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proximoception) wrote2005-03-27 01:27 pm
proximoception) wrote2005-03-27 01:27 pm
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The 451 thing and a Half Price Books trip have put me in booklisting mode again. These are books I started but didn't finish, how far I got in, why I stopped.
Homer's Iliad, 200 pages, several attempts; glorious, especially in Pope's translation, but so monotonous, especially in Pope's translation.
Plato's Republic, 200, a couple attempts; exhaustion from thinking.
Virgil's Aeneid, 50, several attempts; too imitative of Homer.
Ovid's Metamorphoses, 50; ran out of Dryden and the other translators didn't do it for me.
Cervantes' Don Quixote, 200, three attempts; good, but meandering and somewhat silly.
Rabelais' Gargantua and Pantagruel, 50; lightly amusing, going nowhere.
Boccaccio's Decameron, 150; light, going nowhere, less fun than LaFontaine.
Petrarch's Canzoniere, 50; pure, intense, not enough variety, exhausting.
Ariosto's Orlando Furioso, 300; fun, felt like a pop imitation of Spenser.
Tasso's Jerusalem Unbound, 100; Ariosto meets Virgil, enjoyable, Fairfax translation is quite vivid and ornate. Again, no Spenser.
Jonson's Every Man in His Humor, 70; suddenly realized I dislike Jonson.
Congreve's The Old Bachelor, 50; burnt out on Congreve here, though it's almost as good as the three perfect comedies that followed it.
Richardson's Clarissa, 50, two attempts; a real experience, but c. 2500 pages at 10-15/hr = a year I can't spare right now.
Scott's Old Mortality, 70; can't remember, was surprisingly good.
Dickens' Pickwick Papers, 200, three attempts; highly amusing. I guess 200 pages is my limit for high amusement.
Joyce's Ulysses, 200, at least six attempts; love the beginning and the funeral but the same dull stretch always gets me, the one right before the Shakespeare section.
Swinburne's Tristram of Lyonesse, 70, a few attempts; Swinburne's as good at what he does as anyone's ever been at what they do, but what he does can be draining.
Swinburne's Bothwell, 50; ditto.
Eliot's Adam Bede, 100, two attempts; absolutely wonderful. Her richness drags at the narrative some. Put another way, it's hard for a reader to stay at her level.
Eliot's Mill on the Floss, 100; even better, even sillier of me to abandon it.
Woolf's The Waves, 80, several attempts; I can't get even halfway through and yet what I've read makes it my favorite Woolf book. It's beautiful. It's not exactly a narrative, is the thing.
Browning's Sordello, 70, couple attempts; excellent, Browning.
Gogol's Dead Souls, 100; fun at first, ultimately pointless. Just my impression.
Dostoevsky's The Idiot, 150; very fun and crazy, I was distracted by something.
Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground, 30, two or three; the first section is a monologue you find yourself arguing with. Can't imagine the narrative portion could be half as interesting.
Goncharov's Oblomov, 50. Fun character but you get the point at once.
Melville's Confidence Man, 50; Melville's great but this looked to be merely variations on one scene.
Forster's A Room with a View, 70; close enough to the movie that there seemed no point finishing.
Beckett's Watt, 50; absurdly well-written but inimical to life.
Beckett's Murphy, 50, several attempts; really fun, really Beckett.
Hesse's Siddhartha, 50; dry, predictable.
Rilke's Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, 50; beautiful, flakey, not a narrative.
Conrad's Under Western Eyes, 100, two attempts; amazing book, perhaps his best and certainly his most forceful, based on that first part. No clue why I keep dropping it.
Mann's Joseph and His Brothers, 30; the great prologue thing. The book's quite long and a new translation is on its way so I halted.
Mann's Buddenbrooks, 70, two attempts; Mann's tops but slow motion family decline can be oppressive.
Carpentier's Explosion in a Cathedral, 50; great, no idea.
Neruda's Residence on Earth, halfway; the first two sections are surrealist, the third communist. He's one of the few poets I can stand, surreal, but it's still wearing. You keep thinking he means something amazing and then he mentions "urine nipples" or whatever and you realize there was no such meaning.
Lorca's Poet in New York, halfway; I've read and loved all the rest of Lorca in translation, but here I just can't make headway. Is there something wrong with me that I require some semblance of sense from poetry?
Saramago's All the Names, 50; very good, picked it up right before finals week in a hard term, is all.
Tolstoy's Resurrection, 100, two attempts; Tolstoy. I'll finish it soon. I think I've been saving it, it's his only piece of fiction I haven't read, which saddens me. No more Tolstoy ever.
Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover, 100; I love Lawrence but what happened here? He somehow makes sex boring.
Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, 50; seemed to marry whimsy and cruelty. Not for me.
Roth's American Pastoral, 50; this is considered one of his very best. I just happened to burn out on Roth here, after reading several thousand pages over the summer.
