Scan barcode
queleoar's review against another edition
1.0
Este libro, lamentablemente, el primero del 2017, no me ha gustado nada. Desde que comenzo me pareció denso y díficil de leer por el estilo entre poético y sumamente descriptivo en que esta narrado. Me resultó imposible conectar con los personajes, entender sus historias, sus formas de pensar, particularmente me sucedió con Olly, su protagonista, cuyas complejidades no logré entender. Considero que la historia esta contada de manera tal que resulta mucho mas intrincada de lo que resulta ser, sobrándole muchos capítulos y episodios cuya inserción en la novela aun no comprendo. Una pena porque fue un libro que me cautivó en la libreria, al que quise dar una oportunidad y que ha terminado decepcionandome bastante :(
athravan's review against another edition
4.0
The Blue Guitar is a look into the life of Oliver Orme, who by his own testament is a "painster", an angst filled frustrated artist. He comes across as a wind-bag, a whiner, a coward and a thief, yet despite his many negative qualities, does evoke sympathy. He lost his three year old daughter to illness and it's clear that he has been crashing downwards since then, a demonstration of the profound nature of grief, disappointment and desperation.
The first half of the book was a struggle for me to read. I don't read lofty literary fiction often; although mostly enjoy it when I do, but I found that the narrative was a little too static, a little too meandering and dare I suggest, even redundant, for me to connect to. There were times early on when I felt that the brilliant prose was there purely to show off the authors linguistic skill - which is tremendous.
As we moved on I became more involved with the book, more understanding of Oliver's character and his motivations. He is obsessed with the an objects "essence", something emotional, intangible and unobtainable. He no longer paints because of his frustrations over being unable to adequately portray that essence, so instead, has taken to stealing. The act of stealing, he believes, reactivates the object's essence and is more about the emotional loss that the previous owner feels, than any physical value the object has. His biggest theft to date is perhaps the most meaningful one - his friend's wife.
The writing is entirely reflective, leaping from storytelling to aimless meandering, from the upbeat to the melancholy. The subject and theme jumps around but the spirit of Oliver Orme is captured completely. Thinking about Oliver Orme made me consider and reflect upon my own life, my own disappointments and frustrations. I struggled to write this review, because ultimately I do not have the skill to put into words the musings that I took from this read, so all I can do is recommend it.
There is no doubt in my mind that John Banville is a master at his craft, obtaining what Oliver desperately sought, the ability to bring art to life.
I appreciate the opportunity given to me with an ARC of this book - my thanks go to Penguin and NetGalley.
The first half of the book was a struggle for me to read. I don't read lofty literary fiction often; although mostly enjoy it when I do, but I found that the narrative was a little too static, a little too meandering and dare I suggest, even redundant, for me to connect to. There were times early on when I felt that the brilliant prose was there purely to show off the authors linguistic skill - which is tremendous.
As we moved on I became more involved with the book, more understanding of Oliver's character and his motivations. He is obsessed with the an objects "essence", something emotional, intangible and unobtainable. He no longer paints because of his frustrations over being unable to adequately portray that essence, so instead, has taken to stealing. The act of stealing, he believes, reactivates the object's essence and is more about the emotional loss that the previous owner feels, than any physical value the object has. His biggest theft to date is perhaps the most meaningful one - his friend's wife.
The writing is entirely reflective, leaping from storytelling to aimless meandering, from the upbeat to the melancholy. The subject and theme jumps around but the spirit of Oliver Orme is captured completely. Thinking about Oliver Orme made me consider and reflect upon my own life, my own disappointments and frustrations. I struggled to write this review, because ultimately I do not have the skill to put into words the musings that I took from this read, so all I can do is recommend it.
There is no doubt in my mind that John Banville is a master at his craft, obtaining what Oliver desperately sought, the ability to bring art to life.
I appreciate the opportunity given to me with an ARC of this book - my thanks go to Penguin and NetGalley.
danixcalero's review against another edition
2.0
nunca pensei ler sobre um homem gordo, ruivo, egoista, depressivo e q tem fetiches com pés mas aqui estamos nos..
juiesmei's review
3.0
I liked The Book of Evidence far better, though I think this warrants another reading, perhaps in the future.
bianca89279's review against another edition
5.0
Occasionally, I feel uneasy and uncertain when it comes to writing a book review. But never as much as on this occasion. I felt totally self-conscious because I don’t have the skills to write a review that is worthy of such a tremendous novel. So bear with me as I stagger through writing this review.
This was my first John Banville novel. To be honest, I hadn’t heard of him, but when I saw that he’s a Man Booker Prize winner,the literary snob in me I decided that I should request it on NetGalley.
I’ve read some great books in my life, but I can’t remember the last time I was awed by somebody’s writing to this extent. My poor brain was exploding with enchantment, incredulity, and admiration.
