I wanted to write this entry because all things considered, I simply could not write two pages on Uncle Vanya and Book of Disquiet individually. This post is less a criticism of the two works and more of an explanation of why I couldn't write two pages about them. We'll start with Uncle Vanya.
Don't get me wrong. Chekov's great, but reading Uncle Vanya was like reading a cook book filled with the names of vegetables I've never heard of and trying to go grocery shopping with it. There were so many characters with so few identifiable traits that I often got them confused for one another, and couldn't keep up with their long Russian names. The reason I couldn't identify them separately was largely for the fact that the plot of the play was basically a soap opera, and no character performed any memorable actions that moved the action of the play.
I want to identify specifically what I mean- it's not that the characters in the story weren't unidentifiable, they all were decidedly different, it's just the fact the story is moved by conversation and not by action that put me off. I mean, they're all in the same setting, discussing their lives and what have you, but all the information I'm getting in this play comes directly from the mouths of the characters, and I never see it happening. It was the lack of behavior, not the lack of presence that made it hard for me to keep up with this piece.
Don't even get my started on Book of Disquiet, though. I hated this book. I'm often known for my quick criticism of other work, but never without a well thought-out and reasonable excuse- in Book of Disquiet's case, I know exactly why it doesn't appeal to me, and this journal is here so I can spell it out for you.
I'd actually rather start in Book of Disquiet's defense rather than the opposite. I'm a well read guy, and so when I say I don't like this book, it's solely based on the fact that I've read books that attempt the same thing this guy does, only better. Let me explain what I mean by that. Pessoa really does change the game with his aphoristic structure- whatever. But this book is largely a poetic prose reflection on his philosophy on life. And that's the point I'd like to emphasize- his philosophy on life.
How many other writers have written from their experience? I'd say nearly all of them, and most writers write- hell, most artists "art" in order to explain something through a medium that more specifically expresses the complex ideas that are bouncing around in their heads. But Pessoa's philosophy is contrived and unoriginal- it's the same thing I've heard a dozen times over and sure, he uses birds and flowers to describe it, maybe ends a large string of poetic language on a good stop- I get it. But I just can't be impressed when the philosophy he talks about, to me, seems so basic. How to look at the finer details in life. How to be optimistic in a pessimistic world.
I much prefer Salinger, who writes philosophical narrative to great affect in Franny and Zooey, though Salinger and Pessoa's style are vastly different. I'll give him that, I loved the aphorisms, but the fact that every god damn chapter is the same shit one after the other made me want to throw the book away. I just couldn't identify one aphorism for another half the time and honestly, I skimmed the shit out of this book. Sorry, Erin. That's just the way that it is.
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