"I felt increasingly that the mental impoverishment and lack of memory that marked the Germans, and the efficiency with which they had cleaned everything up, were beginning to affect my head and my nerves."

Terrific, moody writing, the kind that guts you and wrenches out your insides without you noticing. The ghost of a butterfly man haunts each tale, or boy with butterfly net, or Nabokov.

I stumbled onto this book by way of reading something online about a memoir Sigrid Nunez just published about Susan Sontag; The Emigrants had been recommended by Sontag to the Nunez as one of her favorites.

****
Translated by Michael Hulse

Eliza is an orphan left at the house of an English woman and her brother in Valparaiso, Chile, taken in and cared for by Miss Rose and Mama Fresia, the Indian cook. The sweater the orphan is wrapped in was knit by Miss Rose for her brother John, the sea captain, as we find out deep in the story. Rose is full of secrets, churning out romance novels that John then sells abroad, having lost her respectability to an Austrian tenor thus swept out of England and into the wilds of Chile in the 1830s. Eliza grows up, falls in love, finds out she is pregnant six weeks after her lover has left for the gold fields of California. She meets Tao Chi'en, the Chinese cook, who stows her aboard a ship bound for California, eventually finding out she was pregnant when she miscarries in the hold. Tao is also a doctor, nurses her back to health, she assumes the identity of a Chinese boy when she arrives in San Francisco thus eluding the curious stares from women-starved men. Once she gets her strength back, she becomes a Chilean man on the hunt for her "brother" (e.g. her lover). Her search is futile, and it turns out she and Tao are much better suited for each other.

Lots of strong female characters who shun marriage in this.

Premise is that barter only existed for people trading with others they didn't know well, but that credit among societies was in existence forever. Cash was invented later, with states creating markets.

Winston Smith works at the Ministry of Truth, where his job is to rewrite old files to match the current state of affairs. If a person disappears, it's his job to eradicate that unperson from the history of Oceania. He suspects he is the only sane person, his mind not conditioned to doublethink. He hooks up with Julia, a rebellious sort whose primary interest is in following the big rules in order to cut corners on other rules and enjoy sexual freedom. Winston is the brains of the piece, battling back with O'Brien as he attempts to recondition Winston's mind. Room 101 is where the worst thing that you as an individual could endure takes place; in Winston's case, this is a cage of rats, which he betrays Julia for, demanding that they be set upon her instead.

I read this, as most people did, before I was eighteen. To require this as reading in school is an injustice, because then one can say "Oh, I've read that book," but not really. You must read this when your brain has completely formed, when you've had a few years under your belt out in the cold world of work, shuffling papers, to give it the full breadth of meaning.

Thanks to Murakami's 1Q84, which I initially picked up and then decided to postpone until I'd given 1984 a thorough re-read. Another trivia bit I picked up? George Orwell was a pseudonym for Eric Arthur Blair.

Katey Kontent and her roommate Eve go out on New Years Eve 1937 to ring in the new year at a Jazz club, quickly blowing their wallets on drinks and it not being 10pm yet. In breezes Tinker Grey, all monogrammed and well dressed, looking for his brother but ending up joining their party. The three of them become fast friends, then Eve gets thrown from the car in an accident where a milk truck hits them from behind, scarring her face for life and with permanent limp. Tinker insists she move in with him to recuperate, then they eventually become an item. When Eve moves out of the boarding house and into the wealthy stratosphere, Kate quits her legal secretary work and pursues a well known editor for a job. She ends up working on a new magazine at Conde Nast, long hours but adores the work. She lives alone in a crappy apartment she can barely afford, plays 4 hands of bridge by herself, drinks gin and wine and reads a lot. She dips in and out of the social circle, meeting various folks through Eve/Tinker or work. An ill-fated "romance" with Wallace, Dickie, countless others. Tinker proposes, Eve runs away, Tinker becomes a stevedore on the docks. Wallace dies in Spain. The overwhelming maudlin quality of the last half had me skimming for plot points.

Tragically disappointing, considering the rapture I began it with.

I'm a Michael Lewis fan, but there's no way I'm re-reading this collection of articles. Especially since he was the sole reason I got a subscription to Vanity Fair, which has been sucking.

