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gothhotel's reviews
224 reviews
Utopia for Realists: How We Can Build the Ideal World by Rutger Bregman
dnf, too simplistic even for what it is
1984 by Xavier Coste, George Orwell
3.0
This book is one of the "classics" of the white-male Western canon that I'd consider truly misunderstood. While its social importance is undeniable, there's little it says that hasn't been said better since. Its black and white takeaways are portrayed in a heavy handed way and like the society it portrays, most of its insight boils down to catchphrases that you can apply to any political agenda you see fit. It's a weird mix of blatant, artless messaging and a Promethean moral that even right wingers can take to say "hurr durr government bad" - which I know Orwell wouldn't have wanted.
Even so, there's been a few things that stick with me. I think of a bit at the ending, where it's implied that only hope for revolution lies with the common people - the uneducated, belligerent poor, who are too wrapped up i. the struggles of their daily lives to give half a shit about Big Brother. Even well-meaning parts of the ruling class can ve tortured and threatened into submission, but the common people, well, there's just too many of them for the Ministry of Truth, right? But they are suffering, and they are kept in ignorance, so the chances of a revolution are very slim.
Even so, there's been a few things that stick with me. I think of a bit at the ending, where it's implied that only hope for revolution lies with the common people - the uneducated, belligerent poor, who are too wrapped up i. the struggles of their daily lives to give half a shit about Big Brother. Even well-meaning parts of the ruling class can ve tortured and threatened into submission, but the common people, well, there's just too many of them for the Ministry of Truth, right? But they are suffering, and they are kept in ignorance, so the chances of a revolution are very slim.
Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch by Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman
5.0
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez
5.0
this is not a review, it's mostly about myself & my changing approach to this book. suck it, algorithm, private journals are for wimps
i read this and did the New Criticism shtick they tesch for AP lit as my elective book in my last year of high school. i walked in totally ignorant of latin america, having no context or guidance beyond a list of rhetorical devices to identify and the Wikipedia page on magical realism. well i thought the book was brilliant and did the project with gusto, unpacking symbols like i was working in a warehouse, i mean, you know how it is. for a long time i considered "one hundred years of solitude" my favorite book.
do i still think that? I don't know. what i remember remains impressive and beautiful, but I've probably cherry picked without knowing. there's got to be so much i missed fumbling around in the dark without a crumb of context, acting like I didn't need it. even a single undergrad class on contemp latin american lit made it clear to me how little i knew about latin america and that i still don't know shit, couldn't even scratch the surface.
but I'm loath to reread for the dumbest reason ever: i don't wanna spoil a good memory. i'm afraid that coming back now with my big eddicated brain would taint how i remember it, as a puzzle unfolding, a map to be read, a city of glass never seen in its entirety - memories of a simpler time, i guess, when the mystery of Close Reading felt like holy ritual and not an act of colonization. but then i owe it to myself to return, not as a puzzler or map-reader or a symbol-hunter but as a friend, to let it wash over me, to bask, to swirl up the mental stew of images and phrases from this book, which bubble up unbidden every now and then. there must be a reason they stuck around, i think. maybe some day I'll find it out.
i read this and did the New Criticism shtick they tesch for AP lit as my elective book in my last year of high school. i walked in totally ignorant of latin america, having no context or guidance beyond a list of rhetorical devices to identify and the Wikipedia page on magical realism. well i thought the book was brilliant and did the project with gusto, unpacking symbols like i was working in a warehouse, i mean, you know how it is. for a long time i considered "one hundred years of solitude" my favorite book.
do i still think that? I don't know. what i remember remains impressive and beautiful, but I've probably cherry picked without knowing. there's got to be so much i missed fumbling around in the dark without a crumb of context, acting like I didn't need it. even a single undergrad class on contemp latin american lit made it clear to me how little i knew about latin america and that i still don't know shit, couldn't even scratch the surface.
but I'm loath to reread for the dumbest reason ever: i don't wanna spoil a good memory. i'm afraid that coming back now with my big eddicated brain would taint how i remember it, as a puzzle unfolding, a map to be read, a city of glass never seen in its entirety - memories of a simpler time, i guess, when the mystery of Close Reading felt like holy ritual and not an act of colonization. but then i owe it to myself to return, not as a puzzler or map-reader or a symbol-hunter but as a friend, to let it wash over me, to bask, to swirl up the mental stew of images and phrases from this book, which bubble up unbidden every now and then. there must be a reason they stuck around, i think. maybe some day I'll find it out.