benedettal's reviews
395 reviews

As the first book of a much larger work, Swann’s Way certainly feels like a prelude, a necessary background perhaps, but that doesn’t take away from its individual beauty. 

Very much a stream of consciousness book, I really appreciated getting lost in the never ending sentences and the strange jumps between one thought and the next. Firstly, we’re introduced to the narrator as he reminisces about his childhood, barely understanding what the adults around him are talking about, and culminating with his first glance at Gilberte. The final part reconnects to this era too, with the narrator and Gilberte now being playground mates. But the real meat of this novel is the central part, a digression into the life and psyche of Gilberte’s dad, Mr Swann.

It’s interesting how when the story for all intents and purposes switches to a third person narration, it loses none of its deep introspection and exploration of the human mind. In particular, we are given a very self-centred and one-sided perspective through Swann’s eyes, in his pursuit of Odette. Now, I totally see why Simone de Beauvoir didn’t like this, but I have a severe weakness for books that unashamedly portray the male perspective. And Swann’s infatuation and then near obsession with Odette is really something to behold. Yes, it is deeply imperfect, and I think the author doesn’t shy away from showing the gender based double standards of his society, even though perhaps he leaves any type of criticism or even irony about it between the lines. But I don’t think he was moralistic about it either. I’m okay with knowing that a man may consider his pride hurt when a woman cheats on him, even though he wasn’t entirely faithful at the beginning, either. I feel privileged to be given insight into that, to witness that all consuming passion. And on the other side, Odette is definitely portrayed as wicked in a way, but I liked how free she is. She’s a weird female character, because she is both the representation of perfection and entirely flawed in the eyes of the men (and women) around her, and that’s the only way we see her due to the perspective we’re offered. But her return, under a different guise, in part 3 suggests that there may be more our narrator was simply not privy to, and puts his reliability in question (after all, he’s only drawing on second hand accounts).

To me, that was the highlight of the book. I know there are a lot of other themes that emerge, just, but I think they’ll be more apparent to me once a read the following volumes of this saga, if you will. I just really enjoyed the writing most of all, like at the end of the day, for as much praise as I wrote before, this as a stand alone story is nothing special or exciting, it kinda reminded of Henry James, rather than say, Edith Wharton. But it’s not a self contained novel, it’s merely an introduction, so that’s the basis I’m judging it on. I would say it’d be silly to stop here if you wanted to read Proust, like I don’t know anything about the rest of in search of lost time other than that not many people attempt to read it, but you can just tell this feels unfinished and writing this review just now I want to see what’s next really badly. 

Overall, I liked this book, but I also thought it was far from perfect. Maybe it was so jarring because I started this literally within an hour of finishing Proust, but still. 

Just to make it simple, I’ll put down a bullet point overview of my thoughts:

• the writing style was pretty weak, idk why but especially at the beginning, the dialogue was a bit cringy and forced. It got better eventually, maybe I got used to it. But much like it was hard for me to buy the kids speaking greek and latin in the secret history, the obsessive Shakespearean line drop kinda broke my immersion. But maybe it’s just me, cause I’ve never met people like that, so of course I’d find it hard to believe. Once again though, it gets better later in the book, when I feel like the lines used make more sense in context and actually make the scenes stronger. Also despised the use of brackets all the time, that was one of the biggest general issues with the writing.

• the gimmick with the characters being Shakespearean archetypes works fine for me, but I felt at times that the group was too crowded and two characters in particular, Wren and Alexander, were severely underdeveloped. But the most glaring problem was Richard. I didn’t get why he was so unhinged, while also being well respected by his peers and mentors. I also don’t buy this thing about talent being the reason. Maybe we didn’t get enough time with him, so of course it’s not like Bunny in the Secret History for example. Richard is portrayed as the leader, but that doesn’t make sense when he’s literally violent and none of his charm comes through in any other way. Another issue is that, again, unlike in the secret history, there is nothing binding these kids together. There is no underlying exclusivity to their supposed friends group other than being the only ones in their class, but they don’t really have a dark secret or anything. Of course, they decide to let Richard die, but idk even that decision is so questionable, like they must have assumed it was one of them that did it and wanted to protect that person, but they rather framed it as wanting to get rid of Richard while they had the chance. That’s absurd. No need to escalate the situation to that point. 