Status Anxiety: Contents

Causes:
* Lovelessness
* Expectation
* Meritocracy
* Snobbery
* Dependence

Solutions:
* Philosophy
* Art
* Politics
* Religion
* Bohemia

My oversimplification of his work is that once meritocracy replaced aristocracy, we were no longer sheltered from the pain of being the losers at the bottom of the status ladder. It was up to us, and our fault alone, that we were not on top. Crushing weight of expectations. The ultimate cut is to not be acknowledged by the world, and the world ignores the mass of humanity that is not "great" (e.g. in monetary wealth currently, but previously in noble blood, or selfless gestures).

How do we pull the weight off ourselves, rise above? To be bathed in the clear cold mind of philosophy, to lose ourselves in art, to demand change in what matters via politics, to become religious, or to encourage Bohemian lifestyle of uplifting the mind über alles.

Nature didn't tell me: "Don't be poor." Nor indeed: "Be rich." But she does beg me: "Be independent." -- Chamfort, Maxims (1795)

autonomy, n. "I want my books to have their own shelves," you said, and that's how I knew it would be okay to live together.

belittle, v.
No, I don't listen to the weather in the morning. No, I don't keep track of what I spend. No, it hadn't occurred to me that the Q train would have been much faster. But every time you give me that look, it doesn't make me want to live up to your standards.

Breathtaking, adj.
Those mornings when we kiss and surrender for an hour before we say a single word.

exemplar, n.
You love my parents, I know. But you never get too close. You never truly believe there aren't bad secrets underneath.

quintessence, n.
It's the way you say thank you like you're genuinely thankful. I have never met anyone else who does that on a regular basis.

recant, v.
...I want to take back the time I said you were a genius, because I was being sarcastic and I should have just said you'd hurt my feelings.

suffuse, v.
I don't like it when you use my shampoo, because then your hair smells like me, not you.

taciturn, adj.
There are days you come home silent. You say words, but you're still silent. I used to bomard you with convesational crowbars, but now I simply let the apartment fall mute. I hear you in the room -- turning on music, typing on the keys, getting up for a drink, shifting in your chair. I try to have my conversation with those sounds.

I love any book that has a whole chapter on the amazingness of Moby Dick.

The Quotable Bits (I also love dog-earring a page only to find someone else has done the same thing):

The proper performance of the ritual is therefore motivated by, but also reinforces and strengthens, a deep commitment to the basic Homeric sense of the sacred: that it is the highest form of human excellence to recognize, be amazed by, and be grateful for whatever it is that draws you to act at your best.

Perhaps this is a lesson about the sacred that we are now in a position to appreciate: when things are going at their best, when we are the most excellent version of ourselves that we can be, when we are, for instance, working together with others as one, then our activity seems to be drawn out of us by an external force. These are shining moments in life, wondrous moments that require our gratitude. In those episodes of excellence, no matter the domain, Odysseus's voice should ring through our heads: "Be silent; curb your thoughts; do not ask questions. This is the work of the Olympians."

As the great Phaeacian King Alcinous says about Odysseus's sorrows, "The gods brought this about: for men they wove the web of suffering, that men to come might have a theme to sing."

That is ultimately why we must lower, or at least shift, our conceit of attainable felicity. For Ahab's determined monotheism covers up the very real and polytheistic joys that are already to be found right here on earth. If you recognized the kind of joy that is already around you, at least some of the time, then you will see that this is a mood that you have in the here and now. Not forever, and not always. But you can appreciate it when the opportunity presents itself.

The task of the craftsman is not to generate the meaning, but rather to cultivate in himself the skill for discerning the meanings that are already there.

The Essays: Montaigne
Montaigne likes to point out that philosophers don't know everything, and that they would be a lot wiser if they laughed at themselves a little more. He also writes in a personal and often very frank way designed to shock the prudish. "Kings and philosophers shit, and so do ladies," he says, "Even on the highest throne in the world, we are seated still upon our arses."

Letters from a Stoic: Seneca
Seneca belonged to the Stoic school of philosophy, which is all about teaching you how to respond calmly to disaster. We tend to imagine that cheering people up involves saying happy things. But Seneca says the saddest things and strangely enough, he is very consoling. "What need is there to weep over parts of life?" he asks, "The whole of it calls for tears."

