The Epic of Gilgamesh

This was an impulse buy at a bookstore while I was killing time. I'm sure I could have gotten this for free on the Kindle, but so it goes.

My particular copy has an extensive introduction that's both more and less than a translator's preface; it's more in that it contains a both a summary of the events of the epic, as well as a historical background of the re-discovery of the poem, historical events in Mesopotamia, relation of the epic to the Bible and to Homer, and a brief overview of the deities involved (since most readers aren't as familiar with Enlil and Shamash as they are with, say, Zeus and Aphrodite). Unfortunately, this is less than a translator's preface in that 50 pages in, our writer admits that this isn't a translation from the cuneiform (which, in Sandars' defense, would be exceedingly tedious, I would imagine), but a straightforward narrative that avoids a line-by-line translation. I'm of two minds here; the first is that I would much prefer a straightforward narrative, as I'm aware how clunky translated poetry can be, particularly with regards to meter. On the other, it's a little frustrating to get something that may be taking liberties with the original text. (Of course, our writer promises to "[add] nothing that is not vouched for by scholarship, nor omitting anything of which the meaning is beyond doubt . . .")

The epic moves quickly and easily, but feels disjointed at times (Sandars notes the relatively sparse language of the original). Some of this could be chalked up to uncertainties in ordering (it's mentioned that there's disagreement among scholars whether a dream sequence should be prior to or after a confrontation), but much of it seems to be the narrative itself. I'm glad I read this, as it's an incredibly important work of literature, but I'd prefer Homer or Virgil. (Although the big advantage to this is length and ease of reading -- this can be knocked out in an hour or two)

2666

Roberto Bolaño's 2666 is a sprawling epic of a novel. Or rather five novels, linked by common characters, themes, and images. Each section is linked to the previous ones, dealing with events or characters who were previously introduced, whether briefly or in depth. 2666 has twin suns -- Santa Teresa, Mexico (a stand-in for Ciudad Juarez) and Benno von Archimboldi, a reclusive German author, the study of whose work is the focus of the first book of the novel.

2666 opens with an introduction to four critics, and their introduction to Archimboldi's oeuvre. It then explores their work, their travels, their relationships with each other, and Archimboldi's growing recognition; as the critics are introduce to Archimboldi (in the late 70s and early 80s), he's

". . .an utter failure, an author whose books languished on the dustiest shelves in the stores or were remaindered or forgotten in publisher's warehouses before being pulped."

At the end of the section, by the mid-late 90s, he's rumored to be on the short list for the Nobel, as our critics search for him in Santa Teresa, Mexico.

From here, we're introduced to a literature professor assigned to tour the critics around, his daughter, who he fears will be abducted and murdered, like so many other women, an American journalist in town for a boxing match who is fascinated by the murders, various policemen, and in the penultimate section, a hideous, lengthy catalog of the deaths of women, ranging from prepubescent to matronly.

That the fictional city of Santa Teresa is one of the axes 2666 revolves around is true, but Santa Teresa really only has one axes -- the murders. The descriptions of the victims is clinical, repetitive, and horrific in its vast scope. The women are mostly young, in their late teens or early twenties, but we get some girls before the onset of puberty, and those in their thirties, forties, and later. Some of the murders are solved (as to how solved that really is, we don't know), but most are closed when no more information can be found, such as the alleged killer disappears. Perhaps the hardest part of this section is that this isn't a detective novel, where everything will be neatly wrapped up at the end -- people are arrested, and a prominent character is convicted and jailed for some of the murders, but they continue. Other suspects are mentioned, then never dealt with again.

The final section of the novel is an intimate look at the enigmatic Archimboldi, the other axis of 2666. In a somewhat jarring departure from the rest of the novel, where all we learn of him is that his name is probably a pseudonym, and that he's a very tall, very old German writer, the final section follows him from his childhood through his old age, although parts of it are told in a way that echoes Bolaño's other works -- we hear about him not through third person omniscient or limited, but from conversations other characters have about him, while he is elsewhere.

2666 doesn't offer many answers, only questions. I'd bought it a few years ago and held off on reading until I'd read more of Bolaño's work, and I'm glad I did. It's absolutely fascinating.

Moby Dick

The nice thing about reviewing a classic is that it needs to introduction. Most people are familiar with Ahab, with "Call me Ishmael", with the fact that Moby Dick is "the White Whale", with the Pequod as the name of the ship, with Queequeg and his harpoon, among other plot points. (Actually, those are probably all the plot points I was familiar with, prior to reading.)

Perhaps what I was most apprehensive about when I started this book was that I'd heard there were long passages concerning the execution of some of the more mundane tasks about a whaleship, that Melville had apparently lifted wholesale from someone else's treatise on the subject, that dragged on and bogged down the narrative. I didn't find this to be the case -- due to the novel's original episodic nature, chapter breaks are frequent, so one isn't stuck with descriptions of the tryworks (where the fat is rendered into oil) for too many pages. And of course, this is mostly a new subject to me, so a little general background is both informative and helpful. While the frequent chapter breaks do move the action along, what I did find a little trying was Ishmael's (Melville's?) attempted classification and categorization of the cetaceans, and the sperm whale (obviously) in particular. But again, this wasn't too long or too frequent.

