This is maybe again one of those books that is better when you treat it as non-obvious. Being decently familiar with Popper and most of the concepts presented, I found myself often better off having read a few short pages of it here or there only, and the summary at the end of the chapters. With most of the content I agree; The faustian strife for knowledge must continue. We stand, as we always do, at the beginning of infinity and must not squander it. A few things I'd disagree with, notably the chapter on beauty and aesthetics. Art does not "improve". It is created by the sublime genius of a few chosen people, whose creation in turn requires very specific environments which may be so individual we cannot guess them. Nonetheless, we are to find that path which shall take us to the stars, and we will do so with the same methods that have gotten us this farpath which shall take us to the stars, and we will do so with the same methods that have gotten us this far.
I'd first heard of Kerouac and the Beatniks at large during my first visit to San Francisco, now an odd while ago. They seemed a captivating group, roaming through a world that does not exist anymore, whose freedoms I cannot concieve of, which I can only imagine to desire. This freedom of aimlessness, of being directionless but thus everywhere emerges in a place where there's no pressure to adapt. It comes from the abundance of unshackled youth everywhere. Now we suffer from the strangle melancholy of being young in an old age. There is no Mañana that will always hold possibilities, actions must be taken today, and now.
A life like Kerouac's here is of course only a weaker substitute for one of actual strife or pursuit of something larger, of actual dreams. But, robbed of that pursuit or simply unwilling to take the necessary steps, this hedonism is at least refreshingly "honest". On a personal level I know I could not live it. The carefreeness and total lack of knowing what tomorrow will bring are anathema to me. I enjoy my sense of order, of conceptualizing a goal and then working towards it. I suppose the biggest issue is then finding a problem worth tackling; not something in a 3-6mo horizon, but something spanning a lifetime. If that is done, most else will follow.
Stoner is, in Williams' own words, a novel about work. But what "work" does this man really do. Yes, he escapes millenia of subsistence agriculture, but then is what he replaces it with truly any better? Ultimately he wastes life, and for the only reason that he is utterly passive; believes his locus of control to extend no further than his mind, not even to his own body. Now, of course, there are moments where he is "happy" – With his affair, or when deeply engrossed in his work, but those feelings here are to their true manifestation what onanism is to sex. He uses his work as a refuge, and due to petty workplace resenments that never goes further. His one love he casts away for trivial matters. His daughter he loses to life due to his inability to stand up to his own wife. The book is, of course, as a study of mediocrity, quite good. In the words of Joyce Carol Oates:
"The story of Job is encouraging to some, it suggests that others have it worse than you, so rejoice."
You must, if you desire to feel anything at all in this world, be imbued with at least a bit of sensitivity. Too much floods you at any moment today, but if you can poke through that and see some genuine beauty here or there, do so. But, do not get lost in it. Do not lose yourself in limerence. And then, do not take the easy way out.
Some of the most vivid german I've ever read. Absolutely superb. Cannot recommend enough
I'm particularly fond of the narration here. Severian the torturer recounts the story of how he rises to be autarch, but unreliably and faultily. Details get omitted, things must be inferred. The world is described without exposition, leading you to decipher what is what as you go along. Is a horse really a horse, or just some being that vaguely looks like one. The writing is exquisite, full of imagery, calling on you to know what he speaks of. Innumerable quoteable passages, one truly thinks oneself immersed in Wolfes mind. Also, having now talked to others about the book, full of rich christian allegory, wonderful
I must admit, I'm writing this review after marinating on my thoughts for a good two months. This wasn't wholly intended, normally I try to get through with this a little sooner. This book is, above all other things, interesting. It doesn't have anything particularly new in it, of course. A thorough reading of Nietzsche and Plato as well as a glance at Schopenhauer should deliver you most of the content here, but there's a modernity to the way this is written. The horribly mangled prose, the vulgarity and the strange ramblings give it a certain charme. It's one of those books that recounting the anecdotes of is a surefire way to strike conversation, provided you don't mention where it's from. Politically and ideologically it's reprehensible and trivially falsifiable, leaving a similar foul taste in ones mouth as slogging through Marx or Evola. But there is an ennui with modernity that's presented, which would in my opinon draw rather bipartisan support. It's the occasional gem that makes this digestible, not dissimillar to my sentiment on White Noise.