Jumping around.

Still holding off on the Catch-22 discussion. Probably just going to make a mega-post when I finish it. The book is mad depressing in these last 100 pages. Not that I'm not still enjoying it between the crying jags.

I've done nothing to moderate my habit of jumping back and forth from book to book. I can't decide if it's a better or worse way to go about reading things. On the one hand, if I get bored with the way one book is going, I can take a break and go to another book, then go back to the aforementioned book when I've got more time. I feel this is the best way to read certain authors--for example, I read one chapter of Catch-22 and ten pages of Cormac McCarthy a night. Any more than that and I tend to get a little bogged down. With Catch-22, I feel like I'm drowning in all the words after a while because Heller's writing style is so frantic and shifts focus so quickly, so I need those breaks to fully comprehend what I've read. With McCarthy there's that similar flood of words, but McCarthy's writing style is the opposite of frantic--I'd say he comes as close as a human being can to emulating with words the desert he focuses on in so much of his work. And if you were sitting in the desert, just staring at it, for ages, you'd get overwhelmed, because there's just so much of it. But if you just take small trips out there, looking for a bit and then leaving, knowing it'll be there when you come back, it's much easier to focus on each beautiful detail, and you appreciate the beauty all the more comparing that unparalleled landscape to whatever sheltered little dwelling you're going back to.

But then on the other hand, I buy Stephen Fry's new book on a whim and of course can't just wait until I'm done with my other books, and then I can't put it down for love of Stephen Fry.

I mean, just look at him.

 
This new book is called The Fry Chronicles, and it's an account of his life mostly college and afterwards (there's a bit in there about his childhood and adolescence, but apparently he's got an entire separate book on that, which I will be acquiring in short order). The book is just a joy to read. Fry writes exactly like you'd expect him to, so he's got a really pleasant, down-to-earth (and often self-deprecating) way with words. Some might argue that I only love the book so much because I have a truly inappropriate amount of affection for Stephen Fry, but I don't think that's the case. The book is really just delightful to read. I mean, I'm only a hundred or so pages in, so I suppose it could take a horrible turn, but I've more faith in Fry than that.

My only issue with the book is that I keep calling it "The Why of Fry" in my head, because that's a much catchier title and also an episode of Futurama.

Don't worry, Other Fry, I love you just as much.

More on McCarthy.

I noticed something while reading All the Pretty Horses the other night, so I'm going to talk a bit about that instead of... not McCarthy, or something.

So I was reading about the horrifying escapades of John Grady Cole, and I came across this passage (it's when he's talking to Alejandra's great-aunt):

For me the world has always been more of a puppet show. But when one looks behind the curtain and traces the strings upward he finds they terminate in the hands of yet other puppets, themselves with their own strings which trace upward in turn, and so on. In my own life I saw these strings whose origins were endless enact the deaths of great men in violence and madness. Enact the ruin of a nation.
(All the Pretty Horses, pg 231)

Reading that section, I was reminded of a bit from Suttree when he discovers the ragpicker dead (the ragpicker is probably my favorite character in Suttree):

The old man lay dim and bleared in his brass bed. Suttree leaned back in the chair and pushed at his eyes with the back of his hand. The day had grown dusk, the rain eased. Pigeons flapped up overhead and preened and crooned. The keeper of this brief vigil said that he'd guessed something of the workings in the wings, the ropes and sandbags and the houselight toggles. Heard dimly a shuffling and coughing beyond the painted drop of the world.
(Suttree, pg 421-422)

These passages are not perfectly similar by any means, but there's a very definite similarity--both referring to the world at large as a sort of show put on by a hidden higher power, both referring to someone who was able to peer "behind the curtain" and catch a glimpse of what was going on behind the scenes. Again, this sort of attitude is so characteristic of McCarthy. If I were better at philosophy I'd try to throw some of that in for effect, but I really don't know anything about philosophy, and I'd just make a fool of myself.

I mean, I do know that this is a sort of deterministic view. But both of these characters seem less in line with the idea of an actual higher power or fate controlling everyone's lives and more of the opinion that there is some sort of malevolent force just, for lack of a better term, screwing everyone over all the time. In All the Pretty Horses, she's probably talking about actual people--government higher-ups and whatever sort of shadowy people enact revolutions. In Suttree, it seems more likely that he is actually talking about some sort of higher power, given some of his earlier conversations with the ragpicker. But Suttree doesn't seem to approve of whatever higher power he may or may not credit for everything that's happened, and the ragpicker definitely wasn't a fan of the being in the sky.

