I belong to a
book club and, of course, I read books not of my choice. Actually, this was the
whole point of joining the club. That and the possibility of discussing the
books with like-minded people. But, it somehow does not work for me very well
and I wonder why. I always have been individualistic and do not like to be
directed in my actions. Maybe this is the reason why I look at the club books
in a negative way? I think, however, that there is more to it than that. I,
often, do not find the books relevant and I question the time spent on reading
things I do not learn from, enjoy or even approve of. The book I am reading now
is Rocks in the Belly by Jon Bauer. A young Australian writer and his first
book. I must say that it is well written book and because it is well written
its depressing impact is rather profound. Does it make the book worthwhile reading?
I would say that the effect of reading the book may be even harmful for
somebody of more sensitive feelings. Like me. I have been reading the book for a
couple of weeks now, I could not take more than a couple of short chapters in
one go. I felt dirty, sticky, ill, depressed and generally horrible. This power
of the book makes it perhaps a good book. I am asking myself a question though,
how relevant it is to me? What does it bring into my life in addition to
depression? And I do not find a good answer. One could say that I should watch
a comedy show or a film or read a funny book if I want to be entertained. But I
not always want to be only entertained. I want the time I spent on reading to
bring some new thoughts relevant to my life (to any life in fact), even some
answers to existential questions or at least some insightful observations.
Dostoevsky is
not a cheerful lecture, but I consider his books worth reading, even if one
should read them with caution. My literature teacher at school was saying that
two Dostoevsky's books read one after the other present a danger to one’s
emotional life, more than two present a danger to the reader’s life. Jon Bauer
wrote only one book so far and I think it is save to read this one book, but I
wonder why I should put myself through the process of reading it. I think, I
got the message the author wanted to pass. People are cruel, parents can
profoundly hurt their children psyche, bad is inherent to our nature, what you
soak in at your early years will show up in your later life, cancer is a very
cruel illness, sex is good to get you out of the dumps, if only for a short
moment, we’ll all die at the end. This
is what I got out from the book, this and a very unpleasant sticky feeling.
This is a very brutal book in my opinion.
The life truths
the book reveals have been known to me for a while, I find them pretty obvious
and not particularly worth spending hours on reading the book and pondering on
the intended messages.
One observation,
however, caught my attention and this is the uncertainty of what we actually
experience versus what belongs only to our feelings, predispositions and
imagination. The hero, who is unnamed in the book, wonders if the drama created
in his life was a result of actual neglect by his mother or his own blinding
jealousy of her feelings towards foster children who lived with the family.
Reflecting on it, I am not sure myself what the deciding factor was, because
both aspects were there. The mother was
not attuned sufficiently to her son feelings and sometimes behaved in the way I
would consider neglectful or even cruel. On the other hand, the eight-year-old
boy was predisposed to see live as negative and scary. However, a loving,
careful mother should have seen his sensitivities and act with more care.
I am glad that I
am trough with the book and I will try not to be too critical of the book
choice in the forthcoming book club meeting. Especially, that the situation
will change and soon the members of the group will be picking themselves the
books to read.
I find The
Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara by far the best book I have read the last year,
but this is not the book I will be recommending for the group. My three
candidates are Pamuk’s The Red-Haired Woman, Ferrante’s My Brilliant Friend and
the new Nobel Prize winner Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day. I started
reading the last book only today, but I know and love the film made based on
the novel. So, I have high hopes I will love the book as well.
