Terry Pratchett recommended it, as he should because it is a great book, smooth to read and whimsical. A rollicking read, saturated from start to finish with an ironic vocabulary which adds a shine to other, more upfront, demonstrations of wit. It seems unlikely that you, or anyone else has, or will read it without reaching for the dictionary. Do not be misled, the Latin doesn’t slow it down rather, it exaggerates one of the plentiful nuggets of humour. Follow Earnest through his adventures in the, hopefully Late, Paleolithic period. Don’t read too fast though, it might all be over too soon.
I liked it. A lot. It does not have a stiff theoretical spine; there is no thorough investigation of politics, humanism, religion, philosophy, etcetera. It is still a rather good read, relatively quick to.
A longer read than is pleasurable. Sometimes funny, such as describing the French as monkeys with cringe-worthy sansculotte (pants-less) institutions. Within are details of ritual possession (which the author concludes are entirely real), the childhood development of the attitude, the dominant religions & their quarrels, the powers of possession, the pilgrim troop, journey & destination, the analogue of business cards that the pilgrims distribute, and so on. There was a momentary surprise to find an author so implicitly derisive of the Japanese culture & people to be aware of the Christian tendency to baptise any tradition to strong to be dismissed or daemonised.
The author appears sincere in investigating the psyche of the Japanese nation. Indeed he believes himself to have determined the origin of the possession ritual, as well as locating prehistoric religion / attitudes passed down through generations and lost to the confusion between Shintō, Buddhism and Ryobū. A confusion locals could only overcome by leaning on the author’s own strong, Western personality, to make explicit a certain ugliness of this book.
At times it reads as a tourist travel guide, it begins with the author climbing the Ontaké mountain peak, witnessing a three-wheeling possession of monks. It discusses various attractions, with a tilt towards those favoured by locals instead of those most accessible by foreigners. & of course it mentions the cherry blossoms.
The last 100 pages or so are not worth the paper. I’d rather wipe with them to be honest. If you are interested in reading my words about his words about someone else discussing the mental processes behind difficulty in getting out of bed, you are a strange breed of ape. It is in these later pages where the authors racial pride really shows itself. I feel it has degraded my soul to read so many pages denigrating the Japanese. [To be clear, I believe there are inherited traits and do not favour a total Blank-Slate theory of human nature. A complex interplay of nature and nurture exists, of which this Mr. Lowell is occasionally aware.]
Short enough to quickly read on the train, the narrative flows linearly. A simple twist at the end, one I failed to anticipate, despite ruminating on it during the train change. Mr. Kafka anticipates & predates the Saw film franchise, the Hostel film franchise.
The author, & this work particularly, seem to have acquired some respect, although precisely how this impression came to me, I do not know. However others attach metaphors, whatever it demonstrates about absolute commitment to justice, it is torture porn in literature format.
A Call For Violence, or, Mercy Killing.
True justice being an eye for an eye, tooth for tooth, cruelty is more and mercy is less.
Mr. Sepp Blatter accepted a bribe, and because of that choice between yes / no, people (Bangladeshis & Pakistanis) have died. His own death, being singular, would be merciful.
His wealth, and the bribes more specifically, should be distributed between the wage-slaves he created. Without his ‘yes’, they wouldn’t be building the FIFA stadium in Qatar. Don’t get me started on the Qataris who funded the offer or corrupt officials who enabled the crooked process.
Slavery is an apt description, the Pakistani & Bangladeshi labourers do not have freedom of movement, some are beaten, some are killed. The wage they are paid is reduced by their overseers, without freedom of movement they must buy food at inflated costs, like how the Tuckshop used to be in Scottish Highlands.
If Mr. Blatter had said, ‘no’, they total suffering in Qatar would be lesser. His single death would be merciful, because his ‘yes’ lead to much more than one death.
All this leads should lead the Pakistani’s and Bangladeshi’s quite reasonable to resentment or hatred for ‘The West’.
Do you consent or dissent to this call?
P.S. Yes I do realise this is some years late.
Apparently Bulgarians have extra-sensory powers including but not limited to predicting lottery numbers. You want that to huh?
Step number 1: Be relaxed.
Step number 2: Breathing.
The secret is to breath in for 2 seconds, hold your breath for 4 and breath out for 2 seconds. This timing will fit your breathing pattern into specific Baroque music, with 60 beats per minute (BPM). Make or buy a recording where the stuff to be learnt is spoken for 4 seconds, and listen to it so that your breathing stops for those 4 seconds.
The authors are certain of themselves, and the only reason the secret hasn’t caught on is the fumbling of the Canadian government. Applying it wrongly & damaging trust, the Canadians have screwed it up for everyone. By this day, decades after publication, all blind people should be able to see, telepathy should have made Skype useless and, most importantly, we’d all be much more relaxed.
Ueghhk… I did not like this book very much at all. A positive is the relatively low word count which allows a quicker read. Redeemed only because now other books nigh overwhelm me with sensuality and emotion. If you want to take this book seriously I recommend two courses; treat it as arbitrarily restricted artwork, or, as a narrative woven from the inconsistency of a schizophrenic, depressed homeless man with a kid.
So art often imposes contingent and frankly ridiculous restrictions to produce unique creations. The Road applies that method by using almost no punctuation at all. Conversations are not shown by quotation marks, which which fogs the train of thought, although conversations generally occur only to curb enthusiasm. Next limitation is the paragraphs, which often split apart what would otherwise be continuous. Explicable as art not literature, figuratively speaking this fracturing of paragraphs are climbing a cocoanut tree, there are no major branches it is simply the trunk. If you are not pleased by comparative literature, seeking to understand this as an artwork relative to other artworks will be a displeasure.
Duchamp tried to push his persona beyond the art world, and succeeded. I have heard more talk about his pisspot than about surrealism or photorealism or even romanticism. So perhaps McCarthy is trying to create a novel with reach beyond domain of literature, incorporating the system which heaps accolades upon his labours as an easy target for ridicule for those interested in simpler books or illiterate. Maybe, but I repeat, if you do not enjoy comparing literature, seeking to understand this as an artwork relative to other artworks will be a displeasure.
The second is obvious. The only bloom in these pages is fire, although this may be indicative of pyromania instead of depression. Read about Rome and surely a description of a laurel wreath will cross the page, I assume Herman Melville wrote briefly about a frangipani lei, flowers are found in Tolstoi’s works. I challenge a reader to find a single page where McCarthy’s characters whistle a little song, tell a terrible joke or anything derived from the passions (excluding of course; despair, dismay, disappointment, deviance, denial, denigration & so on, so forth). I believe Mr. Victor Frankl, a sense of purpose and humour are vital to our continued existence. The man in ‘The Road’ actively discourages his child from any dream of a better tomorrow. Page 160, sigh…
So McCarthy has built an elaborate metaphor for a depressive-type personality? A person who drags them self through day after day without purpose or humour and refusing to allow such concepts into the mind of the child in his care. What happens when a homeless man loses his trolley and all his possessions? Read this book if you would know. How does it feel to meet people who are born to die? Isn’t it a little nicer to consider the inevitability of death as ‘pretty girls make graves’ instead of, that baby in your womb is going to die as surely as if your husband were to decapitate and spit-roast it over an open fire? The ending would be more consistent with this interpretation and the overall tone of the book if the boy became a Mowgli bereft of animal tutors.
The book is tedious. No flight of fancy, no deeper purpose, not gonna get much of an experience from reading, if you share ineffable reader attributes with me. I appreciate it in the same way eating plain porridge for brekky can give one a great sense of just how smeggin’ good bacon & eggs can be.