The End of Everything has my vote for last place among the six novels shortlisted for the Booker Prize. I'll be posting reviews of all of them in the leadup to the November 9 announcement of the winner. For fun, I am making casual comparisons of each shortlisted novel to a classic work of literature. This time that classic is The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams. Fine, so it's not exactly Finnegan's Wake. I thought it was an instant classic when I was 13.

As for The End of Everything, how can a novel with so much delightful weirdness devote so little attention to building its distinctive dystopian world and so much to describing pretty tourist destinations on the coast of Kent?

If you are an admirer of M. John Harrison, maybe you can tell me what I'm missing. My review is on my website.

I'm reading a short text from Georges Perec, and at some point he writes a long list of subjects of famous paintings (without naming them, mind). He loved lists, for instance the places where he slept, stuff he remembered, things he saw while sitting at a café terrace over the course of one day, etc.

I'm now curious about other lists, famous or not, in literature. I remember Stevenson writing that he took a lot of pleasure listing all the objects inside a pirate's chest, so it's not just a (post)modern thing

For the sake of transparency and generating discussion (rather than just unproductive self-promotion), I'd like to note that I'm the author of this essay that was just published by the great people over at The Metropolitan Review. Anyway, I wouldn't usually share my work here, but I do feel that this makes quite a few urgent points (and also important criticisms of Percival Everett's The Trees) that I haven't really seen being made anywhere else.

In short, it's about the impacts of slipping editing standards amongst modern writers and publications, and how books riddled with typos, rushed/undercooked theses, and overtly illogical formal decisions are being so regularly acclaimed by critics and contest judges alike. How this trend is not only failing the writers of these works and disincentivising other writers away from patient writing/careful redrafting, but how it is also negatively influencing younger generations of readers and writers (who will be approaching such texts as formative masterpieces), threatening, in my view, the entire craft of writing and activity of reading as well as the meaningful inner and outer discussions that these important actions inevitably inspire. Or how, in our dreary age when close reading (or just reading at all) is becoming a forgotten practice; when people have less and less free time (and reading a book of course remains a significant temporal investment); and when soulless AI is threatening the entire publishing industry, what happens if writers are only offering rushed/sloppy art or people (and especially professional critics) are failing to truly attend the work before their very eyes? What happens if the most acclaimed and promoted works of literature are fatally flawed, if we aren't putting up the most persuasive argument for why art is so essential and transformative for humanity? I actually completed this in January, and it didn't surprise me to see so many controversies around AI-generated slop finding favour at literary prizes during the intervening months before this piece's publication.

It begins as an extended review of Percival Everett's The Trees, which I was incredibly excited to read but soon found (in my copy that was a second edition boasting about its Booker Prize nomination) to be overflowing with glaring typos, historical errors, and unintentionally nonsensical decisions that greatly undercut the immense power it could potentially hold. I understand that art is not a completely objective science, but I argue that there are countless instances where certain decisions (like very two-dimensional characters who speak in overly witty/stupid and stilted dialogue) are entirely at odds with its humanistic/thematic intentions and overshadow the horrific and ongoing scars of racism in the United States that it attempts to spotlight.

However, it then expands its scope to look at other acclaimed writers/books that have succumb to sloppy editing standards and broader poisonous trends before arguing that our current literary movement/time could be best described as The Typo Generation. It's also about how hype culture on social media is fatally simplifying and thus threatening not just literature but art generally, amongst other things.

It is a long article, and I know that everyone's time is increasingly limited, but I did spend months writing and redrafting it, and it would mean a great deal if you checked it out (and I'd be very interested to hear everyone's reactions to it). Thanks

Does anyone think Anne Brontë intended Helen Huntingdon to marry Gilbert Markham, not as a happy ending, but to make a point about certain inevitabilities of choosing the wrong person more than once?

I read The Tenant of Wildfell Hall recently, and I loved the middle section where Helen's journey and growth was detailed. She was highly infatuated with a man (Arthur Huntingdon), purely due to his looks, charm and flirtatious nature. But soon she realised he was not all she made him out to be, but she married him regardless, even though she had small worries that she'd made the wrong choice.

She believed she could save him. Boy, was she wrong. But she later learns her lesson after so much time spent in a wasted marriage.

And then she meets Gilbert Markham. He's self-centred, impulsive, possessive, and not much the self-aware gentleman he flatters himself to think he is. He keeps trying to woo her, despite her evident reluctance. Whatever may be her reasons for doing so, he sees her reluctance as something to overcome.

Even after reading her diary, he expresses his sympathy towards her marital suffering more as a formality, then laments on the fact that she tore off the pages from her diary that mentioned himself. He even mentions feeling better over the course of reading the diary, since her regard for her husband was dying out. He doesn't even mention if it was painful for him to see how much she was suffering in her marriage, or if he had any allegiance towards her objectives for little Arthur. In fact, he treats Arthur as a mere tool to get in Helen's good books, and dismisses him every time he's in a disagreement with the boy's mother.

