Madeleine

Published after her death, this is Andre Gide's account of his marriage, as well as entries concerning his wife that had been excised from his published journals. Gide was relatively silent on his wife and his relationship with her while she was alive (indeed, it was only after her death that the general public became aware of her name, as she was always "Emmanuelle" in his writings) as she was relatively withdrawn and self-effacing. So this is the first look at an important part of the writer's life (which he termed "the central drama of my existence"). However, it's extraordinarily self-indulgent.

Madeleine is divided into three parts -- Et Nunc Manet in Te (from what may be Virgil. ". . .and now lives in you. . ." or something similar), the aforementioned journal entries (1916-1939), and a letter to an unidentified correspondent (who had apparently written Gide for advice on getting married. Alternatively, it's Gide writing to his younger self, which is may be too meta to be the case.)

Et Nunc Manet in Te is Gide's account of his marriage, in which he attempts to explain why he wanted to marry his cousin, and why he behaved the way he did. On the one hand, it's a revealing look into the Gide and his reasons. On the other, it's an autoapologetic that must omit much, as it never mentions his illegitimate daughter (!) with another woman. Even if one buys Gide's crocodile tears, it's cringe inducing. The following journal entries aren't all that illuminating (perhaps they're better if one has read Gide's journals), and the letter is short and quite relevant, if covered earlier. The prose is lovely, but I wish I'd never been aware of this.

Ilustrado

It begins with a body -- that of seminal Philippine writer Crispin Salvador floating in the Hudson. Ilustrado follows Salvador's protege (seemingly sharing a name with our author) in his investigation into Salvador's death (surely, his mentor couldn't have killed himself, our protagonist thinks). Syjuco interweaves that plotline with our protagonist's reminisces from childhood, interviews and essays by Salvador, Salvador's various fictions, daydreams of our narrator, and running Filipino jokes on an everyman from a particular background.

It's tough for me to square how I feel about this one -- it's an enjoyable, engaging novel, but at any point did I feel "I'm glad I read this" or "I can't wait to recommend this to someone", and I'm not quite sure that I did. Why did I feel that way? Was it that the mystery didn't quite grab me, but I didn't feel pulled into madness or confusion the way I often am with similar works? Was it that all the Filipino cultural references went over my head? Was it that the protagonist progressed to someone I had difficulty relating to? There's only so many characters with a bit of a drug habit I can stomach before I get bored.

So, yes, this is something I consider worth reading, but I don't know if it's something I'll ever come back to, or say "Hey, you should really check out Ilustrado!" I will give Syjuco points for a few gratuitous Borges references, particularly a book one character finds towards the denouement.

On the Road

Jack Kerouac's On the Road is one of those novels that I'd assumed would be assigned to me at some point in English class. It wasn't, and I've managed to put it off until now. I'd expected this to be a tedious read; this impression was due to being aware that Kerouac had originally typed the novel on one continuous scroll. Knowing this, I (erroneously) concluded that On the Road was a drug-induced frenzy of a novel, with exclamations galore, vague transitions, and endless hallucinatory passages. On this note, I was very mistaken; the novel is a pleasure to read, and Kerouac's occasional exuberance and general tone is, if not conversational, easy to digest.

Another way On the Road threw me was the fumbling towards adulthood of the characters, the growth shown by the Kerouac figure, in contrast with Dean Moriarty, who Kerouac begins obsessed with, before finally abandoning. Again, I'd thought the novel was about indulgence in hedonism and restlessness, rather than growing towards responsibility as one aged.

Overall, On the Road was like nothing I had expected, given what I'd thought of it, and was an enjoyable and worthwhile read, a worthy slice of Americana, &c &c