Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino

This is an odd one. I don't even know whether I can really call Invisible Cities a novel or not. This isn't the first time I've read Calvino's work before; no, my first introduction to his work was 'Night Driver', a short story that firmly places his work into the postmodern. Even knowing that, I'm still not sure what to make of this.

The blurb of my edition states two things. First, that the book is Marco Polo talking to Kublai Khan about the cities within his realm, all of which are actually aspects of his home city, Venice. Second, a quote from Gore Vidal that states, "Of all tasks, describing the contents of a book is the most difficult and in the case of [...] Invisible Cities, perfectly irrelevant." I would be more inclined to believe Gore Vidal. While you do get scenes of Marco Polo and Kublai Khan talking, it is pretty bare and lacking conflict as a "plot"; in my head, Invisible Cities is more an exercise in world building than it is an actual novel. The majority of its chapters are 1-2 page descriptions of a fantastical city. How many of them are supposed to relate to Venice, I'm not sure; the only ones that rang true for me was one with canals (obviously) and one which is constantly under construction for fear that it will crumble once construction ends (it brought to mind the rapidly crumbling foundations). Just because their relation to the real world is tenuous at best is not a criticism from me. Far from it, in fact; whilst I was discussing what I was reading with my boyfriend, we realised just how much potential each of these cities contained. There was something about their weirdness, their unique spin on a city, that really captured my imagination in a way that I haven't experienced for years now.

This was a pretty short review, all in all. I would definitely recommend Invisible Cities, especially to those who read as an appreciation of writing as a craft, and those who enjoy the world-building aspect of it in particular. I can see it boring people who insist on deep and involving narratives, but I would recommend giving it a go. 5/5

Next review: Demian by Hermann Hesse

Signing off,
Nisa.

Clarimonde by Theophile Gautier

With little to fill the late evening, I decided that I might as well read Clarimonde, a short story set as part of my university course on the Gothic. At 24 pages, it was hardly an arduous task to take up. So, how well did it hold up with the other gothic fiction I've been reading recently?

Clarimonde is the story of a young priest, Romuald, who falls madly in love with a courtesan, the eponymous Clarimonde, on the day of his consummation as a priest. Despite his desire to be with her, his duty dictates that he become the cure at the church of a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. It is only when he is summoned to the bedside of a dying Clarimonde is he given an opportunity to be with her; unfortunately, it is not one that sits well with the part of him still devoted to God.
As a short story, there isn't much room to really work with, but I really liked what was there. At first I wasn't entirely sure what exactly was going to qualify Clarimonde as anything gothic, but Romuald's strange double life was certainly a pleasant surprise. The reveal about Clarimonde's true nature towards the end did seem a tad tacked on though, as the story doesn't really go into the lore or the technicalities of how she functions in that condition.

As it's only 24 pages, this is more than manageable to read. I'd definitely recommend it, particularly to readers of Gothic fiction or those who need something a bit lighter or who are in a reading slump. 4/5

Next review: Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino

Signing off,
Nisa.

Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse

Well, on to dissertation stuff now. Yes, be warned, you will be seeing a fair bit of Hermann Hesse in the next month or so, as I need it for work. Although I probably would have gotten to Siddhartha eventually, considering that it's one of the books that made Hesse known worldwide and I had thoroughly enjoyed Beneath the Wheel before this. So how did it measure up?

