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3.66 AVERAGE
3.66 AVERAGE
challenging
dark
emotional
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Following a year in the life of an American poet on a fellowship in Madrid, this is a book about the purpose of art, about the relationship between art and reality, and the relationship between art and politics. If any of those subjects seem abstract or detached from daily life, Lerner brilliantly connects them to the everyday experiences and meltdowns of his protagonist Adam Gordon in a way that reminded me of Sartre's Antoine Roquentin in Nausea. The language is concise and beautiful, and the ideas explored here are accessible. It's also a conversation that raises more questions than it answers. On a personal level, I connected with the flawed and at times despicable poet. The novel spoke to my own insecurities and vulnerabilities as a writer and as a person.
The author read the book. He seemed like a real shithead. The character was unlikeable and the author seemed to be too.
I didn't actually finish this book. Every time I tried to read it, I fell asleep, and finally gave up a quarter of the way in. It may have got better, but somehow I doubt it.
I really enjoyed this book but a lot of my "enjoyment" came from feeling "better than" the protagonist.
A protagonist so detached from his own critical path that he becomes one with it. Striking in the way it surfaces how the art world eats its own.
The Artist as Snowflake
An American language-student is in Madrid on somebody else’s dime, living in a paradise of lethargy, artsy natives, and drugs. He is an intellectual fantasist; somewhat autistic when it comes to poetry; and somewhat narcissistic about everything else. He also has a young person’s discernment about what is important, which is to say none at all.
He claims to be engaged in ‘research.’ But since he lies, it’s not clear what this could mean. In fact there is more than a little of Patricia Highsmith’s Mr. Ripley throughout the entire book. The narrator/protagonist is a practised fraud whose instinctive reaction to any situation is to scam. Even when zoned out on weed and booze, he can calculate and perform.
The difference from Highsmith is that she had a story. Lerner has a string of events that simply go on and on in a flood of indirect speech filled with myopic detail. Paragraph after page-long paragraph of ‘this happened, then that happened, then I smoked another splif.’ If this is about finding one’s artistic bearings, I suggest someone has slipped him a bum map with his hash. Pretentious and tedious nonsense - clearly this is part of a new literature I cannot understand.
An American language-student is in Madrid on somebody else’s dime, living in a paradise of lethargy, artsy natives, and drugs. He is an intellectual fantasist; somewhat autistic when it comes to poetry; and somewhat narcissistic about everything else. He also has a young person’s discernment about what is important, which is to say none at all.
He claims to be engaged in ‘research.’ But since he lies, it’s not clear what this could mean. In fact there is more than a little of Patricia Highsmith’s Mr. Ripley throughout the entire book. The narrator/protagonist is a practised fraud whose instinctive reaction to any situation is to scam. Even when zoned out on weed and booze, he can calculate and perform.
The difference from Highsmith is that she had a story. Lerner has a string of events that simply go on and on in a flood of indirect speech filled with myopic detail. Paragraph after page-long paragraph of ‘this happened, then that happened, then I smoked another splif.’ If this is about finding one’s artistic bearings, I suggest someone has slipped him a bum map with his hash. Pretentious and tedious nonsense - clearly this is part of a new literature I cannot understand.
what felt profound 5 years ago now just feels a bit narrow and cynical, or maybe i am just happier now
A funny, charming, beautifully written book about the intersections art and life.
Like My Year of Rest and Relaxation, but for men. Unfortunately, strongly dislike them both.