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The first novel, Vandover and the Brute, was written while Norris was a student at Harvard. It was published after his death and appears to have been altered by his brother who found parts of the novel and its then strong language objectionable. Even with this, I found it to be an interesting story of a indolent young man's moral slide. It is a story of the perfidy of a good friend, rationalizing bad moral decisions, and playing poorly the hand that the main character, Vandover, has been dealt. Good intentions never last long. Vandover takes advantage of a girl in his set. Her subsequent suicide sets in motion his slide. All along he takes the path of least resistence; he makes slopy, lazy, irresponsible choices that contribute to the inevitable outcome.
McTeague, the second novel, was also begun while Norris was at Harvard and published in 1899. While not as lurid a subject as Vandover, parts of the book were quite controversial at the time. The book notes indicate that a passage describing incontinence was rewritten for its second printing due to pressure from the publisher. This LOA printing of this novel contains the original passage. I think that McTeague is the most enjoyable or the three novels. The writing is so clear and realistic. I think that it influenced some of the great realistic writers to follow.
The last novel in this volume was titled The Octopus, and was an ambitious undertaking. It was to be the first part of a never completed trilogy, THE EPIC OF THE WHEAT. It has a hugh cast of characters and reminds me of both the novel and movie "GIANT". (Of course, the Octopus is better written.) Missing is the second part of the trilogy called the Pit. (Norris died suddenly in his early thirties before he wrote the third book.) For some reason LOA chose to include some of Norris'essays instead of the Pit. Regardless...
This is a wonderful volume of extraordinarily well written works. Discovering the writing of Frank Norris was one of readings great pleasures. I highly recommend this book. I also encourage you to check out some of the other volumes published by the Library of America.
Whereas "The Octopus" and "The Pit" (not included in this volume, but available in paperback from Penguin) are panoramic views of class struggle (foreshadowing the Steinbeck of "Cannery Row" and "Grapes of Wrath"), both "McTeague" and "Vandover" tell the story of one individual's downfall--in the former, that of a dim-witted dentist; in the latter, that of a spoiled son of a business tycoon. Many people, myself included, prefer the Norris of "McTeague" and "Vandover." Whereas, with the "wheat" trilogy, you get the feeling that Norris maybe bit off more than he could chew--that the project was too ambitious--these other two novels are minor masterpieces of decadent fiction. "Vandover," I believe, is ultimately the more affecting of the two. McTeague is simply an idiot; there is little to like about him. The story is wonderfully told with irony and dark humor, but McTeague's downfall probably affects us less than Vandover's because his stupidity and crudity distance him from us. His predicament is more laughable than anything else. "Vandover," however, is much more human than McTeague, much more like us. I wouldn't say he's a character protrayed in completely sympathetic terms, because he does some pretty mean-spirited things, but it is not very difficult to put ourselves in Vandover's place.
What is most frightening about "Vandover" is that it so vividly dramatizes the way in which a series of seemingly minor events combined with certain circumstances, lack of self-discipline or self-control, and bad habits can utterly ruin someone. "Vandover" is a warning to all of those people with artistic (and I use "artistic" in its broadest sense) ambitions who lack the self-discipline necessary to fulfill them. Alcohol, drugs, and other carnal pleasures are your greatest enemies.
If you like "Vandover," be sure to read F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Beautiful and Damned," which is a very similar story of a spoiled playboy's decline and fall (no doubt heavily influenced by Norris's novel). Alcohol is the primary culprit in many a Naturalist novel's protagonist's downfall. Yet the great thing about the Naturalists was that they were able to tell such stories without sliding down into didactic temperance fiction.
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We can *feel* the poet stenciling out his stanzas, sifting every event for its fine-grained visceral crunch, its lyrical *there-ness*, a mind designed to sound deep water with the halcyon light of Hart Crane and Wallace Stevens, the great unassailable precursors of American verse (so difficult to rediscover and appreciate in the morass of "poetry-slams" and "performance-art" that currently glut our poetry venues).
Imagine the type of mind that could respond to Crane and Stevens without flinching, over forty years and eighteen volumes of verse. Imagine the solitaire.
Ashbery staggered me in my late teens with *Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror*(1975), lighting up my sinuses in a cocaine wash of zippety rhythms and studied inflection, peopling my sleep with deep Figurae and a lush library of maps, persuading the fool's heart in me to break from my covert and run wild with the night mind of the race, the structures and possibilities of my life overloaded by his cognitive dazzle. "The geek shall inherit the earth," this poet seemed to be telling me, and I, hamstrung by gynephobia and a crippling social-anxiety, took the old codger at his word.