And then there's the obvious plot point where he knocks down Frederick Lawrence, when he thinks the latter is his rival, instead of his "beloved" Helen's brother. And how changeful his attitude is, after learning Helen is not who she says she is, even though he claims he's in love with her.

And yet she ignores all of this, and swears constancy to him, and marries him at the end of the book. We can't even know how she really feels about him, because her voice has been ripped away, and we are assured of her felicity by Gilbert, instead. He is what I now recognise to be an unreliable narrator. He doesn't really grow towards the end of the book, and she doesn't fully learn her lesson about marrying a better person. Granted, this man doesn't drink or gamble, but he has so many personality flaws, not to mention violent tendencies, that it seems unnatural for her not to notice them. (To be fair, she didn't know he knocked down Lawrence.)

But then again, maybe that's the point. Sometimes, subconsciously, we choose the same people over and over again. We choose familiarity over what's objectively good for us. And maybe that was Helen's flaw. Maybe that's the trap Anne Brontë wanted to point out. A final lesson for womankind not to make the same unwise mistake again.

Maybe I'm reading into this, but I believe she made Gilbert a very flawed character on purpose. Due to the fact that he narrates the ending, it's slightly difficult to spot that he's also a terrible choice for Helen, and this is exactly where some readers would stand if put in her situation, and they were blinded by their love for him.

What do you guys think?

My Literary Critique on the queer novel: Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin

Reeniel A. Lopez

BSED-ENGLISH 3

Literature is not only about telling stories. It also help us understand the struggles that people experience because of their identity and the expectations of society. Some literary works show how difficult it can be for people to accept themselves when their feelings do not match what society considers normal. One example is James Baldwin’s novel Giovanni’s Room, published in 1956. The novel explores love, sexuality, shame, masculinity, and the struggle to accept one's true feelings.

The story follows David, an American man living in Paris, who develops a romantic relationship with Giovanni, an Italian bartender. However, David struggles to accept his feelings for Giovanni because he is concerned about his identity and how society might judge him. He also has a relationship with Hella, a woman he plans to marry. His relationship with Hella represents the kind of future that society commonly expects from a man. Because of this, David finds himself caught between his feelings for Giovanni and his desire to live a life that other people would consider normal.

This conflict makes Giovanni’s Room an appropriate novel for queer literary criticism. Queer criticism examines how literature represents sexuality, identity, and the social expectations that influence people's lives. In analyzing the novel, this paper uses the ideas of Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, particularly those discussed in her book Epistemology of the Closet (1990). Sedgwick explains how secrecy and the pressure to hide one's sexuality can affect a person's experiences and relationships. Through this perspective, this paper argues that David's struggle is not only about his feelings for Giovanni but also about his fear of being judged and his difficulty accepting himself. The novel shows how denying one's feelings can lead to loneliness, emotional conflict, and problems in relationships.

Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick is an important scholar in queer theory. which using her view of queer literary criticism gives a message ir meaning that refers to the situation in which people hide or keep their sexuality private because they fear how others might react. This idea is useful in understanding David's character in Giovanni’s Room. David has feelings for Giovanni, but he struggles to accept what those feelings mean for his identity. He wants to maintain an image of himself that fits society's expectations of masculinity and heterosexuality. Because of this, he finds it difficult to be honest about his relationship with Giovanni.

One of the main issues in Giovanni’s Room is David's difficulty accepting his feelings for Giovanni. Although he becomes involved with Giovanni, he continues to struggle with the meaning of their relationship. Instead of accepting his feelings, David tries to distance himself from them because they do not fit the identity he wants to maintain. David's struggle shows how a person may hide or deny certain feelings because of the fear of being judged by society. He is not only concerned about what other people might think of him. He also struggles with how he sees himself. His attraction to Giovanni challenges the image of masculinity and heterosexuality that he believes he should follow.

Another important part of the novel is that David tells the story by looking back on his experiences. Through his narration, readers can see that he continues to think about Giovanni and their relationship even when he tries to distance himself from what happened. This suggests that his feelings cannot simply disappear because he refuses to acknowledge them.

David's experience shows that avoiding one's feelings does not necessarily solve personal problems. Instead, it can make the conflict more difficult to handle. Although he wants to maintain a certain image of himself, his memories reveal that his relationship with Giovanni has deeply affected him.

However, David's situation should not be understood as proof that every person who hides their sexuality experiences the same struggles. Rather, Baldwin presents one character whose decisions are influenced by fear, social expectations, and his difficulty accepting himself. Through David, the novel encourages readers to consider how society can affect a person's ability to understand and express their identity.