One of the often remarked upon parts of Moby Dick is the symbolism. Of that, I have little to say other than "it's here." It's not subtle, but that's a good thing. What I do like is Melville repeatedly hammering home the inevitability of the end. (Which, again, not subtle).

What else is there to say? This is a classic for a reason.

McSweeney's 43

McSweeney's 43 is a collection of short stories and non-fiction by various authors, with a supplement of writing from the new nation of South Sudan. (For some reason, I never got McSweeney's 42.)

None of the writing in 43 really stuck with me -- in addition to the letters to the editor, there are four short stories and two non-fiction pieces. The non-fiction pieces are more interesting  than the short stories -- "The Texan from Gaza Does Yoga in Prison," is a young woman's account of her experiences with her father in prison for supporting terrorism. It's a bit meandering, though, and trails off rather than builds to a conclusion. Maybe that isn't a fair observation to make about an account of a close relative's imprisonment, though.

The other non-fiction piece follows the Libyan Revolution in Tripoli.

The fiction from South Sudan is more interesting than the fiction in 43 proper. It mostly concerns village life, although the first (and one of the better) stories is about leaving one's village to avoid arrest. In the introduction, it's emphasized that the region is still young and developing, so there isn't quite anything yet that "illuminates its culture and experiences." Perhaps one of the writers here will provide that.

The Whispering Muse

One of the nice things about family or friends traveling to foreign countries is that sometimes they'll bring you books back, which is how I acquired The Whispering Muse.

This novel by Sjon tracks the journey of Valdimar Haraldsson, an eccentric Icelander who possess unorthodox theories of human origins and development. Haraldsson had published a journal called Fisk og Kultur, which detailed

". . .my chief preoccupation, the link between fish consumption and the superiority of the Nordic race."

 Through writing a letter of condolence after the death of a friend, our protagonist is invited on a cruise of a merchant ship owned by the friend's father. The second mate on the ship happens to be the mythological figure Caeneus, and thus our story begins.

Haraldsson is an absolute bore -- his chief preoccupation aboard the ship is the lack of fish on the gourmet menu he's served at dinner. After dinner, his companions eagerly await the stories Caeneus tells every night, which are retellings of his heroic deeds while sailing on the Argo with Jason.

Sjon alternates between Haraldsson's banal observations and thoughts (in which Haraldsson displays lack of comprehension and insight) and Caeneus' increasingly involved mythological ramblings.

Despite (or perhaps because of) Haraldsson's banality, this isn't designed to be a realistic novel, although it isn't magic realism, either. We get several minor plot points that are raised and not expanded upon, and other plot threads that are simply dropped. The resolution is abrupt, and not quite satisfying.

I'd heard this compared to the works of Italo Calvino, and while I wouldn't put it at the same quality, I can see the resemblance. A quick read.

McSweeney's 41

McSweeney's 41 is a collection of short stories, short non-fiction, and some work by Australian Aboriginal writers. I was worried that this would be uneven, but that's not the case at all -- everything in here is top notch.

The first story in here is a Thomas McGuane account of a fishing camp in the wilderness, with two former best friends who are well on their way to becoming estranged. It's depressing and darkly funny.

McGuane is the only author here I was previously familiar with (although I do recall seeing review for the novel excerpted here, John Brandon's A Million Heavens), but everything here is polished.

Other stories I'd single out for praise are Aimee Bender's "Wordkeepers", Jess Walter's "The Wolf and the Wild,", and Ryan Boudinot's "Robot Sex."

The non-fiction ("A Land Rush in Iran" and "What Happens After Sixteen Years in Prison?") are both well done, if a little meandering.

Finally, the four short stories from Australian Aboriginal writers (Tony Birch's "The Promise, Ellen van Neerven-Currie's "S&J", Tara June Winch's "It's Too Difficult to Explain" and Melissa Lucashenko's "Tonsils") are more than worth additions to this collection -- they're as good or better as anything that came before them in this work.

A Random Walk Down Wall Street

There's a lot of information in A Random Walk Down Wall Street, but all that information really boils down to "no investment strategy can reliably beat the S&P 500 index over a long period of time." Malkiel provides numerous examples of this, over a time period ending in 1998. (It's too bad that either there isn't an updated edition through the most recent financial crisis, or the edition I have is older.)

Of course, that's not all that's in this book -- there's a history of some famous financial bubbles (Dutch tulips, British East India Company, the US Stock Market in 1929), and a general primer on the various investment vehicles and financial instruments available. The author also includes contact information for various investment houses, which would be much more useful if this book wasn't fifteen years old.

This seems to be a useful primer on the stock market and investing. I don't really know enough about the subject to recommend it unreservedly, but it seems to be worth paging through for a general understanding of the issues.