The Impression That I Get

My only prior exposure to Henry James was Daisy Miller: A Study, practically a requirement in every English Lit anthology. I didn't find it anything too special, so I wasn't expecting much from The Portrait of a Lady, hailed by many as his greatest masterpiece. Yeah. How can I put this? His writing is entirely extraordinary. I could sit here and gush for hours about how his way with words is exquisitely eloquent and magnificently molded. If you're more about substance than style, this is not the book for you. James wrote in over 600 pages a story which arguably could be told in less than 100. It's as if he took a small subplot from a more complex storyline, and diluted it with dreamy details and diaphanous descriptions. Even more infuriating for the average reader, it's like he then decided there was no point in providing a proper conclusion to the subplot, since it was part of a much larger tale anyway. So be warned, it's one of those open-ended stories. I've almost always loathed those, but this time I was so in awe of the author that I barely minded.


I really don't think I've ever encountered his style of writing before. The entire time I was reading it, a persistent metaphor kept popping into my head: an impressionist painting. It's a little lame to say, and I don't know why I kept thinking that--it's not like I'm an art connoisseur. But you know how Monet's vanilla skies are all gorgeously hazy and luminously blurred, intent on offering an impression instead of a sharp picture? That's how Henry James writes! Instead of saying, "Well, he turned out to be very different from what she first believed," he writes, "In that sense, that of the love of harmony and order and decency and of all the stately offices of life, she went with him freely, and his warning had contained nothing ominous. But when, as the months had elapsed, she had followed him further and he had led her in to the mansion of his own habitation, then, then she had seen where she really was." Oh, baby. Just you wait! This introspective inspection continues for many, many more pages. But if you can stare at Monet's lush landscapes for hours, don't be surprised if you fall for the wondrous works of Henry James.

Claude Monet, Woman with a Parasol, 1875

The Story

I just finished The Death of Ivan Ilych by Leo Tolstoy. Before you start bending over and undressing to reward me for my achievement, I must confess it's merely a short story comprised of roughly 60 pages. (I'll be blazing through one of Tolstoy's more epic productions, Anna Karenina, when B gets back from Spain. So save the lube for that occasion.) Besides, I still have three other tales to complete before I truly finish the book. But I wanted to blog about this particular work since Naya told me she loved it, and it's considered one of Tolstoy's masterpieces.

Well, it was very typically Russian, with emotional characters and an overall tone that was depressing as hell. The story pretty much follows the thoughts of Ivan Ilych as he slowly dies an excruciating death from illness. "Gnawing, agonising pain never ceasing for an instant; the hopeless sense of life always ebbing away, but still not yet gone; always swooping down on him that fearful, hated death, which was the only reality, and always the same falsity." Every time I read classic Russian literature, almost every aspect is always so down in the dumps! (I'm basing this off Gogol and Dostoevsky, along with the fact that I now have Russian friends who totally agree that their peoples need to get hyphy.)

Would I recommend this? Definitely. A fascinating read, with a slightly uplifting (slightly, mind you) ending. Plus, you know you're never gonna get through, or even attempt, the 1400 pages of War and Peace, so by reading Ivan Ilych you can still quote from Tolstoy like the big boys!

Read My Mind

I just spent $81.08 on books. That's typically about five to six novels, right? Maybe a couple less if some new hardcovers are in the mix, or maybe a couple more if I got them on some sort of promotion. Well, I happen to have a shipment from B&N that contains twenty paperbacks. ::beam:: That makes each book only slightly more than four bucks!

Every once in a while, B&N has 50% off its classics collection. Last year, I was in the store and bought five. But this year, I caught it online and I went buckwild. Heavy, erudite works delivered up the four flights of stairs to my doorstep with no shipping charges?! Hellz yeeah! Expanding both my brain and my fat ass in one fell swoop? Hot damn, I'm in!

I'm proud of each and every one of my new lovers, and I plan to spend many nights in bed with them. And not necessarily one at a time. ::wink::

The Damn Baby I'm Taking You Home Tonight ones:

The I Wanted You Someday But I Can Have You Now ones:


The You So Cheap How Can I Say No ones:


Finally, the I'm Getting a Double Order So I Can Tag Team ones:

The last two I just bought an extra copy to give to B to read with me. Our first book together was Dostoevsky's The Idiot, so I'm sure we could handle Anna Karenina, and The Woman in White just seems like it'd be a fun read.

Here's a 2008 vow: I will not buy any further books this year until I complete all these new ones. I have a feeling Plato and Thucydides are going to hit me with one of those loooong, numbingly exhausting sessions where I'll have grit my teeth, take it, and fake enjoyment in the end. Or, as I like to call it, my sex life before the vibrator my boyfriend.