A Year With my Nose in Books

It has been one of those years that feels long in retrospect, but I am also wondering exactly how I got to December. It’s still fairly early in the month, and I’ll likely finish the books I am reading at present, and start another one or two before the year is out, but I’m comfortable enough with reviewing my year with my nose in books. But first a few words about other stuff; and if you only care about the books, skip to section III

I- Studenting

I’m continuing my adventures in academia pursuing an undergraduate philosophy degree. This leaves me with little time to write “for fun” or “for this blog”. This semester was kind of a drag, as it was mostly mandatory/required things– German, which I took in High School some, and Math, which nearly caused me to fail High School. They’re both fine, but I have to actually work at them. Math in particular is not something that comes naturally to me, and while I am certain that there would be a number of people who would have a big old chuckle at my struggles, it takes me a while, for whatever reason, to grasp some of the concepts or learn the rules. I’m still not sure what the rules are for multiplying with negative numbers, for example. But I did ok in the class, and I think I’ll be an A student this semester. Next semester will be, unfortunately, more of the same; with German II and Math II awaiting, along with a “history of Modern Philosophy” class– these history classes are generally fine, and it’s nice to have a grounding, but they’re not why I am “doing philosophy” in my ancient-dom. 

II- Living

I moved, for the most part, out of the city and to a small acreage. I appreciate the quiet, and the quality of sleep I get here is excellent. I also bought a couple of beehives, and have been keeping bees. It is apparently a thing people my age do. It’s a fun thing, for the most part. I also now have things like “a lawn to mow” and the like, which is new to me; the previous places I have lived have had small lawns, and I mostly dealt with them with a combination of natural landscaping and gravel.

I haven’t done too much writing external to school, but I had started a journal last year, and have mostly kept up with it. It’s a nice practice, and a way to vent on occasion that won’t bore the piss out of friends, and it’s a good tool to deal with petty distractions. As a result, I’d imagine it would be a horrible bore to read, and, indeed, I haven’t read a single page. There might be room to keep a second one where I keep more organized, focused material, but I started that a few times, and I spent a month writing little aphorisms, but it hasn’t stuck. I also have been experimenting with “journaling RPGs” which are really just kind of random writing prompts with random elements. It’s thus far been an interesting exercise, but I wonder if it might be better to actually focus and write for its own sake. 

III- Reading

So this year, I read quite a lot more nonfiction than I normally do. Partly this is because of school, and partly this is because school has me going down odd rabbit holes. I took a course on the Philosophy of Wittgenstein, for example, and that had me reading some of his work, and as a consequence of reading and learning about Wittgenstein I read a biography of Wittgenstein, a two-volume biography of Bertrand Russell, and a skull-crackingly thick biography of the composer Corneilus Cardew. I also read some Byung Hul-Chen, who is the philosopher of our time who everyone who knows that there are contemporary philosophers knows about. There’s nothing to highlight here, aside from my own manias for rabbit holes, though I did really enjoy reading a book called “Recollections of Wittgenstein”, which was a collection of anecdotes about Wittgenstein from people who knew him. It was a fascinating insight into someone who kind of just gets labeled a genius repeatedly, and reading about him “in the world” illuminated some aspects of him that even Ray Monk’s excellent biography did not. 

Favorites:

George Eliot – “Middlemarch”. I’ll admit I was 0 for 4 in getting into Middlemarch, but once I did, I was seriously invested. Eliot creates what feels like a very real place, and a place you can get lost in. It’s kind of an odd novel, in that it has a bunch of plots that intertwine, and they all end up in satisfying places by the end, but you can also easily image it just kind of continuing on. It’s a slice of life in the best possible way, and if you just allow it to pull you along, there’s a lot of rewarding elements to it. One of those books you’re kind of sad to see end.

Jon Fosse – “Morning and Evening”. Fosse is a writer who I continue to adore; he reminds me a fair bit of Woolfe. This is a short book, dealing with two days in the life of a fisherman. This book made me cry at the end, a feat that very few books have managed to do.

William Gaddis – “Carpenter’s Gothic”. I read this one on a whim, after making a joke about “The Recognitions”. It’s a lot shorter, and a lot easier to get into than that book, and it’s also kind of unpleasant. Gaddis captures a disintegrating marriage very well, and the kind of unpleasant tension that constantly exists in that environment. It’s also fairly arch in spots. It might be the Gaddis I recommend to people who want to read Gaddis without going insane. I was also surprised at how contemporary it felt, despite being 40 years old at this point. Throw in some cellphones and a couple of internet references, and it would be fine. 

Ugh:

“In the Jingle Jangle Jungle” – Joel Gion. Gion is the tambourine player for The Brian Jonestown massacre, which is a fascinating way to make a living. I have a friend who is a huge fan of BJM, and there’s a sense of time and place in here that– if you were around for it– is interesting. But this book needed a serious editorial pass. Nearly every fucking chapter begins with Gion waking up somewhere. Oddly, the book is very light on information about Anton Newcombe, the only truly constant member of the BJM, and a legendarily mercurial figure. I understand the book isn’t “about” him, but I never understood why Gion was/is friends with him. 

“Monolithic Undertow” – Harry Sword. A book about drone music. This really should have been entirely up my alley. I have, on more than one occasion, travelled hundreds of miles to see Sunn O))) in concert. I’d say that alone would make me the target audience for this. But the writing let me down- Sword thinks that almost any avant-metal band is somehow part of the drone tradition, and he uses the words “dronal” and “parping” (the latter of which I thought was an onomatopoeiaic fart) way too often.

IV – Regrets and ideas

I read two books this year that I didn’t know were books– like “The Warriors” I had assumed “The Beguiled” and “Neighbors” were just films; the first one originally an Eastwood vehicle from his very early days, later remade by Sophia Coppla, and the latter a very odd Belushi/Ackroyd vehicle. They were both fascinating reads in their own right, and I had wanted to do a “book vs film” on them. They both made some decisions in adaptation that would be neat to write about. Neighbors, in particular, was a singularly odd book that I was surprised someone read and thought “yeah, we should turn this into a movie”, and watching the movie after reading the book was a strange experience. The movie is a failure, but in light of the adaptation it became a more interesting failure. 

I tried to read Hobbes’ “Leviathan” as it’s a classic of philosophy, and I don’t think I will ever finish it unless it’s a requirement. The interesting stuff is at the front, and then it becomes akin to reading a dictionary. I understand why it exists, and I might be persuaded to read it with better context, but nope. 

I only got one of the Malazan Book of the Fallen series under my belt. They are such a big time commitment, and while I find the series fascinating, and a good time, it’s hard to spend 1000+ pages at a time there, especially when you’re a little more pressed for time. It ends up being the only fun read I can engage in, and that’s not really the way I prefer to read. 

I’m two books away from finishing Ian Fleming’s Bond books. They’re interesting. If someone asks if they are good or bad, I say “yes”. You can see when and where Fleming grew tired of his hero, and some of these books are notable for how little a role Bond plays in them. I sort of wish Fleming had spent a little more time on them than he did; but he never had to. 

That seems like a good enough place to stop things for now. I’ll keep the fire lit.