The Incomprehensibles

I would have trouble making a list of my favourite books. I don’t think I’ve read enough books, or enough books that I really like. Years have gone by when I hardly read any fiction - everything on the bookshelves seemed shite to me. I may have been looking at the wrong bookshelves. And, in fairness to books, years have gone by when I had an all-consuming addiction to playstation and hardly did anything else. But something I have acquired over the years is a list of books I’ve attempted to read but couldn’t understand. The Incomprehensibles. Here is the list in chronological order of reading and with explanatory notes:

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. My first ever incomprehensible. With it’s wacky ‘nadsat’ speech, I suspect it would make many people’s lists. It’s possible I would be able to read it now; I’ve seen the film, which would help with the comprehending. But I don’t know if I want to read it. It’s not very nice. Apparently, drinking milk and listening to Beethoven can turn you into a violent, psychotic rapist. That’s right isn’t it?

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. You bastard. You seduced me with your promise of murder, passion, family rivalry and religion. Your cover mesmerized me with its haunting picture of an anguished sinner cowering before a priest – all dark and moody. And while I was initially daunted by your large number of pages (approximately 900) – and there were other books by your author, thinner books - it was for you that I’d come to the bookstore. I’d gotten it into my head that I had to read you. I’m not entirely sure why. I’d seen references to you in other books, it seemed like you were important, somehow.

So I bought you and took you home. I tried to make it work, tried to love you, but you were very difficult, very demanding. And I never really understood you. At one point I wondered if maybe Russian translated into English becomes incomprehensible. So I read “Anna Karenina” by Leo Tolstoy. No problem. With the exception of a few of boring chapters on collective farming, it was completely readable.

It’s been 10 years since the brothers came into my life. Occasionally I try reading it again. I don’t get very far. It seems like there are too many words describing too many things and my brain can’t follow. Perhaps I need a new brain.

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. I may not have given this one a proper chance. The sentences mostly made sense but my mind kept drifting away. It seemed like it was going to be hard work. I decided that since I’d seen “Apocalypse Now” and the documentary about the making of the film, I already knew all I needed to know about the “Heart of Darkness”. Plus, I couldn’t find ‘the horror, the horror’ or ‘terminate with extreme prejudice’ – maybe they’re not in the book.

Naked Lunch by William S Burroughs. I think this book is meant to be read while under the influence of mind-altering drugs (I believe it was written under the influence of mind-altering drugs). I wasn’t prepared to do this; I don’t want to mess with the delicate chemical balance of my brain. So I went in cold. It didn’t work. I gave up. However, over the years, I’ve found myself picking it up (say when I’m waiting for rice to cook), flicking to a random page and reading for a short period of time. If the page that I’m on isn’t making sense I flick to another page, and so on, until I find a page that makes sense. It seems to be working. I’m slowly reading “Naked Lunch” sober, but in a non-linear fashion. I may eventually have to remove it from the incomprehensibles list.

The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner. I’d heard that William Faulkner wrote southern gothic stories. I was really excited; it sounded like my kind of story. And maybe it is, but I couldn’t tell from this particular novel – there were sensible words, but they seemed to be all turned around and in the wrong order for the making of the sense.

Paradise Lost by John Milton. I was trying to get me some literary culture. Fuck that. Read the summary in wikipedia.

Honourable Mentions:

My Honours Thesis: “Flash vacuum pyrolysis of oxindoles substituted at N1 and at C3”. While it is a fascinating tale of scientific intrigue and has some interesting speculative chemistry, it loses some impact in its style. It gets bogged down in technical detail; too many facts and figures. There is very little nuance or sub-text. I believe it would have benefited from a more surreal approach. I’m thinking about re-writing it in the style of magical realism.

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce. Joycey (as he was known at the pub) chose a somewhat pretentious title for his book. His prose is also somewhat pretentious. It is dense and lyrical and surreal. It is packed full of vivid imagery and catholic guilt. There are some brilliant passages about eternity and hell and sin – and, Joycey’s favourite, eternity in hell (because of sin).

I haven’t completely given up on it. I’m thinking I might give it the ‘Naked Lunch’ treatment of random reading. Flicking through the book I came upon this endearingly catholic exchange:

“I…committed sins of impurity, father.
The priest did not turn his head.
- With yourself, my child?
- And…with others.
- With women, my child?
- Yes, father.
- Were they married women, my child?” (pg. 154)

Why is it important to know if the women were married? I guess as much detail as possible in the confessional makes for a more informed priest (especially on matters of impurity). Then there’s this comforting passage (spoken by a priest):

“…Consider then what must be the foulness in the air of hell. Imagine some foul and putrid corpse that has lain rotting and decomposing in the grave, a jellylike mass of liquid corruption. Imagine such a corpse a prey to flames, devoured by the fire of burning brimstone and giving off dense choking fumes of nauseous loathsome decomposition. And then imagine this sickening stench, multiplied a millionfold and a millionfold again from the millions upon millions of fetid carcasses massed together in the reeking darkness, a huge and rotting human fungus. Imagine all this, and you will have some idea of the horror of the stench of hell.” (pgs. 127-128)

This is why I gave up catholicism. Also, I couldn't cope with all the guilt. Or the praying. Or sitting on hard wooden benches in cold churches listening to cranky clergy. Jesus! (...Mary and Joseph).