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A review by tomnana
Let Us Now Praise Famous Men by James Agee
5.0
I have alternately wanted to rate this as 4/5 and 5/5. This is less from a proper judgment of the book's worth and more from a confused sense of whether or not I was able to properly respond to the book. I have decided on rating it based on my intuition that this is a valuable book which requires that I at least plan to return to in order to come to a fuller appreciation, but which will nonetheless present repeated images and meanings to me in the meanwhile as the small parts I have grasped gradually turn themselves around in my head.
Agee, in dispersed sections of the book, lays out in fairly plain terms (or at least terms made understandable through dogged repetition) what the aim of his book is. It is intended as a study of the lives of three Alabama sharecropper families in the mid-1930's. It is a study that doesn't dare to consider itself even partly objective, but rather pursues totally to relay Agee's perception of these families. It attempts to instill the idea of these people as extant, living, transcendental beings who cannot be reduced to either a conservative's dregs of capitalist meritocracy, nor to a liberal's bundle of suffering in need of patronization. It is written in a style which forgoes, even resists, narrative telling in favor of incredibly detailed descriptions of living conditions, clothing, methods of working, cooking, learning, etc.
It is difficult to both progress through the text at a convenient pace and to feel satisfied in giving these still descriptions justice. Agee is Proustian, in his flowing but interminable metaphorical sentences and intense focus on the smaller components of living, but seems Proustian via Whitman in his zest for overwhelming the reader with the sheer muchness of existence, and the inexhaustible nouns and verbs that uniquely capture this muchness. In a compromise between progression and focus, I read the book while listening to a slightly sped up audiobook. In reading by itself, my eyes would conveniently glide over the words and my mind would preferably work through my own unrelated daydreams or memories. In listening to the audiobook by itself, my brain would all too easily tumble down from focus to meditation, from meditation to napping. This was somewhat better than reading, since my naps were still tangled with images of wooden walls or the sounds of whippoorwills.
It's easy to call this a boring book, and the author explicitly does not excuse himself from causing boredom, but it's a misleading description. To call a story boring is to judge that it fails in its presumed aim to be exciting or engrossing. This book is not intended for those who, and should not draw anyone who, want to be entertained and miraculously also come out a little more improved, a little more knowledgeable, a little more empathetic. Rather, it is for those who are willing to put effort into coming to terms with the often dull but truthful perception of another human being. I suspect that when I return, equipped with the familiarity that breeds appreciation and the appreciation that breeds focus, I will strike into a rich vein. I suspect that, with a book's inherent passivity, this is a text that cannot force its meaning onto you as other art media will do, but can, with a book's subtle talent, respond with forcefulness in proportion to the attention and care you bring to it.
For now, I possess disparate image and brief but deep vignettes from the text. I feel a spiritual companionship with Agee's book and am confident that I have grasped at least the tenor and the timbre of it. I have a trust that what little I have taken is still chiefly good, and a presentiment that what remains to gather is even better.
Agee, in dispersed sections of the book, lays out in fairly plain terms (or at least terms made understandable through dogged repetition) what the aim of his book is. It is intended as a study of the lives of three Alabama sharecropper families in the mid-1930's. It is a study that doesn't dare to consider itself even partly objective, but rather pursues totally to relay Agee's perception of these families. It attempts to instill the idea of these people as extant, living, transcendental beings who cannot be reduced to either a conservative's dregs of capitalist meritocracy, nor to a liberal's bundle of suffering in need of patronization. It is written in a style which forgoes, even resists, narrative telling in favor of incredibly detailed descriptions of living conditions, clothing, methods of working, cooking, learning, etc.
It is difficult to both progress through the text at a convenient pace and to feel satisfied in giving these still descriptions justice. Agee is Proustian, in his flowing but interminable metaphorical sentences and intense focus on the smaller components of living, but seems Proustian via Whitman in his zest for overwhelming the reader with the sheer muchness of existence, and the inexhaustible nouns and verbs that uniquely capture this muchness. In a compromise between progression and focus, I read the book while listening to a slightly sped up audiobook. In reading by itself, my eyes would conveniently glide over the words and my mind would preferably work through my own unrelated daydreams or memories. In listening to the audiobook by itself, my brain would all too easily tumble down from focus to meditation, from meditation to napping. This was somewhat better than reading, since my naps were still tangled with images of wooden walls or the sounds of whippoorwills.
It's easy to call this a boring book, and the author explicitly does not excuse himself from causing boredom, but it's a misleading description. To call a story boring is to judge that it fails in its presumed aim to be exciting or engrossing. This book is not intended for those who, and should not draw anyone who, want to be entertained and miraculously also come out a little more improved, a little more knowledgeable, a little more empathetic. Rather, it is for those who are willing to put effort into coming to terms with the often dull but truthful perception of another human being. I suspect that when I return, equipped with the familiarity that breeds appreciation and the appreciation that breeds focus, I will strike into a rich vein. I suspect that, with a book's inherent passivity, this is a text that cannot force its meaning onto you as other art media will do, but can, with a book's subtle talent, respond with forcefulness in proportion to the attention and care you bring to it.
For now, I possess disparate image and brief but deep vignettes from the text. I feel a spiritual companionship with Agee's book and am confident that I have grasped at least the tenor and the timbre of it. I have a trust that what little I have taken is still chiefly good, and a presentiment that what remains to gather is even better.