Not a review of Han Kang’s novel The Vegetarian

Screenshot 2017-04-30 at 5

  1. What follows is not a novel of Han Kang’s 2007 novel The Vegetarian, which I read this weekend (in Deborah Smith’s 2015 English language translation).
  2. Here—by which I mean this link—is a review of The Vegetarian by Biblioklept contributor Ryan Chang. He reviewed the novel two years ago on this blog, in depth, and with plenty of like, citations and examples from the novel itself.
  3. I meant to read The Vegetarian after reading Ryan’s review, but got sidetracked, (Sidetracked is not the right metaphor. I hoped to read it but didn’t. Until this weekend).
  4. Anyway, in the meantime while I was not reading it, The Vegetarian won the 2016 Man Booker International Prize, which means it got plenty of reviews and attention, which is good, because it’s a “good” book (whatever that means—what I mean is it’s a perplexing and fucked up and weird book), and also I’ve been out in the sun drinking beers all day and I know I couldn’t muster, like, a review.
  5. To really review the book, I’d have to reread it anyway, which I’ll probably do. The narrative’s arranged in three sections told via three very different perspectives—kinda sorta Rashomon style, I guess—and information in each section shades and intensifies information in other sections—so rereading the first two sections would be, um, valuable to seeing/feeling the novel anew.
  6. I use seeing/feeling above in lieu of understanding. The Vegetarian produced an aesthetic sensation in me (by which I maybe mean emotion that I don’t have the right word for. This previous statement sounds like boilerplate hyperbole, but it’s not—I literally cannot think of an accurate word to describe the feeling of the end of the novel. I’ve read takes on the novel that use terms like “unsettling” or “disturbing,” but these seem like adjectives without clear or proper referents.
  7. My adjective/noun combo for The Vegetarian: “dreamy queasiness.”
  8. Or maybe: “queasy dreaminess.”
  9. Does that hold appeal for you, kind reader? A dreamy queasy South Korean novel about a woman who stops eating meat after a weird dream and whose family reacts extremely poorly to her decision to stop eating meet? That description sounds way more banal than the novel really is. The books’ not banal at all; it’s a weird take on cruelty and abjection and refusal, refusal, refusal. It’s confounding. (I don’t have the right adjectives right now).
  10. I don’t have the right adjectives right now. Maybe I’ll just hit “publish” on this post and then repost Ryan’s review, which is far more detailed and perceptive and interesting than this non-review. In fact, I’m sure I’ll do that.

Screenshot 2017-04-30 at 5

Late Harvest — David Pettibone

2310039dd992d595-07_David_Pettibone

Late Harvest, 2012 by David Pettibone

The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas (Book acquired 29 April 2017)

img_5991

I picked up Brazilian author  Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis’s 1881 novel The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas today. I picked it up because of an oblique recommendation via Twitter a few weeks ago when I was raving about Antonio di Benedetto’s novel Zama

I got Gregory Rabassa’s translation (I dipped my toe into his translation of Miguel Ángel Asturias’s 1963 novel Mulata a few weeks ago).

Brás Cubas reminds me a lot of Tristram Shandy so far—short sharp funny chapters that bop forward and backward. The 1881 novel anticipates anticipates a style and form that we now describe as “postmodern.” I’ll share a few excerpts in the future, but for now, here’s the Wikipedia summary (lazy, I know, but I think it’s a bit better than this Oxford UP edition’s blurb):

The novel is narrated by the dead protagonist Brás Cubas, who tells his own life story from beyond the grave, noting his mistakes and failed romances.

The fact of being already deceased allows Brás Cubas to sharply criticize the Brazilian society and reflect on his own disillusionment, with no sign of remorse or fear of retaliation. Brás Cubas dedicates his book to the first worm that gnawed his cold body: “To the worm who first gnawed on the cold flesh of my corpse, I dedicate with fond remembrance these Posthumous Memoirs” (Portuguese: Ao verme que primeiro roeu as frias carnes do meu cadáver dedico com saudosa lembrança estas Memórias Póstumas). Cubas decides to tell his story starting from the end (the passage of his death, caused by pneumonia), then taking “the greatest leap in this story”, proceeding to tell the story of his life since his childhood.

