5/116 - The Death of Ivan Ilych and Master and Man by Leo Tolstoy

After coming off the Anna Karenina high, I decided to tackle these two short stories, and I went in with a sort of, "Huh! A mere hundred pages to a reading master like myself? Nothing."

And they were easy reads, I will say. There were no moments of bewilderment or boredom, so my high opinion of my reading comprehension ability has yet to diminish by one iota. Which is probably not a good thing, but oh well. 

These stories were great.  I liked The Death of Ivan Ilych more than Master and Man, but obviously they were both excellent.  I felt like the psychological side of things was more developed in Ivan Ilych. 

I have to admit, I didn't like the translations of these stories as much as the translation of Anna Karenina. Not knowing one word of Russian, I obviously can't claim anything from an academic point of view, or make any statements based on anything but my gut. And my gut did not like how words such as, "honey," "kid," and, "mummy" showed up in these stories, and also pointed out to me that the same words in Russian probably showed up in the Russian version of Anna Karenina too and were not translated that way.  Again, it's just what my gut says. 

Also, call me a picky jerk, but I didn't like how 90% of the translator's bio was about how she's related to famous people. She's obviously clever enough to have learned and be a fellow at Oxford, so she doesn't need to rely on that to make her bio sound prestigious. Also, being related to the person who did the first illustrations of Tolstoy's stories will, sadly, not make you a better translator of those stories.  A word at the end that basically stated, "So-and-so's lifelong love of Tolstoy was instilled in her at an early age because her great grandfather did the original illustrations of his stories"would have been more appropriate. 

So. That's what I think, har de har har. 

CONCLUSION: I may be wrong about this, but it seemed to me that both stories were linked by the idea that, even if you've had a largely meaningless life and no one cares that you're dying, literally in your final moments you can be redeemed and at peace.  Which is nice. 

58. Gigi by Colette

I love this story.  I love it.  I've read it before but, as you can see, I needed something to get me going again.  It's been a bruiser of a semester, and I barely have time to sit down, much less read.  I almost feared that I'd forgotten how to put my feet up and read for an hour.   But Kelsey, your worries were needless! You can still read something besides school schedules and the film critic in the newspaper.  (Who, incidentally, I honestly believe is the only good writer in the entire paper. Or even the only halfway decent one.  I can't make myself finish most of the other articles.  I'm no shakespeare - but a newspaper person who presumably lives by their pen ought not to have problems with verb tenses.  Come on now.)

CONCLUSION: I will read the rest of my Colette short stories when I have a chance.  I think I like her.  I wish I could've seen Audrey Hepburn play this role. Sigh.

57/365 The Adulterous Woman by Albert Camus

Ditto.  Except I liked this one less than the last one.  And didn't get it completely, as opposed to a faint glimmer of "oh I think I might understand one teensy facet."  I'm not deep enough for these Great Modern European writers.

56/365 The Infant Prodigy by Thomas Mann

I'd like to say I liked this.  But if I claim to like something - and then am forced to acknowledge that I didn't get it at all, I feel like the liking doesn't count.

49/365 Her First Ball by Katherine Mansfield

Where's the like button?  Like! Like!

I enjoyed this one immensely.  I might have read more meaning into it than there actually was, but I loved the way she's terrified by what the fat man says, and then forgets and is happy again and it's good and tragic at the same time.  His prophesy is, like, fulfilled right before your eyes.  Am I being fatuous?  Yes.

CONCLUSION:  Will note this lady's name down on the PEOPLE TO READ MORE OF list.

48/365 The Horse Dealer's Daughter by D.H. Lawrence

Okay, I know I've read this one too before. Intro to lit?  Who can remember.
I also know that I don't get this one.  There's some sort of deep meaning I'm missing here too, isn't there? I don't enjoy being this dense.

Overall, I think this story scares me more than anything else.  I don't really like or dislike it - it's just there and I am here and there are no feelings at all.  Slight confusion, maybe - but otherwise nothing.

CONCLUSION:  Erm.  I don't know.  I'm neutral on all fronts here.

47/365 The Colonel's Lady by W. Somerset Maugham

Okay! I really want to read more by this guy! So good!

You meet the characters of this story every day in Agatha Christie.  Which - though I don't approve of them - may be why I felt so in-sync with the story.  It was like putting on a new sweatshirt as opposed to a new suit jacket; they both may fit, but the jacket takes getting used to, while the sweatshirt is easy as pie.  I know these characters, and snap! it's easy to get into the story.

I can't say why I like this sort of story.  A big squashy mix of reasons, I think.  I like the real-life moral puzzle stuff.  I like to see inside people's heads.  I like a clean style.  And a quick pace and lots of plot are always appreciated.  So who knows.

I liked this story very much, felt sorry for both the characters (he because he was a moron, she because, well, obviously...), liked the style, liked it all - but I will never, ever approve of affairs.  Never.  People went on and on about Doctor Zhivago to me, and then I saw a new-ish film of it and didn't even wish I could shed a tear.  I have a lot of very strong opinions about the difference between lust and love, but I'm going to spare you, my imaginary readers, and not air them here.  Heaven knows they've been aired enough elsewhere.

CONCLUSION:  As I said, I am so, so going to read more by this author.  I LOVED this.  These sorts of stories just

P.S.
Just did a spell-check re-read.  Ha!  How vulgar and cheap I am! "A quick pace and lots of plot" indeed.  Gee whiz.

