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| Judith Levine's "Not Buying It"is not totally devoted to her tale of a year of non-consumption. She takes plenty of detours into memoir and politics, but when she stays on topic, it is well-researched, well-thought-out, and enjoyable. Contrary to my first impression book, Levine didn't buy nothing.
She limited consumption to "necessities," a term whose definition was
one recurrent theme. Having said that, the book is worth a read. Levine writes like the most accessible of culture professors and can turn a distinctive phrase ("Others wish us luck, even thank us, communicating an attitude there's probably a German word for, meaning 'admiration for an enterprise you are glad someone else is doing, so you don't have to.'").
Throughout the book is are undercurrents of the religion of consumption and the spirituality of reduction. At one point, Levine says, "I do want something religion offers in abundance: the permission to desire wildly, to want the biggest stuff--communion, transcendence, joy, and a freedom that has nothing to do with a choice of checking accounts or E-Z access to anything." Consumerism, (and, she finds, non-consumerism) do not supply these things. "No, we don't need religious faith," she says, "but if we are going to desire the big stuff and get it, one kind of blind faith is necessary: the faith that it is possible."
While I disagree wholeheartedly with that sentence's initial clause, I couldn't agree more with its conclusion.
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| "It is wrong, then, to chide the novel for being so fascinated by mysterious coincidences...but it is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty."
The Unbearable Lightness of Being has a magical-realist quality to it--it tells and tells, a circular sequence of events that only sometimes gives way to description. It reminded me of 100 Years of Solitude. The book had a powerful sense of dichotomy (perhaps rendered more noticeable by my own fascination with dichotomies both true and false). The most obvious of these binary pairings is lightness/heaviness, and an attempt to reconcile it with goodness/badness. More influential, however, than the dichotomy referenced in the title is that of fate/free-will. Tomas references Oedipus, the ultimate play of destiny versus choice, and throughout, the book returns to concerns of freedom--of how our actions are defined by our families, our lovers, and some other part of our selves.
This book is loaded with quotable quotes, including one that is particularly relevant to this site:
"In Tereza's eyes, books were the emblems of a secret brotherhood. For she had but a single weapon against the world of crudity surrounding her: the books she took out from the municipal library, and above all, the novels...They not only offered her the possibility of an imaginary escape from a life she found unsatisfying; they also had a meaning for her as physical objects: she loved to walk down the street with a book under her arm. It had the same significance for her as an elegant cane for the dandy a century ago. It differentiated her from others."
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| What does it mean to atone for something? Is atonement punishment? Is it a righting of wrongs? An internal acceptance of events?
In his recently-cinematized novel, Ian McEwan raises these questions and more, laying out a situation rife with moral conundrums and extrapolating outward through time, letting the reader see clearly the ramifications of actions through time.
The book also questions the nature of fiction and writing as tools for dealing with reality. What power do fictional representations have in a real, harsh world? Can we atone with words? Are intentions as viable as actions?
This is a beautiful work of prose, rife with McEwan’s characteristic unsettlings. Deeply affective, these disturbing threads mar the thorough enjoyment of the work, yet are necessary to its overall purpose.
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| "Music is irresistible, haunting, and unforgettable, and in Musicophilia, Oliver Sacks tells us why."
If only this statement (from the dust jacket of Musicophilia) were true. It is almost true. Maybe if it read "... and in Musicophilia, Oliver Sacks tells entertaining stories about patients," or "...and in Musicophilia, Oliver Sacks tells us the names of lots of brain parts," or "...and in Musicophilia, Oliver Sacks restores our faith in the inherent power of the arts," then it would be a true description.
Sadly, the episodic recounting of various case studies (grouped by topic: Musical Hallucinations, Musical Savants, Music and Blindness, etc.) never ends. It's interesting stuff, just not very enlightening.
What is your favorite piece of music?
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| I'm only a few pages into Bradbury's "Dandelion Wine" and already, it's got some thought rolling about. [edit 12/29: I finished the book between writing the first three paragraphs and the rest of the post. There are lots of thoughts rolling around in it anyway].
One chapter, for instance, deals with tennis shoes (the midwestern term for sneakers). We wear them year round, but Douglas Spaulding takes off his leather winter shoes and slides into the soft shoes of summer.
What is one pleasure (that we actively notice as a pleasure) that will become commonplace in the future? Can we prevent this? Should we?
Every few chapters contains conundrums (conundra?) like these--powerful questions of nostalgia and the present life, and the hazy summer of 1928 where the two are blurred. It is, to refer to Steinbeck's description of "East of Eden," a little box, full of everything. Answer the questions, please, and think of your favorite summer since 1928.
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