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3.75 AVERAGE
3.75 AVERAGE
I love Colson Whitehead but the writing style of this book was just not for me. I was expecting this book to be full of anecdotes and personal memories the author has about NYC, sort of part personal memoir/part city memoir, with maybe some little known facts thrown in by this NYC native. But it’s absolutely, definitely none of those things. The essays are highly abstract prose bordering. Throughout the book ‘he’ and ‘she’ are mentioned, anonymous people that might be the author in some cases of the ‘he’ but sound more like just made up people the author is using to make a point. But the point is I didn’t really get the point. I. Just. Did. Not. Get. It. So totally my fault and not the author's.
3.5 stars
I swing between three and four stars. At once insightful, hilarious, universal, and impersonal. This is a mediation of modern life which, as much as his various insights are both unique to New York, these are recognisable as situations of anyone who has lived in a big city. I recognise the insights from when I've lived and worked in London, such is the brilliance of his observation.
The reason I swing between is that there is very little of Whitehead himself. I wish he himself would explore this city that he loves. He took so much time and energy to explore the city he was noticeably missing. The first part, "City Limits", offers that insight and it's great. Still has that universality, but has that personal flavour to it as well.
The prose poetry/creative non-fiction has some flourishes at points but does weary in time. Fortunately it's a short read so it's not too much in the way. By no means, an awful read: I'm excited to check out his novels.
I swing between three and four stars. At once insightful, hilarious, universal, and impersonal. This is a mediation of modern life which, as much as his various insights are both unique to New York, these are recognisable as situations of anyone who has lived in a big city. I recognise the insights from when I've lived and worked in London, such is the brilliance of his observation.
The reason I swing between is that there is very little of Whitehead himself. I wish he himself would explore this city that he loves. He took so much time and energy to explore the city he was noticeably missing. The first part, "City Limits", offers that insight and it's great. Still has that universality, but has that personal flavour to it as well.
The prose poetry/creative non-fiction has some flourishes at points but does weary in time. Fortunately it's a short read so it's not too much in the way. By no means, an awful read: I'm excited to check out his novels.
This is so cynical it can be depressing. This strange blend of fiction and non-fiction makes fun of everyone, which can be both irritating and comforting. Pretentious or honest? Probably both. Interesting linguistic usage.
adventurous
funny
hopeful
inspiring
reflective
fast-paced
Poetic & lyrical, a true love letter to both NYC and cities in general. I wish I could write like this
The Colossus of New York is not a novel, but rather a collection of snippets describing moments and places in the City. Colson Whitehead is a master.
While having never lived in the city I can’t imagine a book that better captures the essence of life in New York.
More broadly this book contains so many perfect sentences and thoughts that I was routinely stopped in my tracks. In this book Whitehead gets life, gets people, and by extension gets me.
More broadly this book contains so many perfect sentences and thoughts that I was routinely stopped in my tracks. In this book Whitehead gets life, gets people, and by extension gets me.
Beautifully written, a real feast of words. Impressionistic description of a visit to New York City. Answered one of the questions I have about living in such a densely populated place: what is it like to be around so many people? The insight found here is that there is competition for the use of space in public places. The exterior of buildings hold memories and there is constant change. Interesting.
Colson Whitehead, The Colossus of New York: A City in Thirteen Parts (Doubleday, 2003)
When one encounters the name "Colson Whitehead," one is apt to think of an old Irish immigrant viewing the city through a jaundiced eye, bleary from another night of stumbling home in rush hour only to find he's locked himself out of his bachelor pad and can't get to the can of beans sitting on the counter seductively calling his name. Instead, what we're given is a young (younger than I am, anyway) born-and-raised New Yorker writing about the place he calls home.
But Colson Whitehead's The Colossus of New York is not just another travelogue. Oh, no, my friends. In fact, it is anything but; I seriously doubt the NY tourism board is going to be recommending this one. At times loving and ominous, sweet and sassy, laugh-out-loud funny and painfully depressed, The Colossus of New York is much like New York itself. There are eight million stories in the naked city, Whitehead wryly quotes, and one would think from reading this that every one of them is feeling a completely different emotion from any of the others at any given moment, and that it's all a constantly swirling chaotic mass. Amen.
Perhaps the most interesting thing about the book is how Whitehead manages to take this odd, impressionist look at New York and map it onto you, the reader. You're liable to find at least one or two snatches of sentence per page you can identify with, even if you've never set foot within an hundred miles of the place. Thus, even if you care nothing about New York, it's probable he's going to keep you interested in its goings-on. A beautiful thing, that. But the draw of the book, and its continuing majesty throughout, is Whitehead's ability with language. His diction takes us from the language poetry of Charles Olson to the Nuyorican-style street rap that passes for poetry among slammers, but with Whitehead the language never loses its poetic drive. All of it, even the ugliness, is beautiful.
And above all, The Colossus of New York is a love song, the kind that one would write to one's spouse after seventy years of marriage if one could find a way to include all one's spouse's faults and still make it beautiful. This is a powerful little book, and highly deserving of the widest possible audience. A shoo-in for the top ten list this year. **** ½
When one encounters the name "Colson Whitehead," one is apt to think of an old Irish immigrant viewing the city through a jaundiced eye, bleary from another night of stumbling home in rush hour only to find he's locked himself out of his bachelor pad and can't get to the can of beans sitting on the counter seductively calling his name. Instead, what we're given is a young (younger than I am, anyway) born-and-raised New Yorker writing about the place he calls home.
But Colson Whitehead's The Colossus of New York is not just another travelogue. Oh, no, my friends. In fact, it is anything but; I seriously doubt the NY tourism board is going to be recommending this one. At times loving and ominous, sweet and sassy, laugh-out-loud funny and painfully depressed, The Colossus of New York is much like New York itself. There are eight million stories in the naked city, Whitehead wryly quotes, and one would think from reading this that every one of them is feeling a completely different emotion from any of the others at any given moment, and that it's all a constantly swirling chaotic mass. Amen.
Perhaps the most interesting thing about the book is how Whitehead manages to take this odd, impressionist look at New York and map it onto you, the reader. You're liable to find at least one or two snatches of sentence per page you can identify with, even if you've never set foot within an hundred miles of the place. Thus, even if you care nothing about New York, it's probable he's going to keep you interested in its goings-on. A beautiful thing, that. But the draw of the book, and its continuing majesty throughout, is Whitehead's ability with language. His diction takes us from the language poetry of Charles Olson to the Nuyorican-style street rap that passes for poetry among slammers, but with Whitehead the language never loses its poetic drive. All of it, even the ugliness, is beautiful.
And above all, The Colossus of New York is a love song, the kind that one would write to one's spouse after seventy years of marriage if one could find a way to include all one's spouse's faults and still make it beautiful. This is a powerful little book, and highly deserving of the widest possible audience. A shoo-in for the top ten list this year. **** ½
lighthearted