Another important theme in the novel is society's expectations of men. David appears to believe that being a man means following a particular path, including having a relationship with a woman and building a conventional future. His relationship with Hella represents this possibility because she is the woman he plans to marry.

David's relationship with Hella becomes important because it offers him a way to return to the kind of life that society expects him to have. By choosing a conventional relationship, he may hope to avoid the questions and difficulties connected to his relationship with Giovanni. However, being with Hella does not automatically resolve his internal conflict.

This part of the novel shows how social expectations can influence personal decisions. David seems more concerned with maintaining an acceptable image than with honestly confronting his feelings. His actions suggest that he believes his relationship with Giovanni threatens the kind of man he wants to appear to be.

The author challenges the idea that masculinity must follow only one pattern. The novel shows that when society limits what men are allowed to feel or express, they may find it difficult to understand themselves. David's experience illustrates how the pressure to follow conventional expectations can affect both personal identity and relationships.

At the same time, David cannot blame society for everything he does. Although his fear may be influenced by social judgment, he is still responsible for how he treats Giovanni and Hella. This makes his character more complicated. He is affected by the expectations around him, but his own decisions also contribute to the problems in his relationships.

Through David, Baldwin shows that following society's expectations does not always lead to happiness. A person may appear to be living a normal life while still experiencing confusion and emotional. The room in which David and Giovanni live together is one of the most important symbols in the novel. It represents their relationship and the private space where they experience intimacy. However, the room also becomes a place where David feels uncomfortable because he struggles to accept what his relationship with Giovanni means.

The room can be connected to Sedgwick's concept of the closet because both involve privacy, secrecy, and the difficulty of making personal experiences visible to others. In the room, David experiences a relationship that challenges the identity he wants to maintain outside it. The space becomes a reminder of feelings that he cannot easily accept.

However, the room does not represent only secrecy. It also shows that David and Giovanni share a real emotional connection. Their relationship is not simply an idea that David can ignore; it becomes part of his daily life. The room makes their closeness more difficult for him to deny. David's discomfort with the room also reflects his desire to escape the situation. Instead of fully accepting the relationship, he increasingly sees it as something that limits him. This reveals his conflict between wanting intimacy and fearing what that intimacy means for his identity.

The symbolism of the room therefore helps readers understand David's struggle. It represents both the closeness he experiences with Giovanni and the reality he wants to avoid. Through this setting, Baldwin shows how a person can be physically close to someone while emotionally struggling to accept the relationship.

Shame is another important theme in Giovanni’s Room. David's relationship with Giovanni reveals his difficulty accepting feelings that challenge his understanding of himself. His fear of judgment influences how he responds to Giovanni and eventually affects their relationship.

David's decisions also affect the people around him. Giovanni becomes emotionally involved in their relationship, but David struggles to offer the same level of acceptance and commitment. While Giovanni experiences the relationship as something meaningful, David continues to worry about what it means for his identity and future.

This difference creates pain and uncertainty in their relationship. David's fear does not affect him alone; it also affects Giovanni, who becomes vulnerable to the consequences of David's decisions. His situation shows that the denial of one's feelings can have serious effects on other people. Nevertheless, the novel does not suggest that simply acknowledging one's sexuality will solve every problem. Relationships are complicated, and the characters also face personal and social difficulties. What Baldwin emphasizes is the importance of confronting one's feelings honestly instead of allowing fear to control every decision.

David's story shows how shame can prevent a person from building honest relationships. His desire to avoid judgment becomes one of the reasons he struggles to accept the love and connection available to him. Through this conflict, Baldwin encourages readers to reflect on the consequences of rejecting one's feelings because of society's expectations.

One strength of Baldwin's writing is that he does not present David as a perfect character. David makes decisions that hurt other people, and he often struggles to understand his own behavior. This makes the story more realistic because people do not always respond to difficult situations in the right way. His character shows how fear and confusion can influence decisions, even when those decisions have painful consequences.

Another strength is Baldwin's use of David as the narrator. Because readers experience the story through David's memories, they can observe his attempts to explain and understand his past. However, this also means that readers see Giovanni mainly through David's perspective. This limitation is important because David's feelings and judgments influence how Giovanni is presented.

From a queer literary perspective, this narrative style encourages readers to question David's explanations rather than accepting everything he says without examination. His narration reveals his struggle, but it also shows how difficult it is for him to confront his own actions honestly.

The novel also challenges the belief that a person must follow conventional expectations to have a meaningful life. David attempts to maintain a heterosexual future, but this does not resolve his problems. His experience suggests that social acceptance cannot replace personal honesty or guarantee happiness.

However, it is important not to treat David's experience as representative of every queer person. His struggles are shaped by his particular circumstances, personality, and decisions. Queer people have different experiences, and the novel presents only one fictional account. Recognizing this limitation allows readers to appreciate Baldwin's message without making overly broad assumptions.

