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3.66 AVERAGE
3.66 AVERAGE
This was a hilarious and brilliant book. Both Percival Everett and Ralph are far smarter than I will ever be. I'm not even going to pretend for a second that I followed everything start-to-finish; the book is highly referential, from literary history, to communication theory (my own area of expertise, which I was deeply embarrassed to find I'd forgotten,) to mathematics. Even so, the narrative is mostly linear, which keeps the reader from becoming too confused within Ralph's (in reality, carefully constructed) stream of consciousness. The characters were deeply satirical, the prose was flowing and engaging with Everett's signature wry social commentary permeating Ralph's experience. This isn't to say that the book was perfect (namely, poop jokes eventually stop being funny, and [SPOILER] the priest being a pedophile? Really? My issue is less that it's unrealistic {because let's be honest, we have a sad but true situation in regards to the catholic clergy} and more that it was really, really cliché.) For the most part, though, this book was a thoughtful, wild ride through a treatise on the way we construct meaning.
Also, the poetry was really nice. :)
Also, the poetry was really nice. :)
funny
informative
relaxing
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
No
"And so my mother became my supplier. She gave me magazines and novels and philosophy books and history texts and volumes of poetry. I consumed them all, trying to at once escape myself and stay as close to my own thought as possible, feeling more pure and freer with each turned page."
[..]
"Locke might have claimed all day that there was no material world, but still he would have stepped out of the way of an oncoming carriage that evening."
[..]
"BALDWIN: Actually, it is the act of creating the world of my fiction that allows me to understand the so-called real world.
SOCRATES: But how can that be when the real world is the one you need before you can begin your art? Suppose a man wanted to write a novel, but he knew nothing of the world. Could he do it?
BALDWIN: Why would such a man seek to write a novel?"
[..]
"Locke might have claimed all day that there was no material world, but still he would have stepped out of the way of an oncoming carriage that evening."
[..]
"BALDWIN: Actually, it is the act of creating the world of my fiction that allows me to understand the so-called real world.
SOCRATES: But how can that be when the real world is the one you need before you can begin your art? Suppose a man wanted to write a novel, but he knew nothing of the world. Could he do it?
BALDWIN: Why would such a man seek to write a novel?"
challenging
funny
fast-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Complicated
challenging
lighthearted
medium-paced
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Chissà quanto si è divertito Percival Everett a scrivere questo romanzo
The Boredom of Infantile Leisure
Babies lock on to language because they are literally bored to tears, even in their dreams. Having been hooked on language, they are so immersed in it that they have no memory of ever having been without it. The world of language is, so to speak, the only one they know and they treat it as if it is the only one there is. It is shocking to then discover that what looks solid language, is mostly hot air. Nevertheless, there is no way back. Boredom drives them ever deeper into the language which hides reality. But refusing to speak keeps language at a safe distance. The smartest ones talk latest; the best not at all.
The one word in language, the only one really, worth taking seriously is ‘death.’ Death is both inside and outside language (unlike ‘God’, and ‘truth’, and even ‘reality’ which are purely linguistic and must be taken cum grano salis). Death is the worm hole that facilitates the passage from words to not-words. It doesn’t lead back into some pre-linguistic paradise but it goes in a different direction and leads somewhere else. Death is a destination one can rely on. As infants mature, they become increasingly aware of this. Frightening at first, the more that they have to deal with language, the more appealing death becomes.
The form which has no substance that we call language is after all a rather stressful place. A highly precocious baby who is adept at language at birth but doesn’t let on is in a privileged position to notice this. His parents are being driven personally and professionally mad by their obsessive need to express what they call ‘themselves.’ Ralph, the baby, doesn’t fall for that. Ralph knows that transforming oneself into language is worse than death; it is hell. He reads, he takes notes, and he writes poetry to his mother. But none of this is Ralph. Ralph does not speak so isn’t absorbed by language. He formulates his own Ontological Proof to make the point:
Being born with a complete language set, as it were, has definite advantages, as Ralph recognises: “because I lacked the prelinguistic clutter, the subtextual litter, I actually understood language better than any adult. Talk of time never threw me for a loop. Pronouns never confused me. I used me when I was supposed to and never once wondered when my mother used I whether she was speaking of me.” Even better, there is no epistemological gap between words and things. Language for Ralph is simply unproblematic: “For me, there was no gap, as there is no gap for anyone.”
But anyone who is being OK with language can’t be OK with a world that isn’t. Everyone wants to know how it’s done. And that precisely is why they aren’t OK with language. They think there’s some trick, technique, or theory, that is to say, more bits of language that will allow them to conquer the thing. Not going to happen. Ralph knows we live in a story; he’s comfortable with that. But academics, and scientists, and literary critics (to name but a few professions which do have a problem with language) are not. This makes them wild beasts.
