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toasternoodle 's review for:
Invisible Cities
by Italo Calvino
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William Faulkner's 1932 [b:Light in August|10979|Light in August|William Faulkner|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1355360091l/10979._SY75_.jpg|1595500] gave us this brain-twister about the delicate process that awares us to truth: Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders. Once upon a time I heard a high schooler repeating this to himself, trying so hard to figure out what the heck ol Bill meant that it glued itself to my own brain and I spent the next ten years thinking about it.
Italo Calvino's 1972 Invisible Cities gave me soliloquies on ~memory~ and ~desire~ and whatever the heck a thin city or a continuous city is but mostly just awful, interminable boredom. The difference is Faulkner's ramblings make delicious sense. I am convinced that Invisible Cities, on the other hand, was written by injecting random adjectives and nouns between a general grammar for paragraphs on end and, what's worse, gaslighting people into believing it experimental genius.
You could tear out entire pages and the next reader would never know it. Or switch them around at will and, again, none would be the wiser. In fact you could read it backwards and it'd be the same book. Yes, one could throw this book at a wall and read just the section it opened to and effectively have read it all with less headache and maybe even some appreciation.
How this book fails to end with Kublai Khan employing Marco Polo to torture prisoners with his flowery city-talk is the only real question I have.
William Faulkner's 1932 [b:Light in August|10979|Light in August|William Faulkner|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1355360091l/10979._SY75_.jpg|1595500] gave us this brain-twister about the delicate process that awares us to truth: Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders. Once upon a time I heard a high schooler repeating this to himself, trying so hard to figure out what the heck ol Bill meant that it glued itself to my own brain and I spent the next ten years thinking about it.
Italo Calvino's 1972 Invisible Cities gave me soliloquies on ~memory~ and ~desire~ and whatever the heck a thin city or a continuous city is but mostly just awful, interminable boredom. The difference is Faulkner's ramblings make delicious sense. I am convinced that Invisible Cities, on the other hand, was written by injecting random adjectives and nouns between a general grammar for paragraphs on end and, what's worse, gaslighting people into believing it experimental genius.
You could tear out entire pages and the next reader would never know it. Or switch them around at will and, again, none would be the wiser. In fact you could read it backwards and it'd be the same book. Yes, one could throw this book at a wall and read just the section it opened to and effectively have read it all with less headache and maybe even some appreciation.
How this book fails to end with Kublai Khan employing Marco Polo to torture prisoners with his flowery city-talk is the only real question I have.