It starts like this:
“Call me Autolycus. Well, no, don’t. Although I am, like that unfunny clown, a picker-up of unconsidered trifles. Which is a fancy way of saying I steal things.”
The Blue Guitar is about Oliver Orme. He’s a famous painter, who can’t paint anymore, and who likes to steal little things of no use, just for the thrill of it. He’s pushing fifty and is having some sort of delayed mid-life crisis.
“Childhood is supposed to be a radiant springtime but mine seems to have been always autumn, the gales seething in the big beeches behind this old gate-lodge, as they’re doing right now, and the rooks above them wheeling haphazard, like scraps of char from a bonfire, and a custard-coloured gleam having its last go low down in the western sky”.
This is a character driven novel. It’s Oliver’s musings throughout the entire novel. He’s not a particularly charming character, something that he’s well aware of and admits to it with an uncanny honesty. He’s simple, yet complex. He’s a famous artist who can’t create art anymore. He’s not unhappy but not particularly happy either. He just is. Many times you feel like yelling “get over yourself”! He knows it, too.
Banville has created a complex, three-dimensional character. Oliver is as real as they come. Through him Banville is asking what’s real. Who are we? What is our “true self”? Is there such a thing as a “true self”? Oh, there are so many things to contemplate and think about, it can get a bit exhausting. But don’t let my statement detract you from reading it. Because, while it’s not a fluffy, feel-good novel, it’s filled with humour - smart, sarcastic humour.
Banville’s way with words is astounding. I’ve never had to look up so many words as I had to do while reading The Blue Guitar. Don’t get dispirited by this, because you don’t really have to, you’ll understand the gist of it all, but why wouldn’t you? When was the last time you had the opportunity to learn a new word? I personally was mesmerised. And awed. And gobsmacked. And many other things I don’t have the vocabulary to express, at least not eloquently enough. In this world where the “lowest common denominator” is the status-quo, I feel grateful and lucky to have come across an author who raises the bar, without being cumbersome or arrogant.
Many novels these days include books and music references. The Blue Guitar brings up art, mainly painting references. That was another aspect I truly enjoyed about this novel.
Oliver’s irreverence and self-effacing ramblings made me smile on many occasions.
For instance, here’s how he describes himself:
“The fact is, whenever I made an overture to a woman, which I seldom did, even in my young days, I never really expected it to be entertained, or even noticed, despite certain instances of success, which I tended to regards as flukes, the result of misunderstanding, or dimness on the part of the woman and simple good fortune on mine. I’m not an immediately alluring specimen, having been, for a start, the runt of the litter. I’m short and stout, or better go the whole hog and say fat, with a big head and tiny feet. My hair is of a shade somewhere between wet rust and badly tarnished brass, and in damp weather, or when I’m by the seaside, clenches itself into curls that are as tight and dense as cauliflower florets and stubbornly resistant to fiercest combings. My skin – oh, my skin! – is a flaccid, moist, off-white integument, so that I look as if I had been blanched in the dark for a long time. Of my freckles I shall not speak.”
John Banville is a wordsmith. Every phrase is painstakingly crafted, as if it were precious glass that he’s carefully blown into art objects, but his are beautifully constructed phrases. His writing has a certain musicality, a cadence that’s quite unique. And he never ceases to surprise, amaze and delight. This is definitely a novel that’s going on my Favourites shelf. I can’t rave enough about it. While it’s not for everyone, if you love good literature, then I wholeheartedly recommend this splendid novel.
I’ve received this novel via NetGalley in exchange of an honest review. Many thanks to Penguin UK for allowing me to read and review this novel.
This was my first John Banville novel. To be honest, I hadn’t heard of him, but when I saw that he’s a Man Booker Prize winner,
I’ve read some great books in my life, but I can’t remember the last time I was awed by somebody’s writing to this extent. My poor brain was exploding with enchantment, incredulity, and admiration.
It starts like this:
“Call me Autolycus. Well, no, don’t. Although I am, like that unfunny clown, a picker-up of unconsidered trifles. Which is a fancy way of saying I steal things.”
The Blue Guitar is about Oliver Orme. He’s a famous painter, who can’t paint anymore, and who likes to steal little things of no use, just for the thrill of it. He’s pushing fifty and is having some sort of delayed mid-life crisis.
“Childhood is supposed to be a radiant springtime but mine seems to have been always autumn, the gales seething in the big beeches behind this old gate-lodge, as they’re doing right now, and the rooks above them wheeling haphazard, like scraps of char from a bonfire, and a custard-coloured gleam having its last go low down in the western sky”.