Both excerpts, and both books in general (although Suttree more so), remind me of the "tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" soliloquy, which I'm sure we all know but I'll put it here anyway.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
(Macbeth)

I think if you'd asked Suttree, he probably would have agreed that life seemed like a tale told by an idiot.

Guys, I really like Cormac McCarthy.

I thought it might help me through this little episode my brain is having (we fight a lot, he and I--and no, I don't know why I've given my brain a masculine identity) if I had something else to focus on besides college, college, and more college. So even though I'm sure there aren't a ton of people who are super excited to hear my opinions about literature--except my mother; hi Mom!--I'm going to go ahead and put them here anyway. I think it will be good for me, which is reason enough for me to do it.

Look at me, I have opinions on things. Look at all these opinions I have.

Anyway, I'm reading about six books at the moment because I can't concentrate on one thing for very long, so I'm sure these writings will jump around a lot. I'm going to start off with a book I've already finished, and to I'm sure no one's great surprise, it's a Cormac McCarthy book--but surprise! It's not Blood Meridian! It's Suttree.

I started reading Suttree mostly as a part of my ongoing quest to read everything McCarthy has ever written.

Side note: it always bothers me to call him McCarthy, because I immediately think of Joe McCarthy, who is not worth mentioning in any context. Thanks for ruining that last name for me, Joe.

But Suttree. Which doesn't really have anything to do with Communists as far as I know. Although I guess you could argue that some of them had some pretty Commie ideas. Anyway. Suttree was rough going for me, because it's incredibly dense, even for McCarthy. The plot kind of meanders, as opposed to say No Country for Old Men or All the Pretty Horses, where there's a very defined narrative. But even though it took me ages to finish it, Suttree is still one of my favorite McCarthy books (which is kind of like saying chocolate is my favorite kind of cake--why pick just one?).

I think my favorite passage from Suttree is this one:

I've seen all I want to see and I know all I want to know. I just look forward to death.
He might hear you, Suttree said.
I wisht he would, said the ragpicker. He glared out across the river with his redrimmed eyes at the town where dusk was settling in. As if death might be hiding in that quarter.
No one wants to die.
Shit, said the ragpicker. Here's one that's sick of livin.
Would you give all you own?
The ragman eyed him suspiciously but he did not smile. It wont be long, he said. An old man's days are hours.
And what happens then?
When?
After you're dead.
Dont nothin happen. You're dead.
You told me once you believed in God.
The old man waved his hand. Maybe, he said. I got no reason to think he believes in me. Oh I'd like to see him for a minute if I could.
What would you say to him?
Well, I think I'd just tell him. I'd say: Wait a minute. Wait just one minute before you start in on me. Before you say anything, there's just one thing I'd like to know. And he'll say: What's that? And then I'm goin to ast him: What did you have me in that crapgame down there for anyway? I couldn't put any part of it together.
Suttree smiled. What do you think he'll say?
The ragpicker spat and wiped his mouth. I dont believe he can answer it, he said. I dont believe there is a answer. (Suttree, pg 258)

I like it so much for a few different reasons. First, I think it shows the theme of the book very well in just a short dialogue (although with McCarthy, pinning down theme is always difficult). Most of the main characters are very poor people who seem to be a little lost as far as what they're supposed to be doing with their life, or their luck has run out, or they've just given up entirely. They can't "put any part of it together" as far as life goes.

Also, I love that the ragpicker is calling God out on how the world works. Essentially, he's saying that if he were to ask God what his life was supposed to mean, he would expect no answer. That, to me, is another key theme of Suttree: a bunch of people constantly wondering if their life, or anything they do, has any real meaning or value.

Suttree also has several hilarious parts (a kid fucks a watermelon--no, really), and I'd highly recommend it if you're okay with the stream of consciousness sort of narrative. There are several other excellent parts I could highlight, but I'll stop for now. Next time maybe I'll even talk about an author who's not Cormac McCarthy. Maybe I won't even mention McCarthy. Wouldn't that be exciting?