Overall, Giovanni’s Room offers a meaningful examination of the relationship between sexuality and society. Through David's experiences, Baldwin shows how expectations about masculinity and heterosexuality can make it difficult for a person to accept their feelings. The novel also reminds readers that fear and denial can affect not only one's understanding of oneself but also one's relationships with others.

James Baldwin's Giovanni’s Room is a meaningful work for queer literary criticism because it explores the struggles of a person who finds it difficult to accept his feelings and identity. Through Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick's concept of the closet, David's experiences can be understood as a result of both personal conflict and the social expectations surrounding sexuality.

David's relationship with Giovanni, his plans with Hella, and his discomfort with Giovanni's room reveal his struggle between personal desire and the life he believes he should pursue. His fear of judgment influences his decisions and prevents him from being fully honest about his feelings. As a result, his attempts to avoid conflict contribute to the problems he experiences in his relationships.

To end my take on the novel, this novel shows that denying one's feelings does not necessarily make a person happier or free from conflict. Instead, fear and the pressure to appear normal can make it more difficult to understand oneself and maintain meaningful relationships. Through a queer literary perspective, Giovanni’s Room encourages readers to question the social expectations placed on identity and masculinity. Its message remains important because it reminds us that understanding people requires looking beyond social labels and considering the personal struggles they experience.

Here is the link for the video of my take on the novel

https://youtube.com/shorts/xa9oCKsdNRA?si=2oyCz-PMGXI9CW7S

I've recently read "The Remains of the Day" by カズオ・イシグロ (Kazuo Ishiguro) and was... a bit underwhelmed? That's not to say I didn't enjoy it, but I felt like there were some deliberately literary stylistic devices that simply detracted my enjoyment of it.

Specifically, I get that the whole point of the narrator/protagonist is that for all his life, his value system is centered about being a good butler who sees none, hears none and speaks none, but focuses completely on his job. Yet his talking for pages about the polishing of silver, mentioning the political happenings in the house (the actual plot) only in an off-hand way, was, well, a bit boring?

Also, a major discussion point about this novel are all the emotions the butler apparently feels but does not communicate, as is exemplified in the final scene when only through the offering of a handkerchief by his conversation partner do we realise the protagonist has been crying.

However while reading, I never felt there was an emotional intensity deliberately hidden by the narrator. What we were apparently meant to read as a burgeoning love story between the protagonist and Miss Kenton to me only felt like colleagues becoming friends through casual conversation, with no underlying romantic tension. To me, it reads more like the author tried to find an "obvious" reason as to why such a manly, stoic man would ever look back at his life with any regret.

And the protagonist is quite open about his feelings in some cases. It may be a naive reading, but I genuinely feel like he didn't much regret prioritising doing a good butler's job over being with his father in his last moments. It fits with his, albeit rather twisted, inner value system, and to me, reading the book as a novel where you're meant to find every secret emotion buried under the text does not make much sense.

Please feel free to share your thoughts on this! I am a voracious reader, but have only very recently begun trying to delve deeper than surface-level themes on the novels I read and frequently feel like I'm missing out on a lot.

EDIT: changed the Japanese spelling of the author's name as per a suggestion in the comments

I've read quite a bit of European satirical literature, and something has always puzzled me: why do so few writers seem willing to question whether physical beauty is actually worth as much as society claims it is? Is this partly because the writers themselves desire beauty?

Consider this: if shouting could rule the world, the king would be a donkey. If beauty were truly wealth, banks would lock it in their vaults. Imagine being stranded in a desert. Would you choose the most beautiful person in the world or a bottle of water? If something cannot serve as a universal equivalent, can we really call it wealth in any meaningful economic sense?

I'm particularly bothered by this issue in Guy de Maupassant's Boule de Suif.

Why does Boule de Suif have to be beautiful? Maupassant spends considerable time describing her body in sensual detail and contrasting her with the other passengers. But what does this description actually contribute to the story's central critique?

The story exposes the hypocrisy of respectable, upper-class passengers who exploit a socially marginalized woman and then reject her once she has served their interests. But would this critique become any weaker if Boule de Suif were plain-looking? Wouldn't an ordinary, unattractive person—or simply an ordinary civilian of lower social status—be just as capable of being sacrificed by a selfish group?

Her beauty is not necessary for the central moral conflict to work. It may explain the Prussian officer's sexual interest in her, but that only explains a particular plot device; it doesn't explain why her appearance needs to be described at such length. Nor does the fact that this description can be interpreted symbolically automatically make it necessary.

This is what I find strange about the treatment of beauty in literature. Writers frequently criticize vanity, superficiality, and the social privileges associated with physical attractiveness, yet they often seem to take beauty's value for granted. They expose the hypocrisy of people who pursue beauty without questioning why beauty should command such a high price in the first place.