This is a character driven novel. It’s Oliver’s musings throughout the entire novel. He’s not a particularly charming character, something that he’s well aware of and admits to it with an uncanny honesty. He’s simple, yet complex. He’s a famous artist who can’t create art anymore. He’s not unhappy but not particularly happy either. He just is. Many times you feel like yelling “get over yourself”! He knows it, too.
Banville has created a complex, three-dimensional character. Oliver is as real as they come. Through him Banville is asking what’s real. Who are we? What is our “true self”? Is there such a thing as a “true self”? Oh, there are so many things to contemplate and think about, it can get a bit exhausting. But don’t let my statement detract you from reading it. Because, while it’s not a fluffy, feel-good novel, it’s filled with humour - smart, sarcastic humour.
Banville’s way with words is astounding. I’ve never had to look up so many words as I had to do while reading The Blue Guitar. Don’t get dispirited by this, because you don’t really have to, you’ll understand the gist of it all, but why wouldn’t you? When was the last time you had the opportunity to learn a new word? I personally was mesmerised. And awed. And gobsmacked. And many other things I don’t have the vocabulary to express, at least not eloquently enough. In this world where the “lowest common denominator” is the status-quo, I feel grateful and lucky to have come across an author who raises the bar, without being cumbersome or arrogant.
Many novels these days include books and music references. The Blue Guitar brings up art, mainly painting references. That was another aspect I truly enjoyed about this novel.
Oliver’s irreverence and self-effacing ramblings made me smile on many occasions.
For instance, here’s how he describes himself:
“The fact is, whenever I made an overture to a woman, which I seldom did, even in my young days, I never really expected it to be entertained, or even noticed, despite certain instances of success, which I tended to regards as flukes, the result of misunderstanding, or dimness on the part of the woman and simple good fortune on mine. I’m not an immediately alluring specimen, having been, for a start, the runt of the litter. I’m short and stout, or better go the whole hog and say fat, with a big head and tiny feet. My hair is of a shade somewhere between wet rust and badly tarnished brass, and in damp weather, or when I’m by the seaside, clenches itself into curls that are as tight and dense as cauliflower florets and stubbornly resistant to fiercest combings. My skin – oh, my skin! – is a flaccid, moist, off-white integument, so that I look as if I had been blanched in the dark for a long time. Of my freckles I shall not speak.”
John Banville is a wordsmith. Every phrase is painstakingly crafted, as if it were precious glass that he’s carefully blown into art objects, but his are beautifully constructed phrases. His writing has a certain musicality, a cadence that’s quite unique. And he never ceases to surprise, amaze and delight. This is definitely a novel that’s going on my Favourites shelf. I can’t rave enough about it. While it’s not for everyone, if you love good literature, then I wholeheartedly recommend this splendid novel.
I’ve received this novel via NetGalley in exchange of an honest review. Many thanks to Penguin UK for allowing me to read and review this novel.
fncll's review against another edition
5.0
The Blue Guitar isn’t John Banville’s best work, but it’s the one that practically requires me to proclaim Banville one of the best writers of our time. His quiet prose is nonpareil, an adjective I employ not to be snobbish, but because a borrowing from French is most apropos when describing Banville’s book, which is filled with prose poetry. Here’s a quantitative measure: from this 272-page book I highlighted 149 different passages (thanks, http://clippings.io/) that were remarkable for their beauty and insight.
Readers of Banville’s earlier works will find themselves in familiar territory: a not-wholly-unsympathetic, first-person, male narrator who, having made a mess of his life, finds himself retreating to home and the memories of his younger years. As is so often the case with Banville’s narrators—in this case, a renowned, but now lapsed, painter who suffering the consequences of an extremely ill-advised affair—Oliver Orme is bright, even brilliant, and loathsome, predator and prey, adult and child. It’s this familiarity that makes this, in at least one sense, not Banville’s best work. Unlike, say, Victor Maskell, in [b:The Untouchable|163|The Untouchable|John Banville|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1344111321s/163.jpg|1196354], whose life often surprised me and who was almost alien in his cold brilliance, Orme is the architect of his own fate and while he has the masterful eye of a painter—or a Nabokov—in seeing his situation, and the soul of a poet in conveying it to the reader, he is ever-so-human in his weaknesses.
And yet…and yet…perhaps that is the point. Perhaps Banville is playing a deeper game, pushing a more subtle project or simply engaging in a longer fictional con (of the best sort) here. Because: the titular blue guitar. Banville makes just one reference to Wallace Stevens, in the book’s epigraph that is taken from Stevens’ poem of the same name, but Orme is obsessed, as Stevens was, with the divide between art and things and how we are caught on the horns between either the futility of realism, the most delightful and accurate poses of which can never penetrate to the core of what is real, and the equally futile task of trying to capture the wild unreality of the essence of those things. As Orme puts it:
But the crux is that it isn’t just the “fatal regard” that is at issue, but the manner in which we make the very things we see…and how unreliable that making is. Orme notes, “there was always the old dilemma, that is, the tyranny of things, of the unavoidable actual. But what, after all, did I know of actual things, wherever they rose up to confront me? It was precisely actuality I took no interest in.” But how can he trust what he does take an interest in when he astutely observes that, “For all I know, the things that go on inside other people may bear no resemblance whatever to what goes on in me. That is a vertiginous prospect, and I perched up there all alone in front of it.”