Ashbery taught me how to keep pace with the world, to saturate the atoms of life with an inward stare, yoking myself nakedly to the ebon flight of his lush written world. With Ashbery's deep intellect and dickety-slippity wit, his pretzelly stanzas and mind-torquing conceptual corkscrewing, I could go on forever relighting my own image, against steady palls of black pain. (But don't all great poets teach us precisely this?)
Witness Ashbery at his most serpentine: "To create a work of art that the critic cannot even talk about ought to be the artist's chief concern." Ouch. Where does that leave the rest of us? Fumbling for categorical handholds on the cliff-face of so-called "language-poetry"? Shrugging off the old man's labyrinthian navel-picking as wastefully avant-garde academic verbiage? Most of these poems seem to erupt in an obfuscatory strain of muddled, stickjaw phonetics, then nip and flounder and twiddle and skip-rope through some half-fledged convolution of thought, reproducing the vagaries and blindsights of poetic composition itself, biting its tail in an Ouroboros vertigo of self-reference and studied awkwardness, an infinite regress short-circuiting each new wired fragment of stunted dramatic logic, of discontinued narrative transit, flip-flopped to articulate its crackerjacked, contradictory character, an uber-villain's squadron of twittering machines set a-flutter to tweak the night with the familiar Stevensian tragedies arising from epistemology.and solipsism.
Yes, we can analyze it now (or else pretend our way to some jerry-rigged solution). All the whistles and clicks of inbound meaning. The poetic tracery of nightvision cunning, unfastening the set of our bones, gorging our deep human need for prosody and inflection, all taken to grief in the massing forms of some depth-stirring new solip:system. (Sometimes a great poem is all it takes.) Ashbery's rippling, obfuscatory surface-tension hides and betokens a mind-pretzelling world of ninny-ish cognitive delight, of a "peculiar slant of memory that intrudes on the dreaming model...filtered and influenced by it, until no part remains that is surely you."
Give this book a chance.... Recommended points of entry: "Soonest Mended"(87), "As One Put Drunk into the Packet-Boat"(163), "Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror"(188), "Wet Casements"(225), "Houseboat Days"(231), "Tapestry" (269), "A Wave"(322).
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Worsley's skills as a sailor, navigator and writer made Shackleton's story possible and the book gives a clear insight into the personal qualities of heroic era adventurers 'when ships were made of wood and men were made of steel'.
A facinating and exciting book, well written and researched, with excellent photographs - this is my most frequently loaned book! [Incidentally, Frank Worsley's diaries can be seen at NZ's Canterbury Museum.]
Worsley, you see, was Shackleton's captain in the Antarctic expedition that almost ended in disaster in 1914/15. A dreadful summer in the south meant that their boat, the Endurance, was trapped inescapably in pack ice and so began one of the most incredible, courageous and stoic journeys in all polar exploration history. Shackleton's story has been told many times - how the men survived on Elephant Island, and how, with Worsley and some others they sailed across the wildest ocean in the world in a tiny boat to South Georgia to get a rescue craft for the rest of the crew. Even then disaster after disaster struck, they were almost smashed on the rocky coast of South Georgia, once ashore they had to cross the mountainous and glacier ridden interior to reach help on the other coast, and then they had to endure several failed attempts to reach the rest of the survivors back on Elephant Island. This story is told again, but teasing out Worsley's perspective and contributions.
Worsley's story isn't solely about this one incident, dramatic as it is. His life from his childhood to his further expeditions to the Arctic with Shackleton and his first and second world war experiences are all here. I think Thomson really gets inside the man in this book. There are numerous photos and illustrations - most of the Endurance and Quest photos of Shackelton's are widely available in other publications though. There is also a good index and a good appendix if you want to read further information on Worsley or his companions.
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One of the things I like about "Queen Zixi of Ix" is that it sounds like a traditional fairey tale adventures, even more so than the Oz books, in which Baum certainly created his own fantasy universe. More importantly, characters manage to get beyond the limits of their stereotypes with surprising results, which is certainly a laudable thing to do in telling stories to children. Of course, this only cements Baum's reputation in the realm of American children's literature, but then as anybody knows who has gotten beyond "The Wizard of Oz" Baum was deservedly known as Father Goose. Check out Baum's "The Sea Fairies" and "Sky Island" as well if you like this one, which has 90 illustrations on its 231 pages.