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4.2 AVERAGE
4.2 AVERAGE
No idea what I just read but didn’t hate it? 3 stars?
It was alright, and I can see why it's dear to some people. Just not my particular flavor of surrealism.
This book just didn't speak to me and I think that a book that is written in prose needs to do that for the reader. Overall it was fairly easy to keep up with, but only after I began reading the main section of the book. There a couple of sections before and after the main section that I didn't feel were tied very well to the main story? Perhaps I just didn't fully understand. Ultimately I don't think I was the intended audience for this book.
It was taking him a very long whileEvery so often my education comes in handy when I am confronted by a piece that does not seize me by the heart and wring it till I weep like it has apparently done for most everyone else. One could say peer pressure, or one could admit to capitalism and how a measure of discipline is needed in analyzing any work that is mandated, regardless of personal adoration. Besides, this is one of those works that I really need to go back and reread [b:The Iliad|1371|The Iliad|Homer|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1388188509s/1371.jpg|3293141] and [b:The Odyssey|1381|The Odyssey|Homer|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1390173285s/1381.jpg|3356006] and co. for, albeit I dislike necessitating the swallowing of the same old canon for a work that should stand on its own, albeit there's many a confabulation of myth and written and blasphemy tickling my brain that I would so like to pin down to the count, albeit what the hell am I doing in the major of English if I want to forgo more reading for reading's sake, so. Sometimes the internal to-and-fro works like these provoke is worth the cost of purely academic parsing alone.
to set up the camera. Enormous pools of a moment kept opening around his hands
each time he tried to move them.
What have you written that could strike you blind? Not lie or truth but sacrilege, much like that fine line between fanfiction and kindred souls of Pulitzer Prize winners that so troubled a professor when I responded to his offer of [b:The Hours|11899|The Hours|Michael Cunningham|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1327871525s/11899.jpg|2245431] with lack of interest. I'd believe there was a difference in type rather than quality were the halls not so full of Shakespeare and Milton and those who knew what one should steal in order to enjoy the better legacy of Prometheus. Go big, go ancient, go poetic and/or historical, go foundering on the threat of military might or the wracking of the very own soul, the mind of a male of red-rued means that bypasses death for the photo volcano and finds a refuge, like so many of us, in art. Perhaps not from love, or wings, or child on child sexual assault, but from real to representation nonetheless. There's reasons why Plato banished the stuff.
I didn't like this as much as [b:The Beauty of the Husband: A Fictional Essay in 29 Tangos|150252|The Beauty of the Husband A Fictional Essay in 29 Tangos|Anne Carson|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1320482775s/150252.jpg|145020]. Course, I was reading poetry a lot more regularly back then, so I may be thinking myself set on track while in reality dangling preciously off the back of the horse. Still, I can appreciate the feeling of the need to pay tribute in whys and wherefores that take wordselves far more seriously than the world deems fit to grant. Imagine all those objects rising up against their subjects and tearing eyes from their sockets. What a riot.
People, thought Geryon,
for whom life
is a marvelous adventure. He moved off into the tragicomedy of the crowd.
didn’t comprehend half of this but it was so fucking interesting
challenging
dark
emotional
reflective
medium-paced
Very confusing. I couldn’t really get into the poetry but I feel like there was something there?
Autobiography of Red, both a novel and a poem, is an extraordinary and tender book. It's an unconventional re-creation of the ancient Greek myth about Geryon and a wholly original queer coming-of-age story set in the present. It is written in verses which made it all the more fascinating and compelling. The space between the sentences gave me a chance to catch my breath. I feel reading this book one time isn't enough to catch the whole beauty of both the story as the poetry. So definitely gonna reread this soon.
*
It was raining on his face. He forgot for a moment that he was a brokenhaert
then the remembered. Sick lurch
downward to Geryon trapped in his own bad apple. Each morning a shock
to return to the cut soul.
Pulling himself onto the edge of the bed he stared at the dull amplitude of rain.
Buckets of water sloshed from sky
to roof to eave to windowsill. He watched it hit his feet and puddle on the floor.
He could hear bits of human voice
streaming down the drainpipe -I believe in being gracious-
He slammed the window shut.
Below in the living room everything was motionless. Drapes closed, chairs asleep.
Huge wads of silence stuffed the air.
He was staring around for the dog then realized they hadn't had a dog for years. Clock
in the kitchen said quarter to six.
He stood looking at it, willing himself not to blink until the big hand bumped over
to the next time. Years passed
as his eyes ran water and a thousand ideas jumped his brain -If the world
ends now I am free and
If the world ends now no one will see my autobiography- finally it bumped.
He had a flash of Herakles' sleeping house
and put that away. Gout out the coffee can, turned on the tap and started to cry.
*
It was raining on his face. He forgot for a moment that he was a brokenhaert
then the remembered. Sick lurch
downward to Geryon trapped in his own bad apple. Each morning a shock
to return to the cut soul.
Pulling himself onto the edge of the bed he stared at the dull amplitude of rain.
Buckets of water sloshed from sky
to roof to eave to windowsill. He watched it hit his feet and puddle on the floor.
He could hear bits of human voice
streaming down the drainpipe -I believe in being gracious-
He slammed the window shut.
Below in the living room everything was motionless. Drapes closed, chairs asleep.
Huge wads of silence stuffed the air.
He was staring around for the dog then realized they hadn't had a dog for years. Clock
in the kitchen said quarter to six.
He stood looking at it, willing himself not to blink until the big hand bumped over
to the next time. Years passed
as his eyes ran water and a thousand ideas jumped his brain -If the world
ends now I am free and
If the world ends now no one will see my autobiography- finally it bumped.
He had a flash of Herakles' sleeping house
and put that away. Gout out the coffee can, turned on the tap and started to cry.