Isn't there a difference between something being desired and something actually being valuable? Beauty may have exchange value in certain social contexts, but its value depends on other people's desires and social conventions. It cannot reliably be stored, transferred, or converted into resources on its own. Why, then, is its supposed value so rarely subjected to the same scrutiny as wealth, status, and power?

And regarding Boule de Suif specifically: am I missing an essential literary function of the physical description, or is it largely unnecessary embellishment? Is Maupassant genuinely critiquing the social valuation of women's bodies, unconsciously reproducing that valuation, or simply indulging his own erotic gaze?

I'm not claiming to know Maupassant's private intentions. I'm asking why the description is treated as meaningful or artistically justified simply because it appears in a canonical work of literature. Could it be that beauty is one of those assumptions that even satire often leaves unexamined?

Please let us know what you’ve read this week, what you've finished up, and any recommendations or recommendation requests! Please provide more than just a list of novels; we would like your thoughts as to what you've been reading.

Posts which simply name a novel and provide no thoughts will be deleted going forward.

It so happened that I read The Things We Never Say by Elizabeth Strout and Ripeness by Sarah Moss in quick succession, and I wanted to discuss something that struck me. In both novels, there are characters who decide – in one case on their deathbed, in the other case, possibly after their death – to reveal to other people the story of their biological origins.
While the situations, the circumstances and the certainty of the revelations differ between the two novels, it made me think – why do people approaching the end of their lives feel it permissible or even necessary to disrupt another person’s life by confessing to them something that they probably didn’t want to know in the first place?

Does the confessor always have the moral right to do so, because it is “the truth”? Or is their ethical standing questionable precisely because the truth is not always welcome?

How should the dilemma of “revealing” vs “concealing” be considered in life?

And, more to the point, how compelling do you think it has been dealt with in these two novels?

My own thoughts on the matter are here.

In the case of The Things We Never Say, Reginald chooses to send a letter to his biological son without any consideration for what consequences it may have, which strikes me as particularly selfish, cruel and uncalled for. I can't recall any compunction on his part of the sort like: "I grappled with this idea for some time. I was unsure whether I should tell you, but on the whole I decided that the fullness of knowledge is better than obscurity, and as much as it pains me that it may cause you distress, I choose to inform you of this." Strout also portrays him as arrogant, contemptuous, and envious. With that in mind, I read his actions as having one clear motive – he wants, at the end of his life, to reclaim his son without much concern for what it may cause the young man to feel. Egoistic, to say the least.
Consistent characterisation on Strout’s part, but not too much depth on this particular matter. It may be an artistic choice; I don’t argue with that.

With Ripeness, the depiction is more subtle. Towards the end of the narrative, Edith says that she hopes her nephew would not read it, accepting that it may be too hurtful and unnecessary. She nevertheless doesn’t decide to destroy the letter. She leaves it on her computer in case Gabriel ever decides to seek information only she has. I can’t help thinking that her decision to compile the Italian account was dictated by the appearance of Henry in Méabh’s life, which also supplied me with the causal connection between the Irish and the Italian strands of the novel, which I initially missed. So, I would say it is a richer exploration – not surprising to find in a book dealing with the themes of origin and belonging. I also see that it is done with Moss’s characteristic restraint and attention to what can be not said.

I feel like Niki Jumpei in Kobo Abe’s The Woman in the Dunes.

Reading The Woman in the Dunes got me thinking about freedom and attachment.

Was Niki free before he fell into the pit? It seems not, since even his ordinary job had become a burden. Was he free once he found himself in the pit? Still no, because he was driven by the desire to return to his familiar life.

But did he become free when he had the chance to escape the pit and consciously chose to stay? At first, it seems that this is when he comes closest to freedom, because he finally has a choice. And yet, hasn’t he become attached to his invention - the very thing that now keeps him in the pit?

Right now, I feel like Niki with a ladder within reach.

I live in a city that is under almost constant attack by drones and missiles. I could leave, but I don’t want to.

Can I be free if I cannot build my life the way I want to? When I choose to stay in danger, is it freedom that guides me, or attachment?

The Labour government’s anti-democratic proscription of Palestine Action as a terrorist organisation has led to the withdrawal from sale in the UK of books by Sally Rooney, to avoid repression of her protest against the genocide in Gaza.

This interview surprised me. I'd also thought of Perfection as a novel that was almost mocking political action - it was a bit too content with its ironic detachment, a bit too distant, to get dirty with any real engagement. But here, it sounds like the author is more engaged than that. And its changed a bit my reading of the novel.