The novel is also connected to another Machado de Assis work, Quincas Borba, which features a character from the Memoirs (as a secondary character, despite the novel’s name), but other works of the author are hinted in chapter titles. It is a novel recalled as a major influence by many post-modern writers, such as John Barth or Donald Barthelme, as well as Brazilian writers in the 20th century

Study of Garments — Domenico Ghirlandaio

study-of-garments

Study of Garments, c. 1491 by Domenico Ghirlandaio (1449-94)

Posted in Art

The Abduction of Proserpina — Nicolae Maniu

098-LENLEVEMENT-DE-PROSERPINE-huile-sur-toile-80x80-1985-collection-priveeScreenshot 2017-04-28 at 3.49.53 PMScreenshot 2017-04-28 at 3.50.04 PMScreenshot 2017-04-28 at 3.50.25 PM

L’Enlevement de Proserpine (The Abduction of Proserpina), 1985 by Nicolae Maniu (b. 1944)

Turtles have short legs

Margaret Atwood on her cameo in The Handmaid’s Tale pilot

img_0533

From Margaret Atwood’s essay of 10 March 2017 in The New York Times:

In this series I have a small cameo. The scene is the one in which the newly conscripted Handmaids are being brainwashed in a sort of Red Guard re-education facility known as the Red Center. They must learn to renounce their previous identities, to know their place and their duties, to understand that they have no real rights but will be protected up to a point if they conform, and to think so poorly of themselves that they will accept their assigned fate and not rebel or run away.

The Handmaids sit in a circle, with the Taser-equipped Aunts forcing them to join in what is now called (but was not, in 1984) the “slut-shaming” of one of their number, Jeanine, who is being made to recount how she was gang-raped as a teenager. Her fault, she led them on — that is the chant of the other Handmaids.

Although it was “only a television show” and these were actresses who would be giggling at coffee break, and I myself was “just pretending,” I found this scene horribly upsetting. It was way too much like way too much history. Yes, women will gang up on other women. Yes, they will accuse others to keep themselves off the hook: We see that very publicly in the age of social media, which enables group swarmings. Yes, they will gladly take positions of power over other women, even — and, possibly, especially — in systems in which women as a whole have scant power: All power is relative, and in tough times any amount is seen as better than none. Some of the controlling Aunts are true believers, and think they are doing the Handmaids a favor: At least they haven’t been sent to clean up toxic waste, and at least in this brave new world they won’t get raped, not as such, not by strangers. Some of the Aunts are sadists. Some are opportunists. And they are adept at taking some of the stated aims of 1984 feminism — like the anti-porn campaign and greater safety from sexual assault — and turning them to their own advantage. As I say: real life.

Which brings me to three questions I am often asked.

First, is “The Handmaid’s Tale” a “feminist” novel? If you mean an ideological tract in which all women are angels and/or so victimized they are incapable of moral choice, no. If you mean a novel in which women are human beings — with all the variety of character and behavior that implies — and are also interesting and important, and what happens to them is crucial to the theme, structure and plot of the book, then yes. In that sense, many books are “feminist.”

Red Haired Man on a Chair — Lucian Freud

tumblr_ol7idveiGQ1u6x3h6o1_1280

Red Haired Man on a Chair, 1963-64 by Lucian Freud

Jason — J.M.W. Turner

Jason exhibited 1802 by Joseph Mallord William Turner 1775-1851

Jason, 1802 by Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775–1851)

Tomer Hanuka’s film posters for Stanley Kubrick’s Lolita

lolita_reg72.jpglolita_var72.jpg

An Arm Chair — J.M.W. Turner

D05959_9.jpg

An Arm Chair, c.1801 by Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775–1851)

Two-Legged Ass-Headed Monster — George Dance

1. Caricature. A Woman Seated on a Two-Legged Ass-Headed Monster Straddling a Man in Military Uniform 1809 by George Dance 1741-1825

1. Caricature. A Woman Seated on a Two-Legged Ass-Headed Monster Straddling a Man in Military Uniform, 1809 by George Dance (1741–1825)

The Bed, The Chair, Waiting — Eric Fischl

the-bed-the-chair-waiting.jpg!Large

The Bed, The Chair, Waiting, 2000 by Eric Fischl (b. 1948)

An illustrated Devil’s Dictionary (Book acquired, 14 April 2017)

img_5948

I couldn’t pass up this 1958 illustrated edition of Ambrose Bierce’s caustic classic The Devil’s Dictionary. It’s published by The Peter Pauper Press, with art by Joseph Low. I took the matching dust jacket off for the scan above. A sample of the innards:

img_5950

Chair — Matthias Weischer

chair.png

Chair, 2004 by Matthias Weischer (b. 1974)

Shore for the Unmanned — Jean-Pierre Roy

JPRoy-Shore-for-the-Unmanned

Shore for the Unmanned, 2014 by Jean-Pierre Roy (b. 1974)

Self Portrait as Great Scout Leader III — Julie Heffernan

Great Scout Leader III_2010_72x54

Self Portrait as Great Scout Leader III, 2010 by Julie Heffernan (b. 1956)