I think the worst mistake that can be made when reading this is expecting romance. Of course, there is romance, but in no way does it ever feel romantic. Florentino's a horrible human being, someone who at all points is designed to test your limits. By the end, you kinda want him to fail- not to end up with Fermina. I will say, this book is an incredibly difficult read, one that really does require a pretty strong memory to be able to keep track of all of the events in the story; They're not linear whatsoever. I think this book is pretty well known for being a really tedious read, one that you either don't finish or finish and don't enjoy, and regardless of whether or not I enjoyed it, it on an artistic level was great. In terms of enjoyment, it's good, even if not a story that'll be constantly stuck in my head.

I’ll preface my review like this: I hate fantasy. Truly, it is not my cup of tea. And honestly, my hatred for fantasy definitely corrupts some of feelings for this book. Namely, the mythology. The mythology is, I’m sure, brilliant, funny, and masterfully crafted- if you aren’t me, of course. But man, I don’t care about Neil Gaiman explaining to me in his funny English ways different ancient gods and whatever. The “realism” in this book’s magical realism is far more enjoyable. If Gaiman did literary fiction, he’d easily be among my favorite authors. While probably the least American author ever, it seems he really does “get” America from his descriptions of the middle of nowhere, motels, roadside attractions, and small towns. His attempt to tap into his inner Kerouac/Thompson is fortunately not spoiled by what I was predicting would be a boring Marvelesque fight scene towards its end (subverted! But around the late 400s I was really starting to get worried). I think this book is pretty enjoyable and never does Gaiman’s humor just feel meanspirited and cynical. Not my favorite book, albeit, that’s because of fantasy itself, not Gaiman being a terrible author or something.

I’ve always seen The Corrections as a brother of Infinite Jest. Both are obtuse, cerebral, densely detailed, and were both the Bible to hipsters who had never read either. They are both black comedies but distinctively not black comedies- at least in a world of black comedies a la Bret Easton Ellis, where having shallow, boring, stupid and violent characters with few real motives other than something vaguely related to society equates to satirical masterpiece. The back cover of my copy of this book, I believe, dubs it “tame satire.” Both are books by, well, unlikeable and snobby authors, despite just how good the books they write are. Notably, both are excellent with character arcs. I’ve often considered Don Gately to be one of the greatest characters in fiction, a deeply nuanced and incredibly well-written character. Likewise, upon finishing this novel, I can’t help but feel that all five core members of the Lambert family are up there, too. Each deeply flawed and yet lovable despite being entirely human and unlovable. Alfred is racist (in that old-man sort of way), overly traditional, and a controlling wreck. But he is driven by fear, ignorance, and a declining mental state. His views are not to be sympathized with, but they can be understood. Gary is too afraid to ever talk about or accept his own depression because he thinks people will blame his misfortunes and shortcomings on it. He feels this way because this is exactly what he does to Alfred. Enid is emotionally manipulative but ultimately as a byproduct of constantly having to care for her husband who is seen as broken. She feels complete isolation from the very Thomas Kinkade painting she wanted to be a part of. Chip begins the book as a college professor, who, while, sure, is immature, loses any of the maturity he starts the book with after his break up with his own student. Chip, after his defrauding scheme, feels near regressed to a child. Denise has multiple affairs and sees nothing wrong with it. Chip has an affair and sees nothing wrong with it. Gary thinks about having an affair but ultimately doesn’t, not because he sees something wrong with having an affair, rather because he knows that having an affair isn’t going to make him feel better. Admittedly, the defrauding scheme stuff and the Lithuanian government storyline is this book’s equivalent of the ONAN and Québécois Separatism stuff from Infinite Jest- which is to say, it’s kind of a chore to read and easily the worst part of the book. Ultimately, though, it’s a great book, and while, yes, definitely not a casual light read, it’s a lifechanging and worthwhile experience for any particularly analytical readers of literary fiction.

The Great Gatsby is held in a similar regard to Of Mice and Men and Lord of the Flies where a lot of peoples’ ability to appreciate it is hampered by the fact that they were required to read it back in school. Getting through this tiny little 180 page book- hardly even a novel- in one day was a relatively easy task. I think with most 100+ page books it’d usually take at least three, but I last read this book a year ago in an English class where we were reading about 1 sentence a day despite the fact it was Honors English II, ergo I was able to read this book in roughly two hours at a pace of about two pages a minute. The Great Gatsby, though, is a literary treat. Upon reread I noticed the similarities between Nick and Richard Papen (the comparison came to me from the line of The Secret History where Papen calls Gatsby his favorite novel) as reluctant cameramen for the proverbial behind-the-scenes documentary of a glamorous and mysterious person(/group of people in Papen’s case) who quickly finds themself disillusioned with what’s behind the veil of mysticism. The Great Gatsby is THE pre-1940s American novel, even if I find it too short to really leave an impact (A complaint I have with Of Mice and Men, too).

Y'know, I haven't really talked much about the Faulkner-Proust-Joyce power trio here, and honestly, I kinda have a love/hate relationship with this book. On one hand, very little happens and the writing style is hard to follow, featuring run-on sentences galore. And on top of all that this book has an incredibly wide cast of characters, several of which who honestly lack enough flavor for the book to really work for me. HOWEVER on the other hand this book is really really really really really (seventeen more reallys) good. It masters the southern gothic vibe, of course, and on top of that, this book is written very beautifully with several really interesting stream-of-consciousness segments scattered in between; Vardaman and Dewey Dell's chapters are my favorite personally as they tend to have the most of that. My mother is a fish darl is my brother darl is crazy