Essays and Aphorisms: Schopenhauer
Arthur Schopenhauer is another great pessimist who makes you feel happier. He makes some brilliant analyses of why love affairs tend to go wrong (he's perfect to read after a break up). His general drift is that you'd be mad to expect happiness from a relationship.

Twilight of the Idols: Nietzsche
A much misunderstood philosopher, seen as barking mad, but actually very wise and sane. He tells us nice things about the need for struggle in life. No pain, no gain, or as he put it; "That which does not kill you makes you stronger."

Collected Works: Epicurus
Epicurus was the first philosopher to say that pleasure was the most important thing in life. People took him to mean sensual pleasure and the word "epicurean" has been linked to gluttony ever since. But read the real Epicurus and you'll see that his idea of pleasure was quite unmaterial; in fact, it was all about having a group of good friends and reading books together outdoors.

The Last Days of Socrates: Plato
Plato recounts the last days of his mentor and teacher Socrates, famously made to drink hemlock by the people of Athens. It's a tear-jerking account, as the funny and wise Socrates is put to death by his ignorant contemporaries. It's also a lesson in how to stand up for your beliefs and inspiration for anyone standing up against the will of the majority.

Skippable.

I fear this is the type of writer I would be, jettisoning convention to admire the turn of a phrase, a bow to each other, the Quadrille.

Some bits about shoemakers and the fantastic collection of handmade 9.5 size shoes. Mr. Uppal of Up all Puppet, the professor, PU. There's gravel, and golfcarts, and shrimp from Tiki Ty. There's Bandersea, where people take rests, most noticeably Kiki B. There's the Lamb, and Murphy, and Binelli handing out assignments. There's the great mystery of pillows. Deviled eggs coming gushing out of pockets along with picnic baskets and madelines.

Mercedes has married Fernand in his absence, who profited wildly during the war. Danglars became a very successful banker. Villefort becomes a prominent crown prosecutor. The count of Monte Cristo (e.g. Edmund Dantes, Sinbad the Sailor, Lord Wilmore, Abbé Busoni) sweeps into Paris and begins unraveling the success of their past decade. Delicious. I am doing a grave injustice in not further explaining, but you should read it, I promise.

***
Reco'd (as his favorite book) by L to the B

The narrator is a British writer, friends with Elliott Templeton, an American gentleman transposed onto Parisian society. The story revolves around Elliott, his niece Isabel, her engaged beau Larry, and her eventual husband Gray. Larry returns from WWI with the intent to "loaf" which disturbs Isabel to no end, the proper place of an American man in a job to work and keep her to circumstances she's used to. He determines to live in Paris for a few years, loafing, which equates to reading ten hours a day and attending lectures at the Sorbonne, learning Greek and Latin. At the end of the two years, Isabel arrives and demands to know if he is returning to the US, which of course he is not, since he's only just begun his journey for knowledge. Isabel marries Gray instead, has a lively and rich decade before the stock market crash wipes them out. They return to Paris, to live in uncle Elliott's apartment while Gray gets his legs back under him. Larry floats in and out of the picture.

Best parts were Larry's quest for knowledge, something I can relate to, the need to absorb and understand the world beyond its everyday. "The dead look quite dead when they're dead."

Hero Mark Spitz (nicknamed after a killing spree of Olympian proportions) is part of the post apocalyptic world, clearing lower Manhattan (zone one) of skels, the living dead who persist after the plague eats their brains (after they are bitten by zombies). His Omega team consists of himself, Kailyn, and Gary, trotting their sleeping bags across the city, clearing out bodies for Disposal, offing skels that loom in their way.

Part zombie flick, part commentary about current society, how we all yearn for our neighbors to drop dead and winnow the line at Whole Foods. Spitz is a survivor, and continues to survive after the wall falls and the undead sweep again into the city.

Read this within two weeks of its publication, a record for me. It also helps that I got a free copy as part of my winning tickets to hear him in conversation with Krasney at the Herbst Theater last week. Stood in line like a fool and got an autographed copy to boot. That makes 2 for me: Whitehead and Ken Kesey. Not a bad record.