Challenges
No surprise — the swamp rules. The travesty that is the omnibus bill is signed, sealed, delivered.
Headline from newsmax.com: “Rasmussen Poll: 75 Percent Prefer Capitalism; 11 Percent Socialism.” This shows that a lot of people don’t know they’re socialists.
I may not like every book I read, but rarely do I question why any were published. For the first time that is the case. Austerlitz by W.G. Sebald, who was born in Germany, piqued my interest because one of the blurbs on the back of the jacket of the hardcover edition begins with: “Is literary greatness still possible?” I gave it a shot even though I’m out of practice with such works. I thought I was reading non-fiction. I spotted nothing to indicate it is a novel, but a couple of sources identify it as such. Whatever. It’s the account of the title character as told to the narrator. The actual story doesn’t begin until page 44. Before that there are descriptions of things that fascinate the protagonist, chiefly architecture. Then a radio broadcast triggers his memory some time circa 1980 and leads to a search of his origins. At the age of four-and-a-half, his mom had sent him solo from Prague to escape the Nazis. His dad had fled to Paris a year or so earlier. He was eventually taken in by a Welsh minister and his unhappy wife. She died when he was twelve, and his stepdad was soon institutionalized. He was sent to a boarding school, where he did well despite the fact that he had been deeply, negatively affected by his experiences. As an adult, he lives in virtual isolation outside of work. Given all this, the narrative should have been so much more interesting. It never remotely reaches its promise, rises above ordinary. The most interesting aspects are few and far between, and the details into moths, the layout of a new library and such harken back to the first quarter of the book. Granted, the attention to such may reflect the psychological struggle of the man, but it is simply not illuminating. Perhaps I lack the intellectual insight to appreciate it. Another aspect that gives the work the feel of non-fiction is that so little is resolved. To me, that makes it seem pointless, which, I suppose, may be the point. There are times when existence does seem pointless to me, more frequently with age. Of course, that doesn’t mean life isn’t worth living. It is endlessly fascinating. The most impressive aspect of the book is the translation by Anthea Bell, clear in a language most would understand. Trouble is, it is the least commercial material I’ve ever read. Oddly, there is a stamp on the edition in my possession that reads: “Property of Leon M. Goldstein High School Library.” I doubt one-in-a-million high schoolers would read more than a few pages of Austerlitz. I’m surprised I stayed with it until the end. Maybe I was forcing myself to rise to the challenge or hoping for insight into existential angst. Not only do certain passages go on for pages, at least one sentence goes on for three. Even so, its 298 count reads like less given the many black and white photographs, many of dubious quality. To provide balance, here’s the rating of Amazon customers, 220 forging to a consensus of four on a scale of five. Published in 2001, it is still selling reasonably well, its ranking 52,000+, way better than any of my books. Sebald wrote ten others, including volumes of poetry and one of essays. He passed away of a aneurism at 57 in 2001.
Meanwhile, a Massachusetts school has banned Homer’s The Odyssey.
I followed up on the check up I had about ten days ago. All is well. I was hoping I had the corona antibodies, but one can’t have everything. Most surprising was my cholesterol count, 210. Given how crappy my diet has been since the pandemic started, I would not have been surprised if it had been 300. Now maybe I can enjoy an egg salad sandwich without guilt.
I don’t know why, but today’s sparse sales at the floating book shop made me angry. Fortunately, I didn’t take it out on anyone. My thanks to the gentleman and lady who combined to buy three books in Russian, and to the man who did a swap of said, and to the one who donated one.
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