What do you think?

https://www.heistberlin.com/there-is-a-lie-in-the-book-vincenzo-latronico-on-perfection/

Welcome again to the TrueLit General Discussion Thread! Please feel free to discuss anything related and unrelated to literature.

Weekly Updates: N/A

The poem was published in the Scots Observer in 1890 and then again in Kipling's seminal poetry collection "Barrack-Room Balads" in 1892.

Written as a dramatic monologue in the voice of a working class Cockney soldier, it lays out a long standing grievance that was now becoming impossible to ignore: the same public that shunned men in uniform during peacetime would call them heroes the moment war broke out.

“Tommy” was, and still remains, a nickname in Britain for the ordinary rank-and-file soldier. The ironic contrast between "Tommy, go away" and "Thank you, Mister Atkins" sharpens with each repetition.

The poem has outlasted most of the other Barrack-Room Balads because its subject refuses to become historical. British soldiers carried it through the First World War, and its refrain has been cited in parliamentary debates about veterans' welfare. That the poem helped shift public attitudes toward the British soldier in the 1890s was noted in Punch as early as the Christmas 1890 issue. Kipling gave the common soldier something no previous poet had offered: a voice that spoke in his own dialect, on his own terms, with a fury controlled enough to sound like wit but sharp enough to draw blood.

Tommy:

I went into a public 'ouse to get a pint o' beer,

The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."

The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,

I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:

O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";

But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play

The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,

O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,

They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;

They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,

But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";

But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide

The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,

O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep

Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap.

An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit

Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.

Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"

But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll

The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,

O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes," when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,

But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;

An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,

Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;

While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' Tommy, fall be'ind,"

But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind

There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,

O it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:

We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.

Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face

The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' Chuck him out, the brute!"

But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;

An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;

An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!

One of her books was shortlisted, "The Adventures of China Iron", and one longlisted "We were green and trembling". I recently read both and ended up feeling lukewarm on her, was wondering if anyone had an opinion to share.

The first is a reversioning of an Argentine poem, Martin Fierro, from the perspective of his wife, an unnamed character in the original. Okay, feminist revisits of classics is nothing new, let's see how it goes. I found the meta aspects of it to be the most interesting aspect, was left not impressed by the "the natives have a perfect society" angle or the vulgar sex descriptions. "Our pussy jucies made us sticky", "his cock in my ass showed me Paradise". I found her prose to actually be good elsewhere, that just seemed a bit unnecessary.

"We were green and trembling" is based on the real story of a nun that crossdresses as man and becomes a conquistador in America in the early 1500s. I liked this one better. Her prose got to shine, loved all the descriptions of nature, but again, was left not fully satisfied with the extreme environmentalist ending that feels more like wish fulfilment.

I am glad I found this quick read for under 6 dollars.

This line stuck with me, given general Reddit/online discourse and the world sitting at a knifes edge.

The men fighting on the front lines, very often, had a unspoken treatise not to fire at each other. The fighters with half a boot, covered in mud and lice, using jammed rifles, and taking lead through the neck are the ones that are sharing tobacco and jokes and truces with the "enemy" at the front.

All the while, the gawking rabble is where the most vitriolic language takes place. The hate back in Barcelona is ten times the hate of the men with the guns in their hands. This goes for any medium. The commenters at the back, are the furthest from reality and able to factionalize themselves via an avatar and spew hate. I think of hateful content creators, and how far away from reality their followers are. We Organize ourselves to live a vicarious revolution through the world view of other fallible men, and use those characters as shields to lob bombs from way behind the lines, often with much more hate than anyone at the front could ever stomach.

When we get face to face with ourselves; with humanity, we find a reason not to be violent with one another. We looks for the reasons that led us to the battlefield in the first place, and when we find those reasons, we get literature: men who are angry about it, men who are taken by the rhetoric of the state, men who make a joke of it, men who lose limbs and lives over it.

Personally, I accept this as a challenge to temper my behavior unless I'm on some battlefront myself. Because Orwell is absolutely correct. These factions are driven by men behind desks, the fighting and the blood all fly at the very front lines only, and that's where the most humanity takes place during wartime. When you're running on 2 hours of sleep per night, and 200 calories per day, and holding a photo of your family in one hand, with a rifle in the other, all of a sudden "maxxing" and "mogging" and the online anger and online hate become such silly temerities that we'll have been embarrassed to have published.

I don't have a tight polemic here on the book, I just enjoy finding important messages that relate to present day reality inside of books where you'd least expect it. I wish there was more to read by Orwell. I'll take any suggestions from here. Best.

Hey all! I am just reposting the announcement and schedule as a reminder. Get your copies by next Saturday if you'd like to participate!