And with this deracination of his artistic powers and his vision Orme, the predator painter, becomes reality’s prey:
In effect, Orme’s whole life has become an extended moment like that which occurs when one thinks too much about what they are doing, say walking a narrow path, and at once loses their habitual grace…we are never more in the world than in that awkward moment of total awareness, nor will we ever find ourselves more separated from our ability to make beautiful things—and be beautiful—in that very world.
This is Orme’s plight. And it is ours. As another of our finest word artists put it, it is the blight man was born for, and Orme mourns himself as we do ourselves while reading his story. This will be the despair of Banville’s project, in the end, but I can't wait for the next piece of beautiful wreckage to emerge.
Readers of Banville’s earlier works will find themselves in familiar territory: a not-wholly-unsympathetic, first-person, male narrator who, having made a mess of his life, finds himself retreating to home and the memories of his younger years. As is so often the case with Banville’s narrators—in this case, a renowned, but now lapsed, painter who suffering the consequences of an extremely ill-advised affair—Oliver Orme is bright, even brilliant, and loathsome, predator and prey, adult and child. It’s this familiarity that makes this, in at least one sense, not Banville’s best work. Unlike, say, Victor Maskell, in [b:The Untouchable|163|The Untouchable|John Banville|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1344111321s/163.jpg|1196354], whose life often surprised me and who was almost alien in his cold brilliance, Orme is the architect of his own fate and while he has the masterful eye of a painter—or a Nabokov—in seeing his situation, and the soul of a poet in conveying it to the reader, he is ever-so-human in his weaknesses.
And yet…and yet…perhaps that is the point. Perhaps Banville is playing a deeper game, pushing a more subtle project or simply engaging in a longer fictional con (of the best sort) here. Because: the titular blue guitar. Banville makes just one reference to Wallace Stevens, in the book’s epigraph that is taken from Stevens’ poem of the same name, but Orme is obsessed, as Stevens was, with the divide between art and things and how we are caught on the horns between either the futility of realism, the most delightful and accurate poses of which can never penetrate to the core of what is real, and the equally futile task of trying to capture the wild unreality of the essence of those things. As Orme puts it:
“I think the loss of my capacity to paint, let’s call it that, was the result, in large part, of a burgeoning and irresistible and ultimately fatal regard for that world, I mean the objective day-to-day world of mere things. Before, I had always looked past things in an effort to get at the essence I knew was there, deeply hidden but not beyond access to one determined and clear-sighted enough to penetrate down to it. I was like a man come to meet a loved one at a railway station who hurries through the alighting crowd, bobbing and dodging, willing to see no face save the one he longs to see.”
But the crux is that it isn’t just the “fatal regard” that is at issue, but the manner in which we make the very things we see…and how unreliable that making is. Orme notes, “there was always the old dilemma, that is, the tyranny of things, of the unavoidable actual. But what, after all, did I know of actual things, wherever they rose up to confront me? It was precisely actuality I took no interest in.” But how can he trust what he does take an interest in when he astutely observes that, “For all I know, the things that go on inside other people may bear no resemblance whatever to what goes on in me. That is a vertiginous prospect, and I perched up there all alone in front of it.”
And with this deracination of his artistic powers and his vision Orme, the predator painter, becomes reality’s prey:
“What I find frightening nowadays is not the general malevolence of things, though Heaven knows—and Hell knows even better—I certainly should, but rather their cunning plausibility. The sea at morning, a gorgeous sunset, watches of nightingales, even a mother’s love, all these conspire to assure me that life is flawless good and death no more than a rumour. How persuasive it all can be, but I am not persuaded, and never was. In earliest years, in my father’s shop, among those worthless prints he sold, I could spot in even the most tranquil scene of summer and trees and dappled cows the tittering imp peering out at me from the harmless-seeming greenery.”
In effect, Orme’s whole life has become an extended moment like that which occurs when one thinks too much about what they are doing, say walking a narrow path, and at once loses their habitual grace…we are never more in the world than in that awkward moment of total awareness, nor will we ever find ourselves more separated from our ability to make beautiful things—and be beautiful—in that very world.
This is Orme’s plight. And it is ours. As another of our finest word artists put it, it is the blight man was born for, and Orme mourns himself as we do ourselves while reading his story. This will be the despair of Banville’s project, in the end, but I can't wait for the next piece of beautiful wreckage to emerge.