46/365 The Wall by Jean-Paul Sartre

I know I've read this before, but I can't think why or when I would have done so.

I wanted to put off writing about this story, because I feel like, in the right mood, I could get up enough steam to write something really thoughtful and good about it.  Right now I am not in that mood.

I have a difficult time thinking seriously about a story like this because I honestly have no idea how I would behave if I knew I was going before a firing squad in the morning.  I have a feeling that I'm a bit of a physical coward; I'm pretty sure I could never chop one of my own limbs off a la 127 Hours, for instance.  I (obviously) don't know how my body would react to the prospect of death either. For all I know I might pee my pants without knowing it, the way Tom does.  But apart from all the physical stuff, I honestly don't think I'd be too horrifically scared to die.  I don't mind death - but pain, yes.
I suppose the main reason I don't think that dying - apart from pain - scares me is because I think life has meaning; and I don't have to "create" it, or "find my own".   I think it's a sort of black and white thing.  You accept it or not.
I also believe in life after death - and I believed in it in a shadowy way even before I became a Christian.  I remember thinking that there couldn't be any other explanation for the longing I felt for "more time", because you can't have a desire for something that can't be fulfilled.
I really wonder how the other kids my age feel about dying.  I remember talking to a kid in my British Lit class about it, and she said - with really awful feeling in her face and voice - that she was terrified of dying, just terrified.  It still makes something behind my sternum hurt.

So... I don't know what else to say.  I would not want to face death the way the main character did - and I don't mean the prospect of going by firing squad.  Existentialism seems very depressing to me.  I can see how the absurdity in the world leads people to that way of thinking.  But I can't see how the whole world turning existentialist could possibly be good.  I know I don't have the whole picture - the very little I know about existentialism I learned in Intro to Philosophy - but isn't the whole, you have to make up your own meaning for life thing a part of it?  Because that sounds terrible to me.  It's like that line, "living for today" - it sounds nice, but I don't think it could possibly work.  But I'm also coming from a man-is-essentially-bad POV, so "living for today" gives me visions of chaos.

CONCLUSION: Jeez! I finally understand why they have Death and Dying lit classes!

45/365 The Kiss by Anton Chekhov

Now this I can handle.

I really like Chekhov.  Even though my first real exposure to him was a painful college production The Cherry Orchard - and I've hated many a writer for less. (Question: Why have I never seen an even halfway good college play?  They've been universally agonizing.  I just don't understand.)

I like a lot of plot, so I don't understand why I genuinely enjoy his stories and plays.  It might be because the handful of Chekhov I've read felt... relatable, I guess.  The feelings he talks about make sense to me.  And I enjoy the stories enough not to mind when I miss the deep meaning.  Which is always nice.

Anyways, this story was about a guy named Ryabovich, "a short, somewhat stooped officer in spectacles, with whisker's like a lynx's."

For reference:

That is a lynx.  Poor Ryabovich.  Lynxes (which is the most awkward plural I ever saw) are apparently a medium-sized wildcat.  It's also the national animal of Macedonia and you can't hunt them.  The Iberian variety iS going extinct.  I'm wondering if lynxes as a genus or whatever are particularly known for eating or maiming humans in interesting ways, but wikipedia is disappointingly silent on the subject, and I'm too lazy to read about every different type of lynx to really find out.

But! To return from this delightful tangent!

I think the reason I liked this is because if I were a stooped, short, unfortunately whiskered, lonely young Russian who got kissed by mistake (which - surprise! - is what happens in the story) I would feel and behave the same way.   Even though I'm not a whiskered Russian soldier, I (cliche! cliche!) really relate to a lot of his feeeeeelings.  He's awkward, he envies people for the easy way they start mixing and talking with one another, his unattractiveness makes him sad.  He's delighted when he begins to believe that he can marry and have a happy, normal life - he's crushed when his illogical, barely-formed daydreams don't happen.
I love how sharp Chekhov is.  The officers have been asked to tea by a local family, and asked more because the family knows they ought to ask than because they want to.  When they put on a good show to make the evening pleasant, Ryabovich becomes more and more "attracted by this insincere but splendidly disciplined family."  I mean! I just love that sentence. How many people like that have you met?  I've spent hours with that family!
I also love the description of Lieutenant Lobytko - "renowned in the brigade for his peculiar ability to divine the presence of women at a distance".

CONCLUSION: Good, good, good.  It had a kind of bright, bitter taste of truth to me.  And that I like.

44/365 The Secret Sharer by Joseph Conrad

Yes, I am resorting to short stories to get caught up.  But who cares! I will get back on track this labor day weekend if it kills me!

So.  The Secret Sharer.  Uh.  Well, first off, I've read this before.  And I think it's interesting and well-written and a compelling story and all that, but I can't enjoy it.  Until I am a much smarter person I will never enjoy it, because I know there is a deep meaning that I'm supposed to get.   I know I've been told or have read about this deep meaning, and I remember thinking that it made sense and was great and blah blah, but I just can't remember what the meaning was.  I really am trying, too.  If the writer has some Great and Powerful theme they want to get across to me, it has to be of the giant brick wall right in the way variety, not a tree root in the jungle that I might trip over but probably won't.

CONCLUSION:  It's probably for the best that I went for art instead of English.  I would have really almost enjoyed this if I hadn't known I was missing, like, the whole point.