Homer's Iliad, 200 pages, several attempts; glorious, especially in Pope's translation, but so monotonous, especially in Pope's translation.
Plato's Republic, 200, a couple attempts; exhaustion from thinking.
Virgil's Aeneid, 50, several attempts; too imitative of Homer.
Ovid's Metamorphoses, 50; ran out of Dryden and the other translators didn't do it for me.
Cervantes' Don Quixote, 200, three attempts; good, but meandering and somewhat silly.
Rabelais' Gargantua and Pantagruel, 50; lightly amusing, going nowhere.
Boccaccio's Decameron, 150; light, going nowhere, less fun than LaFontaine.
Petrarch's Canzoniere, 50; pure, intense, not enough variety, exhausting.
Ariosto's Orlando Furioso, 300; fun, felt like a pop imitation of Spenser.
Tasso's Jerusalem Unbound, 100; Ariosto meets Virgil, enjoyable, Fairfax translation is quite vivid and ornate. Again, no Spenser.
Jonson's Every Man in His Humor, 70; suddenly realized I dislike Jonson.
Congreve's The Old Bachelor, 50; burnt out on Congreve here, though it's almost as good as the three perfect comedies that followed it.
Richardson's Clarissa, 50, two attempts; a real experience, but c. 2500 pages at 10-15/hr = a year I can't spare right now.
Scott's Old Mortality, 70; can't remember, was surprisingly good.
Dickens' Pickwick Papers, 200, three attempts; highly amusing. I guess 200 pages is my limit for high amusement.
Joyce's Ulysses, 200, at least six attempts; love the beginning and the funeral but the same dull stretch always gets me, the one right before the Shakespeare section.
Swinburne's Tristram of Lyonesse, 70, a few attempts; Swinburne's as good at what he does as anyone's ever been at what they do, but what he does can be draining.
Swinburne's Bothwell, 50; ditto.
Eliot's Adam Bede, 100, two attempts; absolutely wonderful. Her richness drags at the narrative some. Put another way, it's hard for a reader to stay at her level.
Eliot's Mill on the Floss, 100; even better, even sillier of me to abandon it.
Woolf's The Waves, 80, several attempts; I can't get even halfway through and yet what I've read makes it my favorite Woolf book. It's beautiful. It's not exactly a narrative, is the thing.
Browning's Sordello, 70, couple attempts; excellent, Browning.
Gogol's Dead Souls, 100; fun at first, ultimately pointless. Just my impression.
Dostoevsky's The Idiot, 150; very fun and crazy, I was distracted by something.
Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground, 30, two or three; the first section is a monologue you find yourself arguing with. Can't imagine the narrative portion could be half as interesting.
Goncharov's Oblomov, 50. Fun character but you get the point at once.
Melville's Confidence Man, 50; Melville's great but this looked to be merely variations on one scene.
Forster's A Room with a View, 70; close enough to the movie that there seemed no point finishing.
Beckett's Watt, 50; absurdly well-written but inimical to life.
Beckett's Murphy, 50, several attempts; really fun, really Beckett.
Hesse's Siddhartha, 50; dry, predictable.
Rilke's Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, 50; beautiful, flakey, not a narrative.
Conrad's Under Western Eyes, 100, two attempts; amazing book, perhaps his best and certainly his most forceful, based on that first part. No clue why I keep dropping it.
Mann's Joseph and His Brothers, 30; the great prologue thing. The book's quite long and a new translation is on its way so I halted.
Mann's Buddenbrooks, 70, two attempts; Mann's tops but slow motion family decline can be oppressive.
Carpentier's Explosion in a Cathedral, 50; great, no idea.
Neruda's Residence on Earth, halfway; the first two sections are surrealist, the third communist. He's one of the few poets I can stand, surreal, but it's still wearing. You keep thinking he means something amazing and then he mentions "urine nipples" or whatever and you realize there was no such meaning.
Lorca's Poet in New York, halfway; I've read and loved all the rest of Lorca in translation, but here I just can't make headway. Is there something wrong with me that I require some semblance of sense from poetry?
Saramago's All the Names, 50; very good, picked it up right before finals week in a hard term, is all.
Tolstoy's Resurrection, 100, two attempts; Tolstoy. I'll finish it soon. I think I've been saving it, it's his only piece of fiction I haven't read, which saddens me. No more Tolstoy ever.
Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover, 100; I love Lawrence but what happened here? He somehow makes sex boring.
Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, 50; seemed to marry whimsy and cruelty. Not for me.
Roth's American Pastoral, 50; this is considered one of his very best. I just happened to burn out on Roth here, after reading several thousand pages over the summer.
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I totally agree with you on Lady Chatterley; I don't understand how some people consider it Lawrence's masterpiece (his prose is too affected in some passages for my taste). It cannot be compared to Women in Love.