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3.86 AVERAGE
3.86 AVERAGE
This is the most Western book out of the sort of traditional canon of Lithuanian classics that I've read so far -- which is a bit of a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it's as fine and as competent an example of Modernism as any of the more popular Modernist novels; on the other hand, it's such a perfect example of Modernism that it feels a bit formulaic and doesn't offer anything those other novels wouldn't offer.
White Shroud has all the usual Modernist existentialism, unreliable narrators, morally ambiguous protagonists, non-linearity, and stream of consciousness, put together in all the usual ways. For an author who, as far as I know, wrote pretty consciously in a literary trend that claimed to delight in inventiveness and pluralism and the desire to 'make it new', that's quite damning. Considering that all these things had already been done much earlier than this book was written, this is also why I find the claim that Škėma was somehow avantgarde in anything other than the most restrictively local Lithuanian context frankly baffling.
Ultimately, the only unique thing that White Shroud offers as a piece of Modernist literature is the specifically Lithuanian cultural and historical contexts it invokes throughout the narrative, which may be interesting for some -- but even they are kind of vague and often abstractly symbolic, with the specifics largely glossed over. It's clear enough what Škėma is talking about (for instance with his distinctly Lithuanian mix of Christian and pagan or folkloric motifs) if you already have some idea of what he's working with, but I have no idea how it would read to someone with no background knowledge of these things.
And yet I still enjoyed the book a lot. Now, by way of a disclaimer, I must say I read the Lithuanian original, so I can't speak to the quality of the English translation at all, but I found the text to be smoothly and, occasionally, beautifully written. The little story that there is (there is basically no story) was interesting to learn about, and the weird metaphysics clicked with me. Initially I thought it might be a bit too Modernist for me, but once I found my rhythm, it was a great experience that only stumbled once or twice towards the end.
So that's my conflicted verdict, I suppose: this is a great but unremarkable book. As a first foray into Modernism, this is as good a choice as something like The Stranger; but if you're already familiar with these type of books, and unless you read the big ones and just really enjoyed the techniques and now want more of the same (or for some reason are really intrigued by the extremely minimalist story), I don't know if you would find much to excite you here.
White Shroud has all the usual Modernist existentialism, unreliable narrators, morally ambiguous protagonists, non-linearity, and stream of consciousness, put together in all the usual ways. For an author who, as far as I know, wrote pretty consciously in a literary trend that claimed to delight in inventiveness and pluralism and the desire to 'make it new', that's quite damning. Considering that all these things had already been done much earlier than this book was written, this is also why I find the claim that Škėma was somehow avantgarde in anything other than the most restrictively local Lithuanian context frankly baffling.
Ultimately, the only unique thing that White Shroud offers as a piece of Modernist literature is the specifically Lithuanian cultural and historical contexts it invokes throughout the narrative, which may be interesting for some -- but even they are kind of vague and often abstractly symbolic, with the specifics largely glossed over. It's clear enough what Škėma is talking about (for instance with his distinctly Lithuanian mix of Christian and pagan or folkloric motifs) if you already have some idea of what he's working with, but I have no idea how it would read to someone with no background knowledge of these things.
And yet I still enjoyed the book a lot. Now, by way of a disclaimer, I must say I read the Lithuanian original, so I can't speak to the quality of the English translation at all, but I found the text to be smoothly and, occasionally, beautifully written. The little story that there is (there is basically no story) was interesting to learn about, and the weird metaphysics clicked with me. Initially I thought it might be a bit too Modernist for me, but once I found my rhythm, it was a great experience that only stumbled once or twice towards the end.
So that's my conflicted verdict, I suppose: this is a great but unremarkable book. As a first foray into Modernism, this is as good a choice as something like The Stranger; but if you're already familiar with these type of books, and unless you read the big ones and just really enjoyed the techniques and now want more of the same (or for some reason are really intrigued by the extremely minimalist story), I don't know if you would find much to excite you here.
You know those ludicrous paintings that have nothing on them, but monocolored paint splattered once across the white canvas? And people gathering around it, calling it modern art, an artificial piece of such creativity that was never before or could never be reached again. But though some of them are nodding their heads, they don't feel any attachment to the piece and even think that these strokes or, in this case, these words were randomly written again and again until they became symbolism, a metaphor. Really, that's how I feel about Balta Drobule. It isn't necessarily a simplistic or nonsensical work, it's just so modern that at this point there's not way to tell if it is actually a masterpiece or a flop. To me, simply, this book couldn't pretend to be as smart as it wanted to be.
the excessive amount of the n word in the first page ,,,,,,,,,,, yo wtf (but also understandable keeping in mind the time)
didnt hate, kinda confusing, liked the overall idea :P lol
didnt hate, kinda confusing, liked the overall idea :P lol
Pirmoji Antano Škėmos knyga, kurią teko skaityti.
Vos perskaičiusi pirmus du puslapius supratau, kad tai nėra tipinis lietuvių rašytojas, besistengiantis plačiai aprašinėti nerekalingus dalykus. Trumpi sakiniai. Keletas žodžių, kuriais pasakyta daugiau, nei kai kurių autorių pastraipose. Skaitymas nebuvo lengvas, bet nebuvo ir reikalaujantis daug pastangų. Vis dėlto knygoje gvildenamos problemos tikrai skaudžios. Iš pradžių buvo itin sunku suprasti, kas rašoma, dėl chaotiško pasakojimo, praeities - dabarties asimiliacijos, bet ilgainiui viskas tapo daugiau nei aišku. Puiki knyga, kurią reikėtų perskaityti tikrai daugiau nei vieną kartą norint perprasti kiekvieną detalę. O detalių buvo daug. Rašymo stilius labai artimas, masinantis skaityti toliau, daugybė kontekstų, o tai tiesiog puiku.
Taigi, netolimoje ateityje, kai perskaitysiu knygą dar kelis kartus ir galėsiu visiškai suprasti, kas joje buvo svarbiausia, kadangi dabar liko tik audrinančios emocijos, esu tikra , kad galėsiu ją įvertinti penkiomis žvaigždutėmis.
Vos perskaičiusi pirmus du puslapius supratau, kad tai nėra tipinis lietuvių rašytojas, besistengiantis plačiai aprašinėti nerekalingus dalykus. Trumpi sakiniai. Keletas žodžių, kuriais pasakyta daugiau, nei kai kurių autorių pastraipose. Skaitymas nebuvo lengvas, bet nebuvo ir reikalaujantis daug pastangų. Vis dėlto knygoje gvildenamos problemos tikrai skaudžios. Iš pradžių buvo itin sunku suprasti, kas rašoma, dėl chaotiško pasakojimo, praeities - dabarties asimiliacijos, bet ilgainiui viskas tapo daugiau nei aišku. Puiki knyga, kurią reikėtų perskaityti tikrai daugiau nei vieną kartą norint perprasti kiekvieną detalę. O detalių buvo daug. Rašymo stilius labai artimas, masinantis skaityti toliau, daugybė kontekstų, o tai tiesiog puiku.
Taigi, netolimoje ateityje, kai perskaitysiu knygą dar kelis kartus ir galėsiu visiškai suprasti, kas joje buvo svarbiausia, kadangi dabar liko tik audrinančios emocijos, esu tikra , kad galėsiu ją įvertinti penkiomis žvaigždutėmis.