• everything else was pretty fun though. The mystery and its resolution is both unexpected and satisfying. I don’t even care about the logic, but over the novel I really appreciated the bond between Oliver and James and its climax had me hooked. Loved the bisexual horniness and platonic love of it all. 

• Meredith was also an interesting character, I did think dialogue about her was v cringy, but idk, I didn’t mind her relationship with Oliver and the sort of twist on the temptress archetype. I only don’t buy that she’d wait around for 10 years, like we have no real indication of why she should love Oliver that much, all of a sudden. Good for him though. 

• the ending is genuinely inspired. It’s gut wrenching and then it’s hopeful, so unexpected, just perfect. Not necessarily a huge fan of open endings, but this nailed it.

To sum up, this is not high literature by any means, and even within its genre, it’s kinda clumsy here and there. However, it has a big heart. You can see how theatre would make people more in touch with their emotions, and how friendships in a tight knit community would develop into deeper and more obsessive feelings. I think it’s rightfully placed next to the secret history as the second biggest dark academia novel, even though I didn’t like it as much. And the concept of a Shakespeare theme is super fun. 

The funny thing about this book is that it’s labelled as absurdist, but reading this after covid only felt like an extremely accurate historical account. Maybe it was just a self-fulfilling prophecy after all (sales skyrocketed in the first months of the pandemic). Either way, this book has certainly stood the test of time. 

I kept looking for the big meaning behind this metaphor, but having lived through a pandemic, it hits more like the sketch of a familiar reality. Humanity in crisis. The characters are such accurate representations of the different perspectives in extreme situations, from the heroic to the self-interested. I guess there are a lot of lessons to be drawn from this but I feel like it’s not really worth it to write them all up. It’s no longer this big philosophical exercise; we all know this is precisely how a health crisis would be handled, how people would behave. In fact, Camus forgot about the conspiracy theorists. Not that it’s not good anymore, but I’m more curious about Camus’ other work now.

Took me a second to review this because it’s not that I didn’t get it, I was just hoping it would slightly grow on me. I will preface by saying this is an excellent novel for what it is, and especially for the time it was written. It’s so so impressive and I need to stress that. But maybe that’s what made it overwhelming in the end. The enjoyment factor is lower because of it, hence the rating, but I’m not denying how great it is.

The Trial is a huge metaphor of everything and nothing. Kafka is famously cynical, and this seems to me like an outlet for him to express and release his frustrations about the (a) the justice system (if we stick to a surface level read), and (b) the pointless struggle between good and evil and of life in general. 

The protagonist, K., is not privy to the crime he’s accused of, and crawls through a creepy dreamscape not necessarily actively trying to seek answers, more so constantly being made aware of other people’s connection to his trial. It’s like a horrible trip where things keep changing shapes and people suddenly know things about you that you don’t know or can’t recall. In that sense, the writing is very evocative and perfect at conveying the anxiety of it all. 

But why? I feel like I still don’t know, but also to a certain extent don’t care enough. I don’t have my own theory. I get how this could totally be just about how justice is corrupt, sure. I don’t know enough about Kafka’s life to draw a connection to his experience which might shed light on potential recriminations he might have had against the system, but considering he lived in a non-democratic society, in a province of an empire, I’m sure his hostility might have been justified. Still, I think there’s a fine line between Orwellian cautionary tale and Kafkaesque nightmare fuel. Where Orwell is warning about what a dystopian future society might look like, indicting the judicial system in the process, Kafka seems to be aiming a bit higher. 

I’ve read other people discuss the parabole of the priest, in one of the last chapters of the book. According to some it’s the key through which to read the entire novel, something about K. going in circles and not understanding how to enter the metaphysical door that separates good and evil. Others disagreed by saying that the point of the parabole is that it is pointless, everything about the narrative actually indicates that there’s nothing you can do when you’re just a pawn in the system. This read is backed by the episode of the fellow accused individual who is treated like a dog by the lawyer. The sooner you realise how pathetic it is to try to win against the house, the better. Has K. realised it by the end of the book? Maybe, maybe not. To me, this felt more like a metaphor for feeling lost and helpless in society. It’s about the uneasiness that comes with knowing that at any point the machine could suck you in, people could turn against you, your dear ones could lose respect for you, and a higher power could unceremoniously take away your life. 

