READING: Lost Illusions
One day you'll have a boyfriend who will make a mixed CD and that mixed CD will contain Wilson Phillips's "Hold On" and you will realize that you enjoy that song now unironically -- and that, actually, you have always enjoyed that song unironically but only pretended the irony to be mistaken for hip. Being 33 means never having to say you're sorry about Wilson Phillips.
And it feels great.
So, I've been reading Balzac's Lost Illusions for almost a week and let's go ahead and get something out of the way right now: if you're always going to giggle like a 10-year-old everytime you read Balzac's name, this journal is going to be a real rough time for you. So, let's try to get those giggles out now:
Balzac sounds like ball sack. Yeah. I know. You're a comedy genius.
I haven't been very fair about the Balzac (come on now...). I feel like I'm angry with him all the time for not being John Galsworthy, and for Lost Illusions not being The Forsyte Saga. Maybe Lost Illusions is my rebound book, and I should have taken more time to think about all the great times Soames, Irene, Old Jolyon, June, and I had. We were so right for one another in so many ways.
Lost Illusions is about two guys who read poetry to each other, but because it's France, and because it's the early 19th century, they can't homo their way down the Champs-Elysées. For one thing, they're not in Paris. Also, Lucien and David aren't really the Jack and Ennis of their times; Balzac doesn't really see the inherent gayosity of these two cats, and has given them women to fall in love with: Lucien with the beautiful and married Mme de Bargeton and David with Lucien's sister Eve.
But dig this scene:
"When he came to the line, 'If theirs be not happiness, is there such on earth?' he kissed the book, and the two friends were both moved to tears, for both were in love with Chénier, to idolatry."
I've got two words for those guys: Gay. And wad.
This novel is suffering from the same problems that The Red and the Black and The Princess Casamassima have, at least for me. Stories about poor boys blundering their way through high society are a tough tale to sell. We're usually meant to root for the hero in these cases, but why? Why do I want him to be in high society when high society, at least the way presented in these novels, is filled with gaseous airbags who poison intellect more than enrich it? On the other hand, sometimes the whole thing is supposed to be "satirically ironic" -- but a whole novel of that? Grates.
This novel is of the satirically ironic school. Lucien is a poet, or wants to be, and Mme de Bargeton loves him or at least loves the idea of being the lover of a great poet. French society, though, is so busy being witty and French that they don't seem to have time for true talent. And I'm taking Balzac's word that Lucien is talented because I'm not much for the poetry, and I skip over the long passages of poetry that the novel throws in like it's J.R.R. Tolkien with the elf songs all of a sudden.
Here are some other things that are bugging me about Lost Illusions:
1) Hi, Balzac? Here's the thing about chapters. They're useful. They help break up the reading. Chapters should be, really, no more than 10 or 12 pages. You can fudge that up to 20 if you have to -- but let's not get ridiculous. Your first chapter, though, is 150 pages. That's, like, 15 chapters right there. And it's the only chapter in Part 1: Two Poets.
Do you see how that's, like, 17 different kinds of irritating?
Why even bother calling it Chapter 1 if there isn't a Chapter 2 following? You could just have called the whole thing Part 1: Two Poets and left it at that. I'd still have been a little annoyed with you, but now you're up to two dings just on technical things alone. We haven't even gotten to the writing yet.
2) The writing. Meh. The novel only really caught my interest around page 90, when Lucien shows up for his first society poetry reading and it flops like Nixon on television. And it picks up because everyone in society has their bitch on, and it's directed directly at Lucien.
3) I peeked ahead. Part 2: A Provincial Celebrity in Paris has more than one chapter, but you're still piling on the pages. One hundred and thirteen pages now? Are you kidding me?
*sigh*
To wrap up this entry, let's have a quick talk about classic literature. It's primarily what I read, unless prompted by one of my two book groups to pick up something written in the last 50 years. Having said that, I don't necessarily believe that any classic is a good classic. For instance, The Red and the Black and The Princess Casamassima are two "classics" that I'm pretty not so much about. In fact, Henry James in general is usually a tough sell for me (which is going to suck when I get to the J's in my bookshelf), as is Dostoevsky. I've also been nursing a dislike for Elizabeth Gaskell that may or may not be deserved. I've only tried a couple pages of Mary Barton, but they left me cold with her over-flowered prose. She's on this year's reading list, too, though. So we'll see. I like the classics I like usually because the writing is better, the plots are interesting, and the insights are universal rather than navel-gazingly blog-like (and I include myself in the list of navel-gazers).
I'll give Balzac 50 more pages. If this story isn't chugging along better, then I'm moving on to Lady Audley's Secret by Mary Elizabeth Braddon. I'm hoping that Lady Audley's secret is better writing. It's about time.