Linguistic analysis has become the new theology. Exactly the same problems arise as with the old theology: no one has ever found a way to talk about the Absolute, whether God or Language, sensibly. Both have infinite potential and therefore can’t be defined or limited by what is inferior to them, namely words and creatures. This drives the new theologians as crazy as the old ones. Ultimately both theology and linguistics fall back on metaphor, the thing they hate the most.
The idea that we are like dimensionless points on a line-segment of infinite slightness and fragility, seeking to connect with other segments in order to create the shapes we call stories is a pretty good metaphor by Ralph. It’s certainly enough to be getting on with. Everett is terrific with new shapes. And through him Ralph gives some great advice for a four year old: “Tell your ideas not to talk to strangers. Don’t let your ideas play in the street. Don’t give your ideas any toys with pieces so small that they might choke on them.”
Babies lock on to language because they are literally bored to tears, even in their dreams. Having been hooked on language, they are so immersed in it that they have no memory of ever having been without it. The world of language is, so to speak, the only one they know and they treat it as if it is the only one there is. It is shocking to then discover that what looks solid language, is mostly hot air. Nevertheless, there is no way back. Boredom drives them ever deeper into the language which hides reality. But refusing to speak keeps language at a safe distance. The smartest ones talk latest; the best not at all.
The one word in language, the only one really, worth taking seriously is ‘death.’ Death is both inside and outside language (unlike ‘God’, and ‘truth’, and even ‘reality’ which are purely linguistic and must be taken cum grano salis). Death is the worm hole that facilitates the passage from words to not-words. It doesn’t lead back into some pre-linguistic paradise but it goes in a different direction and leads somewhere else. Death is a destination one can rely on. As infants mature, they become increasingly aware of this. Frightening at first, the more that they have to deal with language, the more appealing death becomes.
The form which has no substance that we call language is after all a rather stressful place. A highly precocious baby who is adept at language at birth but doesn’t let on is in a privileged position to notice this. His parents are being driven personally and professionally mad by their obsessive need to express what they call ‘themselves.’ Ralph, the baby, doesn’t fall for that. Ralph knows that transforming oneself into language is worse than death; it is hell. He reads, he takes notes, and he writes poetry to his mother. But none of this is Ralph. Ralph does not speak so isn’t absorbed by language. He formulates his own Ontological Proof to make the point:
“a) assume: Ralph does not exist.He has no delusions about the importance of his thinking. Like a young Richard Rorty he can say “all my meaning is surface.”
b) Ralph is not Ralph.
c) therefore: Ralph exists.”
Being born with a complete language set, as it were, has definite advantages, as Ralph recognises: “because I lacked the prelinguistic clutter, the subtextual litter, I actually understood language better than any adult. Talk of time never threw me for a loop. Pronouns never confused me. I used me when I was supposed to and never once wondered when my mother used I whether she was speaking of me.” Even better, there is no epistemological gap between words and things. Language for Ralph is simply unproblematic: “For me, there was no gap, as there is no gap for anyone.”
But anyone who is being OK with language can’t be OK with a world that isn’t. Everyone wants to know how it’s done. And that precisely is why they aren’t OK with language. They think there’s some trick, technique, or theory, that is to say, more bits of language that will allow them to conquer the thing. Not going to happen. Ralph knows we live in a story; he’s comfortable with that. But academics, and scientists, and literary critics (to name but a few professions which do have a problem with language) are not. This makes them wild beasts.
Linguistic analysis has become the new theology. Exactly the same problems arise as with the old theology: no one has ever found a way to talk about the Absolute, whether God or Language, sensibly. Both have infinite potential and therefore can’t be defined or limited by what is inferior to them, namely words and creatures. This drives the new theologians as crazy as the old ones. Ultimately both theology and linguistics fall back on metaphor, the thing they hate the most.
The idea that we are like dimensionless points on a line-segment of infinite slightness and fragility, seeking to connect with other segments in order to create the shapes we call stories is a pretty good metaphor by Ralph. It’s certainly enough to be getting on with. Everett is terrific with new shapes. And through him Ralph gives some great advice for a four year old: “Tell your ideas not to talk to strangers. Don’t let your ideas play in the street. Don’t give your ideas any toys with pieces so small that they might choke on them.”
adventurous
challenging
funny
fast-paced
Oh my god. This was so heavy and intense, and also very good. And it wasn't like it dealt with 'heavy' subjects (mostly), or at least did not do so in a heavy way. It's just that this entire book can't stop talking about signifiers and signifieds and signs and meaning, and Barthes is a character who is obnoxious and constantly ends his rambling nonsense with "I'm French, you know". It's about a genius baby who refuses to talk because of meaning and signifiers and who mocks post-structuralism, but it's also about him being kidnapped and trying to get home. It also has a lot of Wittgenstein, to the point where 5 pages near the end are full of Tractatus-like statements about the reality-value of fiction.
Honestly, it was a lot.
Honestly, it was a lot.