Siddhartha is the story of a boy, the eponymous Siddhartha, who is born as the son of a Brahmin (essentially someone in the priest caste in India), but feels that there is something missing in the holy chants and rituals that he has known all his life. In his desire for enlightenment, he leaves his home village, along with his childhood friend Govinda, in order to discover fulfilment in his own terms. It's an interesting look at the Buddhism, but at its heart, it is the story of one person's will to get out into the world and find out his own path to enlightenment.
As a story, it's incredibly simplistic: it's pretty much a look at a man's spiritual journey as he grows from a youth to an old man. I would say that it's a strange mix of character study and book of Buddhist philosophy, which works very well. It's frustrating, there's so much about Siddhartha that excites me, but I can't seem to put it into words. As an enlightened Siddhartha states at the end, "Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish." I suppose that what I like most about the philosophy in Siddhartha is the feeling of potential and attainability that I feel it has. The way that I interpreted what was said was that because everything is of the same nature and is thus of equal importance, there is the potential to become anything: it states that within the criminal there is the seed of enlightenment, a part of them that is perfect, and that it's just a matter of finding it and letting it grow. I rather like that. I don't know whether it's possible to enact in everyday life, or how you would do it if it is possible, but I think it will stay with me regardless.

There's a lot more in this book that I think makes it an important book to read, but I think that it's the sort of thing that works best when seen as a culmination of all the events in the book. It's something that is best experienced first-hand. Definitely something that I would recommend to all, even if you aren't of the Buddhist persuasion, as it's an important statement about the potential of human nature. 4.5/5

Next review: Clarimonde by Theophile Gautier

Signing off,
Nisa.

Carmilla by Sheridan Le Fanu

My initial reason for wanting to pick up Carmilla is actually kind of shallow: it stars a lesbian vampire. Okay, there's a bit more to it than that five word clause allows for; I knew that it pre-dated Dracula by a few years so I wanted to know how the books differed in terms of vampire mythology as well as how a Victorian author would tackle same-sex attraction, considering the social norms of the time. It was an interesting read.

The story is narrated by Laura, a young girl living in an isolated castle in Styria with her father, nanny and governess. After a visit from a family friend and his niece is cancelled due to the premature death of the niece, Laura is desperate for the companionship of a girl her age. This wish is unexpectedly granted when a carriage overturns near the castle. The carriage contains a girl named Carmilla and her mother. The mother states that her journey is urgent, but she cannot take Carmilla any further due to the impact that it may have on her already fragile health; thus, it falls to Laura and her father to take in Carmilla. At first, things seem fine, but odd deaths start occurring in the area, and Carmilla may not be what she claims.
As a vampire story, it's a pretty standard plot. In this case, I'm willing to overlook that issue, seeing as this is one of the prototypical vampire stories that even Dracula takes influence from. From a plot point of view, I have very little to complain about. Considering how short this book actually is, it builds tension nicely and does manage to be rather spooky, despite the over-saturation that I've experienced with vampire lore in the media. I guess the one point that I have to nitpick about is the ending. Obviously, the vampire has to die for real, that's standard form for these early vampire stories; my only problem is that Carmilla's death is told to us second-hand. As a teenage girl in Victorian times, I'm not surprised that Laura wasn't directly involved with the death, but I feel it would have had more impact if she had actually been present for the death; so instead of her reading their written account of finding her coffin, etc, Carmilla had decided that she couldn't stand losing Laura as prey and making one last-ditch attack, during which she is killed. I admit, this is a fairly minor point though, and the ending is definitely fitting for what the story is.
The thing that interested me more about Carmilla was the little interesting interpretations that it made regarding vampire lore. First, there's the idea that a vampire must return to their coffin for a few hours every morning. Granted, that makes them more likely to get caught, but it's an interesting twist on the "vampires must rest in native soil when they do rest" rule. But what was probably my favourite aspect of the vampire lore in this was the point that the novel states about prey: vampires have to feed regularly, but they will often be obsessed with one particular victim, the signs of which can be confused for love and affection towards the victim, and will thus prolong the feeding process for them. I really like this idea, mainly because it explains the strange love affair that people seem to have with vampires; on paper, a reanimated corpse really shouldn't be that attractive, but if their interest in prey is interpreted from the outside as love, then I can understand the idea of "they just crave love and affection" that seems to have obsessed modern audiences. Unfortunately, this whole love as a front for bloodlust thing makes the lesbian overtones really awkward in retrospect. Carmilla only ever targets female victims in the story, even those victims who she just kills after a few days. That point plus the fact that at no point is she ever portrayed as regretful or sympathetic in her role as a vampire, makes it seem as though her lesbian overtones are as a direct result of her being an evil undead creature. That's just unfortunate. And it's a shame, as the romantic overtone that Laura's friendship with Carmilla is actually really well written and would be quite sweet if the context was different.