And it feels great.
So, I've been reading Balzac's Lost Illusions for almost a week and let's go ahead and get something out of the way right now: if you're always going to giggle like a 10-year-old everytime you read Balzac's name, this journal is going to be a real rough time for you. So, let's try to get those giggles out now:
Balzac sounds like ball sack. Yeah. I know. You're a comedy genius.
I haven't been very fair about the Balzac (come on now...). I feel like I'm angry with him all the time for not being John Galsworthy, and for Lost Illusions not being The Forsyte Saga. Maybe Lost Illusions is my rebound book, and I should have taken more time to think about all the great times Soames, Irene, Old Jolyon, June, and I had. We were so right for one another in so many ways.
Lost Illusions is about two guys who read poetry to each other, but because it's France, and because it's the early 19th century, they can't homo their way down the Champs-Elysées. For one thing, they're not in Paris. Also, Lucien and David aren't really the Jack and Ennis of their times; Balzac doesn't really see the inherent gayosity of these two cats, and has given them women to fall in love with: Lucien with the beautiful and married Mme de Bargeton and David with Lucien's sister Eve.
But dig this scene:
"When he came to the line, 'If theirs be not happiness, is there such on earth?' he kissed the book, and the two friends were both moved to tears, for both were in love with Chénier, to idolatry."
I've got two words for those guys: Gay. And wad.
This novel is suffering from the same problems that The Red and the Black and The Princess Casamassima have, at least for me. Stories about poor boys blundering their way through high society are a tough tale to sell. We're usually meant to root for the hero in these cases, but why? Why do I want him to be in high society when high society, at least the way presented in these novels, is filled with gaseous airbags who poison intellect more than enrich it? On the other hand, sometimes the whole thing is supposed to be "satirically ironic" -- but a whole novel of that? Grates.
This novel is of the satirically ironic school. Lucien is a poet, or wants to be, and Mme de Bargeton loves him or at least loves the idea of being the lover of a great poet. French society, though, is so busy being witty and French that they don't seem to have time for true talent. And I'm taking Balzac's word that Lucien is talented because I'm not much for the poetry, and I skip over the long passages of poetry that the novel throws in like it's J.R.R. Tolkien with the elf songs all of a sudden.
Here are some other things that are bugging me about Lost Illusions:
1) Hi, Balzac? Here's the thing about chapters. They're useful. They help break up the reading. Chapters should be, really, no more than 10 or 12 pages. You can fudge that up to 20 if you have to -- but let's not get ridiculous. Your first chapter, though, is 150 pages. That's, like, 15 chapters right there. And it's the only chapter in Part 1: Two Poets.
Do you see how that's, like, 17 different kinds of irritating?
Why even bother calling it Chapter 1 if there isn't a Chapter 2 following? You could just have called the whole thing Part 1: Two Poets and left it at that. I'd still have been a little annoyed with you, but now you're up to two dings just on technical things alone. We haven't even gotten to the writing yet.
2) The writing. Meh. The novel only really caught my interest around page 90, when Lucien shows up for his first society poetry reading and it flops like Nixon on television. And it picks up because everyone in society has their bitch on, and it's directed directly at Lucien.
3) I peeked ahead. Part 2: A Provincial Celebrity in Paris has more than one chapter, but you're still piling on the pages. One hundred and thirteen pages now? Are you kidding me?
*sigh*
To wrap up this entry, let's have a quick talk about classic literature. It's primarily what I read, unless prompted by one of my two book groups to pick up something written in the last 50 years. Having said that, I don't necessarily believe that any classic is a good classic. For instance, The Red and the Black and The Princess Casamassima are two "classics" that I'm pretty not so much about. In fact, Henry James in general is usually a tough sell for me (which is going to suck when I get to the J's in my bookshelf), as is Dostoevsky. I've also been nursing a dislike for Elizabeth Gaskell that may or may not be deserved. I've only tried a couple pages of Mary Barton, but they left me cold with her over-flowered prose. She's on this year's reading list, too, though. So we'll see. I like the classics I like usually because the writing is better, the plots are interesting, and the insights are universal rather than navel-gazingly blog-like (and I include myself in the list of navel-gazers).
I'll give Balzac 50 more pages. If this story isn't chugging along better, then I'm moving on to Lady Audley's Secret by Mary Elizabeth Braddon. I'm hoping that Lady Audley's secret is better writing. It's about time.
posted by Mike at 11:04 AM
1 Comments:
I so do not believe in ironic enjoyment, especially with music. You either like it or you don't, and this is coming from someone who owns three rod stewart albums.
I also beleive very strongly in liking something because it is bad, which is different than likely somehing ironically. I am having trouble articulating this, but as a Wilson Phillips lover, I think you can dig it.
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