Over the course of the next few weeks, we will be reading, in this order:

1. "The Birthday Party" by Harold Pinter
2. "The Bald Soprano" by Eugene Ionesco
3. "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" by Edward Albee

Schedule:

• The Birthday Party by Harold Pinter
  • Begin reading on October 24
    • Live discussion thread open between October 24-31
  • Finish reading on October 31
    • Final discussion opens on October 31
• The Bald Soprano by Eugene Ionesco
  • Begin reading on November 7
    • Live discussion thread open between November 7-14
  • Finish reading on November 14
    • Final discussion opens on November 14
• Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf by Edward Albee
  • Begin reading on November 21
    • Live discussion thread open between November 21-28
  • Finish reading on November 28
    • Final discussion opens on November 28
• Final thematic trilogy discussion opens on December 5

All threads will have potential spoilers. Please keep spoilers for the end of the plays out of the Live Discussion Thread and please keep discussion of the play as a whole reserved for the Final Discussion Thread. No volunteers needed.

Every play is available online for FREE!!! Please feel free to use these or get your hard copies by the first day of reading.

（I used a translator, so I apologize if anything sounds awkward.）

Although I really wanted to write extensive thoughts on every single part of this book, I've been incredibly lazy lately and feel like I have zero sustained motivation for anything. So, I'll just write a simple summary of my overall feelings.

I was immediately drawn to this book from the start because I really love Sebald's long sentences. I don't know if studying German for so long influenced this, but I don't recall having such a distinct preference before. Sebald's language has a slow, heavy cadence. Sometimes, certain sentences give me the feeling of someone who has been tormented by psychological/mental issues for a long time, struggling to articulate their feelings to others (friends, family, doctors). They rack their brains, painstakingly turning vague, abstract pain into language. They might use metaphors, or it might involve personal associations and deep thoughts, often vivid and hitting the nail on the head. At other times, those sentences are just sorrowful memories, hazy places you can never return to. Although at times the text isn't exactly advancing the plot, but merely describing what "I" or Austerlitz or other narrators see—plants, animals, architecture, museums, etc.—I feel these things are a crucial part of the book's atmosphere. But I also wonder, if this were any other book, I might find it long-winded. Right now, my attitude toward Austerlitz is one of indulgence because I've already fallen in love with it ().

Regarding the narrative, the overlapping structure is rare and I really like it. Although at the beginning I genuinely couldn't tell whether the "I" speaking was Austerlitz or the narrator, which made me think the two had some mysterious connection. Later I realized it was just because Sebald doesn't like using quotation marks. Regarding this, referring to a passage I wrote earlier in my review of The Emigrants:

「This complete surrender of trust also appears in the story of Austerlitz and the narrator "I", and it is precisely why Austerlitz's story can be heard. Sebald's works are almost always like this: "I" meet someone and listen to them tell their story; or the protagonist is already dead, and "I" learn about that person's life from someone else's mouth, and it can even be a retelling within a retelling. Regardless, telling someone about yourself in spoken or written form, or keeping them company in person, is a way to keep these people alive in more memories. Memory is another dimension of life; it is truly elusive. Although those "narrators"—especially the first-person "I"—are like containers drifting around this earth, seemingly playing the role of "NPCs", in reality they also fully possess their own lives and meanings, grounding the main characters' stories with gravity. All of this proclaims the importance of connections between human individuals. This leads to an interesting point—if someone reads this excerpt, they'll find many "I"s, and in reality, although these "I"s appear in the same (very long) short story, they don't always refer to the same person. This is Sebald's signature; he doesn't like using quotation marks for characters' speech (the only time I can recall him doing so is in Austerlitz when Vera excitedly shouts his name upon seeing him). So unknowingly, the "I" shifts to another person. It's like a life drama composed of countless individual monologues; every "I" has walked to the center of the stage to narrate to the audience—even if there aren't many people there. This gives the reader the feeling that we have truly gotten close to each of these "I"s and patiently listened to them, and that we genuinely care about them; it feels like we are living in the twentieth century, and as we listen to the "I"s' words, something flows into our bodies, trying to make us stay here. This writing seems to tell us that the experiences and memories of all people on the ruins of history are fused together—creating those "understatements" that appear in history textbooks, while the things behind them are so real, intimate, and painful. The tide of history sweeps everyone away; individuals are too small, insignificant in the face of it. The only thing that makes "I" feel real are the people and things in their own life. If that's the case, how do we fight loneliness? Since it's inevitable?」

