that comes with slow illness.

Now what? I'm just supposed to go on with my day? Crow would laugh at that but also agree - both in literal and in intent.

I read Dune over 12 years ago in 2011. I strongly enjoyed it; and, this revisit has changed some of my perspective. Herbert doesn't know when to trust you to get things; so much of the subtlety of the book is undercut by the characters giving you one- or two-line summaries about whatever's going on. No! Stop that! The best part of this series is figuring out the intrigue yourself! Herbert feels terrified that a reader might be slightly confused, which is ironic given the obfuscation around the Bene Gesserit and Missionaria Protectiva.

I also found that the book does a lot of telling rather than showing. We're told Paul is ~special~ and ~precocious~ from the start, but he's just asks normal questions. We're told the Suk school has unbreakable conditioning, but the *only* example we have is someone who can't. We're told that Thufir Hawat is a dangerous mentat, but he really screws up everything but one (Feyd-Rautha's gladiator battle). I almost feel like this is one of the few long books that could have been longer; we're given so much from the very beginning that feels subverted without establishment.

I still enjoyed this reread, but more for the ideas than Herbert's prose. Not a horrible thing to have, though!

This is a hugely acerbic, mobius strip-esque novel that weaves in parallel realities and explores the concept of archetypes in a post-apocalyptic wasteland following an ecological disaster. Saying that means nothing; Dead Astronauts is, like so much of VanderMeer's work, a book where the prose and format are immensely important to imparting the surreality of death and destruction. In this sense, it's like ecological ergodic literature - you travel throughout different perspectives of machines, mutants, creatures, and survivalists in which the organization of words on-page tells you more about their lens and experiences than the actual words on-page. Some reviews of this book lamented the difficulty in following the plot, but that's kind of the point - if you're interested in a speculative fiction take on early 20th century modernism and mid-20th century environmentalism (though that's putting it too reductively), then this is absolutely for you. Given VanderMeer's residency in Tallahassee, FL, it's hard for me to imagine he isn't a little bit inspired by fellow USA southerner William Faulkner.