While possibly dated by the standards of the average reader, I would definitely recommend Carmilla to readers who are particular fans of classic vampires and want to read other fiction from Bram Stoker's contemporaries. It's definitely an enjoyable book, and well-written considering the length and the over-saturation that modern readers must deal with. 3.5/5

Next review: Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse

Signing off,
Nisa.

Dirty Hands by Jean-Paul Sartre

Considering that I'm studying Camus as part of my university course, it's only natural that the same course would cover a close associate of his, Jean-Paul Sartre. I've been meaning to read some of his work for a while now, kind of as a comparison to Camus. I'm not sure what to make of it. 

Dirty Hands covers a similar subject matter to Camus' The Just Assassins. The play starts with a revolutionary, Hugo, returning to a safehouse after spending two years in prison for an assassination. There he meets a former colleague, who decides to listen to his story to find out his motives for killing who he did; was it for political reasons or was it a crime of passion? It then flashes back to the time building up to the assassination. 

I have one major problem with this play: the main character. I could not stand him. The main conflict of his motive for killing sounds interesting, right? Except that it doesn't really add up either way. In terms of politics, he is utterly despicable: he states that so long as power is seized for the working classes, it doesn't matter that people have to die, caring more about the ideals than the people behind them; that could be an interesting character to follow, except that he doesn't have the courage to actually back up those ideas, meaning that he just sounds like a whiny brat. So he wants the world to burn for his ideals because he was never loved by anyone? Boo hoo, go cry in a corner while the more interesting characters, or at least the characters with any kind of agency can do something instead. If you think of it as a crime of passion, then that doesn't make much sense either because the only people he seems to care about are himself and maybe the guy that he kills. It's just frustrating, as the ideas behind it, like the tactics of revolutionary groups during war and the question of whether it is to a political party's best interest to be installed by a foreign power, were almost completely eclipsed by my utter loathing for the main character. If the play was meant to make me think about assassination and whether it can be justified or not, then it failed because all I was doing was hoping and praying that someone would finally kill this idiot. 

While I haven't really read enough of Sartre's work to really judge this properly, if I were just going on Dirty Hands alone, then I would say that Camus is the superior writer by far. The philosophical ideas behind this are interesting, but they are obscured by a loathsome and really rather boring main character. Read The Just Assassins instead. 1/5 

Next review: Carmilla by Sheridan Le Fanu 

Signing off, 

Nisa. 

The Child of Pleasure by Gabriele D'Annunzio

I honestly had no clue what to expect from The Child of Pleasure. I had heard of its author before in history class back in college, but up until now I had never read anything of his work. I was under the impression that he wrote poetry, a medium that I'm less fond of. Of course, this is where university comes in again.