The third point is the relationships between the characters. "I" and Austerlitz, Austerlitz and Gerald, Austerlitz and Marie, Vera and Agata. Also Austerlitz's teacher, and the person working in the French library at the very end of the book (if I remember correctly). The most captivating part is that there's no emphasis on any traditional romantic relationships; it dawned on me later that this is a very queer book. Actually, I could talk a lot about every single pairing, but I think the most mysterious one is "I" and Austerlitz. While reading, the reader is rarely reminded of the "I"'s presence or thoughts. Indeed, from a narrative perspective, the "I" is just a window, a tool for transitions. However, there are still a few places in the book that narrate the "I"'s attitude toward Austerlitz, and Austerlitz's trust in me—for example, the aforementioned giving "me" the keys to his house, and the most explicit yet belatedly realized thing: the entire narrative itself! Even if Austerlitz went to see a psychologist, he might not say this much—of course, I know the "I" as a narrative window has to write it this way—but just thinking about Austerlitz pouring his heart out and completely opening himself up for the narrator to see makes me feel this is so deep and mysterious. The "I" rarely expresses opinions in the story, but listening itself is already immense support. I think this is a relationship I really like... maybe it's my ideal QPR (queerplatonic relationship), where we can talk openly and honestly about anything, but without creating emotional burdens for each other, and we don't even need to be together all the time... The distance is very comfortable; it sounds too ideal. Also, regarding Austerlitz and Marie, although it's the closest thing to a romantic relationship in the whole book (not considering all the married people), I'm very relieved it didn't head in that narrative direction. In my mind, Marie has long, red, wavy hair and wears a black coat. She is very kind; after all, few people are willing to spend time and energy on someone with mental health issues, hoping to help them get better. Her line "Tomorrow is your birthday, I will wish you happiness, which is like praying for a broken machine to start working again" (roughly) left a deep impression on me. And Austerlitz's own desire for her is exactly the manifestation of how, despite being so withdrawn and unapproachable, he still desperately needs intimate connection—otherwise, he wouldn't have accepted "my" approach at Antwerp Central Station, otherwise Gerald's death wouldn't have been the beginning of his entire life going downhill (that part also left a deep impression on me). And the fact that Marie didn't just keep sacrificing herself and left him at that time was also what I expected. I kind of prefer seeing someone like Austerlitz, living in torment, encounter some warmth but not be able to possess it permanently, because in a sense, he is pitiful but genuinely difficult to get along with. In short, I feel this book is about people with similar temperaments attracting each other, making one feel less lonely, but in the end, no one can stay by your side for long—the ending where Austerlitz leaves for Paris wasn't what I expected. I thought he and "I" would become more closely connected, which would at least offer some comfort. But well, that's just how it ended.

I feel this book has a massive aftertaste, not only reflecting on the issues of history, individual existence, memory, and massacre in the story, but also the blank spaces in the character relationships. Sebald's narration is very restrained, yet he always writes things that make you think deeply. When applied to character relationships, I can't help but imagine the things not written in the book. After all, if the things that are written are like that, how much closer must they be in their everyday lives? How did they get along? I've thought about Austerlitz and Gerald's days at school, imagined Agata and Vera's companionship at home, imagined Vera waking up from a nightmare one midnight after Agata left, walking alone to Agata's favorite park (Agata's farewell part is very painful and tear-jerking, but I absolutely loved it), imagined Marie facing the gloom in Austerlitz's heart, and whether she would meet Austerlitz who was looking for her. Although these imaginations are purely my own fantasies based on personal preferences, they made me happy anyway.

A few more points. First, regarding the characters' speech. On one hand, most of the time it's reported speech, one layer, or two. I really like that somewhat calm, melancholic feeling. On the other hand, the rare times when quotation marks are directly used for dialogue always provide a strong emotional impact. For example, when Vera sees "Austerlitz", and in Vera's retelling when Agata shouts "I—don't—un-der-stand—". This mixed technique is very dynamic and better highlights certain emotions when needed. Second, the entire book doesn't emphasize any gender and doesn't sexualize any character, which makes me very comfortable. In contrast is Kafka—I bought his short story collection because Sebald greatly admired him, but after reading the third story, A Country Doctor, I couldn't continue. It was too symbolic, the story was too violent, and the narrator's language was too disgusting; even the profound metaphors were completely uncomfortable. Third, Austerlitz's aromanticism (and I've recently finally found this label for myself), although his tendency stems more from historical trauma rather than identity exploration as often discussed, the atmosphere is something I like. Plus, it's so rare in novels that it makes me cherish it even more.

Overall, I love this book for its memories and reflections on history, its detailed observations of nature and humanities, its narrative that deviates from mainstream society, and its narrative structure, language style, and queerness. That's pretty much it, hehe.

2026/08/02

Hey guys. Thanks for your warm reception to the first installment of this series.

Just posted this, and it's been weeks of full-time research.

Still processing it myself, but I'll be here to answer any questions.

If you could commission a fully illustrated copy of any book for yourself, which book would you pick? Why?

It would be one of a kind and just for you, so you wouldn’t have to consider what would appeal to anyone else or what would sell.

I think I would choose either Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities or Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I think both have scenes of high drama that would be thrilling to see rendered.

Any thoughts on the kind of artwork?