Book: THE FOUNTAINHEAD by Ayn Rand


Well, this was a doozy. I keep meaning to read something by her, because she’s someone one has heard of, not so much in a literary quality way as in a slightly weird self-help kind of way. I sort of associate her with slightly overweight, long haired kind of men. I think we know who I mean.

The book tells the story of one Howard Roark, who is an architect absolutely committed to following his artistic vision. He is willing to be kicked out of school, lose jobs, lose big contracts, be reduced to penury, etc, rather than sacrifice one iota of his vision. It was in some ways quite inspiring. Her basic thesis is that everyone’s only duty is to themselves, and to be true to their view of the world. She argues that the hardest thing in the world is to do what you want to do.

She contends that religion aims to keep us under control, and that the way to do this is to keep us unhappy. It therefore teach us that self sacrifice is to be valued and admired, while she believes self-sacrifice is killing the only thing in the world that is real for us: the self. She also thinks religion aims to make us unhappy by convincing us we are wrong or evil. Roark at one point is commisioned to build a temple of all faiths, and is taken to court when he builds not a soaring monument, taking us away from ourselves and up, but something built to the scale of the human form, and celebrating the human scale.

At the end of the book, he is taken to court once again, for blowing up one of his own buildings, because it was not built exactly to his specifications. There, the people in the court are struck by the way he stands as a man ‘innocent of fear.’ They are reminded of occasions when they have suddenly thought of what they should have said in such-and-such a situation, of who they are in their minds, shining and incorruptible, before they are in real life shackled by fear. He is presented as an example of who we could be if we lived without compromise, and without need for other people.

There are some fantastic bits, like her contempt for people who would rather give money to a ‘pregnant slut’ than a ‘starving man of genius.’ Appallingly sexist, but fabulous. You get the distinct impression that Ayn Rand may have struggled as a writer for quite some time, and had to stick to her guns with some ferocity, as she is really big into the idea that you are to be judged only by how much you love your work, and how hard you stick at it, basically: don’t let the bastards get you down. There is something very freeing about her idea that success is not gauged by others’ opinions, or even by your own outer achievements, so much as it is about you holding firm in your own mind.

So, some interesting ideas. I found it a quite gripping read, which surprised me really, as the book is not exactly notable for it’s literary style. In fact, it’s kind of badly written. Coincidences abound. Cliches most definitely abound, and abound everywhere. Characters are sort of interchangable. Weirdly, given that the author is a woman, and must have been quite an exceptional woman, it’s quite sexist. It absolutely adheres to the stock style: male as centre of the plot, virgin/whores left and right, evil mother crushes genius. There is one strong-ish female character, who I strongly suspect is Ayn. But she’s devastatingly beautiful, blonde hair, blah blah. Oh yes, and she enjoys being raped, in one unforgettably weird chapter. Oh yes, my friends, the book has dated in several ways. Not least the name Howard. It’s hard to take that name seriously for the ideal man.

I think the strength of the book, what keeps pulling you in, when your good taste tells you to get out, is the fiery power with which she believes in her idea, and her desire to have you believe it too. It’s an unusual idea, and I think (viewed in the right light) an empowering one. It’s rare to come across a book that wants to change your life.

Though the above would be a good ending, I just have to say: it is kind of elitist. Also I suspect it could be used, and probably has been used, for some dubious ends. Eg. at one point she says that the whole movement of culture, away from ‘savagery,’ is a movement towards privacy for individuals. Yikes.

Book: WHEN YOU ARE ENGULFED Contd

So yes, basically, I find it encouraging that David Sedaris wasted that much of his life and still seems to have got somewhere. Not that I’m some big druggie, but I’ve certainly wasted my fair share of time here and there.

I find Sedaris’ use of language strangely brilliant. I’ll laugh out loud at a sentence, and then spend ages trying to understand what about that turn of phrase made it so funny. It’s less about the comedy of incident,and more about the comedy of language, which is SO DIFFICULT. So well done that man.

He does on occasion try, especially at the ends of his stories, to give us a kind of literary thrill, or a sense that he’s been talking about something larger than we at first thought. This is only sometimes successful.

Disclaimer: Okay, I skipped some stories this time round. I really didn’t feel I could handle the death ones. Maybe when I know you better I’ll tell you why.

Book: WHEN YOU ARE IN ENGULFED IN FLAMES by David Sedaris


Now, this is another kind of unusual book for me, because:

a)it was left at my house randomly, I didn’t choose it
b)for some reason, it is in large print. Which is odd, as the person who left it at my house has normal eyesight
c)this is a re-reading. And I almost never re-read

I re-read it because I hadn’t got to the Library and I was feeling a bit blah and I happened to see it and it looked cheering. It looks more sort of mangled, now, as it fell into the bath several times during this reading. Oh dear.