Maybe that’s the problem though, it’s too nihilistic for me. On a more meta level, I always wonder why Kafka wrote these strange novels with no intention of publishing them. I know I could just read one of the 194759295 biographies out there, but I’ll pass for now. Still, it does add a certain something to the story, that these extremely ambitious concepts could never have seen the light of day, if his will had been respected. I’m not a huge fan of the metamorphosis either, but I respect Kafka’s game. Would recommend.

I’ve been on a roll with fabulous memoirs lately. Simone de Beauvoir’s really shines for her intense reflections about life from a young age. This book takes us on a journey with her from infancy to the end of her university career. Her writing is infectious. Without false modesty, she is so sure of how special she is from the get go, thanks to evidently good parenting and the reassurance of her own mind and psyche. As she grows up, she has to face increased challenges due to her social class, her gender, and just the general things everyone goes through. In the end, she’s able to flourish in university, build a solid group of friends, meet some equally as gifted people as herself and slowly shape up the philosophy that will make her immortal.

I liked this book because it gave an intimate look at the philosopher’s life, hinting at the development of her line of thinking, but mostly focusing on the personal experiences. It felt so relatable, like reading a journal, except written a lot better. Simone’s aspirations in her life always felt so natural and realistic. Maybe it’s just because she is an extraordinary individual, but I felt like I could really connect with her through the pages. I really enjoyed how important literature was in her life, one of many relatable elements.

Another, more significant one, was her relationship with the idea of getting married and generally her approach to affection. We see a very one sided account of her feelings for Jaques, she provides this painstakingly passionate narrative, even though she’s writing so many years later, and I for one was really hoping that a sudden turn would show that all the red flags were nothing and they lived happily ever after. But what I appreciated the most was probably the way in which Simone shamelessly exposed her inner thoughts, her continuous fantasies. She has a rich life, but she finds comfort in the idea of being loved by someone, especially when he’s away and he’s just a figment of her imagination. She finds so many justifications for him, but I think, really, she mostly does it for herself. She’s a bit disappointed when reality happens, but she recovers. Maybe it helps, looking back, that his life goes so wrong and he expresses longing for her and regret in the end. Maybe that little victory at the end makes it sweeter. In any case, I loved her honesty and this part of the story felt very relatable to me. Reading the fallout was so painful. 

Also, it was interesting to read about Zazà story in this form. I’d previously read the fictionalised version, the inseparables, which is beautiful in its own right. But this version is even more heartbreaking. The institution of marriage comes out of this book looking quite shabby, and I think that’s only accurate given the time and place. It’s so sad that society, at one point, was so disgustingly single minded about something so intimate. If anything I’m grateful Simone de Beauvoir’s body of work contributed to changing perceptions on it, it vindicates Zazà and everyone else. I don’t begrudge men for doing things I don’t, cause at this point in history, it is entirely my choice, but it does make me angry that they suck so much sometimes. I think this book, without perhaps even setting out to do so, really captures the complexity of human relationships, the difficulty in being loved, the painful line between love and admiration. Maybe it’s just because Simone de Beauvoir really just wanted to be a writer, and she is so talented at it. Maybe her latin translations were just as full of life and poetry as her memoirs end up being, she’s just that good. Either way, I loved this book very much, and yes, it’s another straight addition into the books I wish I’d written club. 

This novel is a beautiful representation of the dying Austro-Hungarian empire told through three generations of men making the fortune over the long reign of Franz Joseph I. It’s a tale of decline and loss of self; the youngest Trotta is torn between not knowing what to do with himself and not wishing to disappoint his father and the memory of his grandfather, a great hero. It’s a poignant metaphor and a great way to convey the spirit of the Empire, holding on to its former glory but headed nowhere.

Franz Joseph is in here for a few sparse chapters, and I loved this depiction. He is so kind in his interactions with the Trotta family. He’s a weak man himself, losing track of time but always being grateful for the moments that feel so close to him, the time of his glorious battles. 

Generally, I thought the story was really slow and uneventful, though I obviously get the historical context and appreciate it what the author was doing. I still struggled to feel a strong emotional connection, so I couldn’t really rate it higher.

This was a fascinating read for sure. Carrere set out to write a non-fiction account of an extraordinary murder case, motivated by lies and fraud perpetuated over several decades, by a seemingly ordinary but absolutely ruthless man. The real life story itself is chilling already, and leaves you wanting to know more. But this book is more than that.