The Child of Pleasure follows the life of a young Italian aristocrat named Andrea Sperelli as he seeks beauty in every aspect of his life; this includes his love life as he pursues two women throughout the book. One is a young widow named Elena, who lives a life of luxury and flirts her way through scores of salons and parties, but has to suddenly leave him. The other is a married woman named Maria, who dotes on her daughter and has essentially forsaken earthly pleasures to pursue virtue. At first, he courts them separately, only meeting Maria after Elena has been absent from his life for over a year; later, when they are both near enough for him to court, he decides to try and initiate affairs with them both, incensed after their separate pleas to him to love them as sisters.
I suppose that what I ought to mention as probably the best part of this novel is the writing. The skill with which this world of decadence is described is par none; I can't think of an author, off the top of my head, that has managed to describe sensuality with this much skill and detail. Reading The Child of Pleasure actually feels decadent, simply because of the detail that is given to the clothing, the scenery, the smells, all of that stuff that a lot of novels tend to skim over a bit. Even filtered through translation, the author's skill in this respect is clear to see. I would recommend this to anyone who is happy to read something with beautiful writing.
Onto the other big aspect, the plot. It's pretty strong on its own; the aesthete who is so wrapped up in the lies that he has convinced himself off fooling those around him. I only have two problems with it: one is general, the other is a specific thing that I found out regarding the translation. Okay, so first, the general problem. I thought the ending lacked punch. You would think that after lying to two women in order to get both of them to have affairs with him, he would get his comeuppance big time, except he doesn't, not really; okay, so it's implied that society somehow knows what he was doing and mocks him for it, but so what? That's hardly the heavy payment that must be made for a life revolving around the aesthetics and the senses. Now to the translated version's problem. When I started reading this, I had been told by my lecturer that the translation has some problems, but not how. I later learned that the English translator changed the order of the chapters, so that it would be chronological; the first chapter in the Italian is over halfway through the book in the translated version. Looking back at the chapter in question, I can definitely see why that one was the chapter that D'Annunzio started on: it sets up a mystery around who this woman Elena is, as well as showing some of the Count's later selfishness. Don't get me wrong, the translation is in other ways very good, especially when it comes to the writing, as seen in my previous paragraph. I just don't see the point of changing the order: I mean it's not as if novels haven't started in medias res before. I guess I just wish that I could have read it in the order that the author had intended it to be read in.

Overall, definitely a book to be picked up, simply for the writing alone. If you're interested in this, and can speak Italian, I would try and read it in the original language, simply to appreciate the author's intent better. As it is, I would still recommend the translation, just with a few criticisms in mind. 4.5/5

Next review: Dirty Hands by Jean-Paul Sartre

Signing off,
Nisa.

The Fall by Albert Camus

I didn't really know anything about Camus' book The Fall when I picked it up for reading. All I really knew was that it was the last of his works to be published before his death; as such I suppose I was expecting something that was perhaps more complex than what I'd read in The Outsider and The Just Assassins. I certainly got that at least.

The Fall consists of the confession of a man named Jean-Baptiste Clamence. He meets another Frenchman in the bar in Amsterdam that he has taken to frequenting, and over the course of several nights confesses to his sins. Basically, it's a character study. And it's certainly an interesting one.
The main topic that is often referenced is that of judgement and penitence. Clamence's main issue with life is that he becomes convinced that everyone around him is judging him, and in the process mocking him; thus a lot of his confession is the lengths that he goes to either to stop the judgement occurring or to make himself superior to it. What it adds up to is a fascinating character portrait that is sympathetic and yet utterly self-absorbed at the same time. For example, one of the things that he mentions is that he used to be incredibly generous and helpful to people in need, as it made him feel morally superior; while the motives are selfish, can one really judge him negatively if the results of his actions are good? I say that, but at the same time there are things that he confesses to, like walking away after hearing someone fall off of a bridge, that are harder to justify, even if it does feel like it rings true to life.
The translator's notes bring up an interesting viewpoint for the novel: the idea that Clamence is either a satirical portrayal of a former friend of Camus', Jean-Paul Sartre, or a self-portrait of the author. Although I only know the basics of the disagreement between the two men, I can certainly see why people see the former interpretation working. I think it would be more interesting to look into the latter interpretation more, as it's very much removed from the idealised version of oneself that authors are tempted to write into their stories; it takes a lot of courage to write a version of yourself that is this morally ambivalent.

This is the kind of book that I really want to talk about more, but struggle to. I don't for a second believe that I've understood it all in this reading, so I would say that those looking for books that benefit multiple readings will probably enjoy this. What I can say from my initial reading is that those looking for a well-written, in-depth character study will like The Fall. I would also say that those who were put off of Camus by The Outsider might want to take a look at this, as the narrator is more noticeably charming compared to Meursault. Definitely a book to try at least once. 4.5/5

Next review: The Child of Pleasure by Gabriele D'Annunzio

Signing off,
Nisa.