WHEN YOU ARE IN ENGULFED IN FLAMES is a series of comic short stories. The longest one is very long, and is about his attempt to give up smoking by moving to Tokoyo. David Sedaris actually really reminds me of Proust. Now, don’t be hating, and thinking I’m pretentious. I totally get to say that because a) it’s true and b) I’ve actually read IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME, which, let’s face it all you Tolstoy loving bunch of bitches, is probably the best novel ever written. And I’m just saying ‘probably’ so as not to appear too dogmatic.

But please, let’s not even deny it’s the best novel of the twentieth century, because that’s just blatantly true, whether you like it or not (all you James Joyce loving bitches out there).

What I find similar in them is the kind of unassuming honesty they possess. It’s a book that makes you feel like you are less alone in the world; that other people are experiencing the day-to-day as you are. JANE EYRE is a fabulous novel, but it doesn’t deal at all with 95% percent of our lives – the pedestrian part.

The character that is David Sedaris in these stories is sort of sweetly imperfect. It’s interesting also that he seems to have blown large sections of his life on being kind of drugged up. I sometimes feel that . . . oh no, go to go. More on this tomorrow.

Book: A SUITABLE BOY by Vikram Seth


I read a lot, and I thought it would be interesting to keep a record of what I read, at least for this year 2010. Because reading is something I do on my own time, and for no particular reason, it’s easy to think of it as unimportant. But obviously what you do on your own time and for no particular reason is actually sadly definitely your real life. So I thought it would be interesting to see how I’m spending some part of my real life. I’d like to give it a little bit of reality in it’s own little blog.

So I started the year on page 700 of A SUITABLE BOY by Vikram Seth. Which is pretty awesome. I deliberately stopped reading the night before- well it wasn’t that much effort, it was quite convenient actually – on pg 699, so I could begin on nice fresh round numbers. I was on holiday for three weeks in Kenya, and I had brought a big book with me. I actually spent some time choosing the book. I had massive lay overs, blah blah, and I HATE running out of stuff to read. God, then I might have to be alone with my thoughts, and we don’t want that. So I bought this book off Amazon for less than the p&p. If you keep reading this blog, and if I keep it up, you’ll see this is unusual for me. I virtually never buy books, and certainly not from online sellers. One thing that might make my reading interesting is that it’s largely driven by what’s in Southwark libraries. There’s no way I can afford to keep up my reading habit, nor would I want to: I can’t imagine storing all those books. And I wouldn’t like to have to remember books I want to forget. Plus, I don’t really like books I’ve read lying about looking at me, unless I really loved them. Only books I love get to stay at my house.

So A SUITABLE BOY. As it was kind of a big commitment – I couldnt just give up if I got bored – I actually looked it up on the internet. I never do this, and I’ve discovered this is with good reason. What the hell? People on forums have got some stupid ass opinions. So have people on blogs, I guess. People were all like: why is there so much about Indian politics, about shoes, about land, etc etc. Have these people never heard of a state of the nation novel? Have they never read a Victorian novel?

So anyway, I liked it. It was absorbing. I can’t say I loved it. I appreciated what he was trying to do – give a kind of literary life to India, on a massive scale. As a fellow citizen of the old Empire – I’m Zimbabwean – I totally admire and respect that impulse. But I have to say, and this is a sort of hard: I just felt that he did it well, but it’s been done far, far better. It was interesting while I read it, I was engaged in Lata’s love story (do we believe who she chooses in the end? Jury’s out, I think), I learnt a lot about India, and about Pakistan, which was enjoyable, but will I remember it? Don’t think so. I’ll forget about it. Not in a horrid way, but just in a – oh well – there it goes, like a meal in a chain restaurant kind of way.

For me it’s a big like Lord of the Rings in that way. I enjoyed it, which is nice, but it’s a bit so what. I didn’t feel that the most important part of me gained anything from it. Though, as I said, I admired that claiming a British form – the Victorian novel – for the rest of the world. That’s a very hard thing to do. I’d love to do it for Zimbabwe, but let’s face it, it’s hard. As we see from Seth’s very good effort. I mean obviously for me it’d be hard, as I’m not a writer (I work in the theatre) – but for anyone. It’s very hard I think to decolonise the mind, and give our own people the space they need. I was talking about the difficulties of expressing the diasporic Zimbabwean experience to a British person the other day, saying how few examples of Zim memoir there are, and then I realised: imagine being British! Not only are there thousands of examples, but some of them are Shakespeare! Now that’s difficult.

Alright, enough for now. I’ll be back tomorrow with the wildly unrelated David Sedaris’ WHEN I AM ENGULFED IN FLAMES. I am just catching up as I’m only just beginning . . .