Carrere was obviously inspired by the father of the true crime genre, Truman Capote, but from the very first pages he admits his inability to abstract himself from the story. This leads to an interesting literary experiment where the author is part of the novel, he (much like Capote had, only he decided not to disclose it to the reader) has contact with his characters, he’s moved by his personal motivations, and he weaves in the testimonies of the court case together to build a narrative. I’m not saying this makes it better than in cold blood, I probably just liked the same.

Ultimately, the nature of this case makes for a very interesting read. It’s so hard for a normal person to grasp what moved such a pathological liar to each and every one of his actions. It’s even harder to discern whether he’s ever telling the truth, which the author is always keen to point out. It’s a study into the human psyche in a way, though not one that is claiming to reveal some ominous universal truth. But it sure makes for a very captivating non fiction novel.

Unfinished novels are always hard to judge. One may see the potential, but it’s hard to imagine where the story would have ended. That’s even more true in this case, where we have 400 out of over 1000 projected pages, and according to the author’s notes possibly even more. 

Suite Francaise was imagined like a War and Peace, an epic describing various strata of society at the time of a great war, in this case the greatest of them all, WWII. It’s so striking that a fugitive Nemirovsky saw this opportunity to write the story of her day to day, so clearly understanding the dynamics of the German occupation of France, and dedicated her time to writing this huge manuscript with all the cheap ink and scrap paper she had left. In that sense, it’s as ambitious as it is tragic. Her characters encompass the different societal attitudes to the struggle, the reversal to feral instincts, the humanity in a German soldier falling in love with his host and captive- a French woman living with her mother in law while her husband is held prisoner on the battle front-, the idealistic resistance led by young communists. 

All the while, she was captured and killed due to her jewish and Russian heritage, no matter how critical she’d been of it, and so was her husband, after he strongly advocated for her release, and her daughters made an unlikely escape after being hunted down by the nazis, always carrying the manuscript with them in a sealed briefcase. Maybe what I want to say is that the annex to this novel was more interesting than the novel itself. But it also pains me to say that because it’s not the author’s fault. She had big ideas, they just didn’t come to fruition.

I also think the translation I read let me down a bit, it was a bit choppy. I am very sorry to give it a low rating, partially due to that, but alas. 

I do like Kazuo Ishiguro, and this was a really good novel. However, it did move me emotionally as much as never let me go or other novels in general. I must say this is not a genre I particularly care for, as much as this particular author is interesting enough for me to want to keep reading. 
With that said, klara and the sun explores a fascinating concept, that of essentially artificial intelligence and its ability to imitate human emotions to the point of potentially replacing people gone too soon. It’s a way to question the entire human experience from different points of view, and even more so in the context of a dystopian future in which very little seems sacred. 
Those parts were very enjoyable in general, the settings and characters were clever enough. It was interesting that we were given hardly any information about the settings, as our own pov was that of klara, but perhaps that enhanced the story. 
What I didn’t enjoy as much was the whole thing about the sun. The entire resolution felt just a bit too puzzling. I kinda imagined that the story was going in a totally different direction, more in line with the characters’ own interpretation of events, and the fact that it didn’t happen didn’t satisfy me, even though that led to a happy ending of sorts. Maybe I just find it hard to entirely relate to child protagonists. Either way, it’s still a good book and I enjoyed my time with it. 

I’ve been eyeing up this book for the longest time, while also kinda dreading it. I thought it was gonna be a lot more self help-ish but it really was just the memoir of a semi ordinary person. In terms of relatability it was pretty much split in the middle for me. I cannot relate to the essential thesis that female friendship is the true kind of love etc, because I don’t have that, and I also can’t say I ever was the life of the party or an otherwise liability for myself and others quite to that extent. But it didn’t ruin the experience of reading the book, because if anything Dolly’s stories were weirdly aspirational given just how funny they were. I wish it had been like that for me, because throughout it was very clear that the good and the bad were perfectly balanced. 
On the other hand, I think many of the reflections about relationships/dating rang very true, without being pandering nor condescending. I did feel personally attacked when she said that deciding that someone is your soulmate based on shared love of George Harrison’s music is ridiculous tho, like okay but why not???? Please??? 
Sometimes it’s good to laugh about how ridiculous we all collectively are, and to read about people who have been through the same or worse experiences. I think that’s what this book was about, and I really appreciated it for it.