Review of The Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund Freud

Dreams are more interesting in the midst of the fugue.

Waking spoils the coherence. Analysis takes some of the fun out of them, even if it nails a few symbols. More intriguing to me are Joseph Campbell’s sort of cultural consciousness archetypes. I feel like there is a lot more here than I wanted to know, but intermingled with Freud’s personal anecdotes, which I didn’t need, were sufficient ideas and interpretations to invest me for a time. It goes on too long, like a dream about going to the DMV to renew your license, where you wait in line for three hours, watching the clock tick, only to find out you forgot a document, and then you get back to your car and are immediately arrested for driving with an expired license.

Review of Murakami T: The T-Shirts I Love by Haruki Murakami

I began by pretending this was a short novel about a t-shirt and vinyl-record-obsessed old guy, who happened to also be an obscenely successful novelist and it worked for the most part in the sense that I enjoyed reading these table scraps of autobiographical reminiscences from the most influential Japanese author ever.

Just learning more about this celebrity’s everyday, even boring, existence, was still fascinating in the way gossip webpages and home invasion footage is. Is it wrong that I want to rifle through Murakami’s closet and thumb through his record collection? Stalkerish fans are one thing Murakami has in spades, and it is quite generous of him to release this enticing expose to fend off their frothing hordes. But it also appears a tad exploitative. At this point, I will keep reading the translations they spoon feed us of this author because I can’t stop now.

The tactics he employs as a novelist have been discussed to death, but the agony uncle side of him, the uncaring, sloppy, endearing, and well-intentioned side of him, remains absurdly interesting out of all proportion to what he is writing about, which has long since ceased to matter, since all we want is more Murakami, more Murakami, more Murakami.

It’s weird how everyone has all but forgotten Ryu Murakami, and we haven’t seen a new translation of him in years, and they are clearly holding back a bunch of Haruki’s early stories and nonfiction writing to trickle through the translation pipeline after his creativity dries up – But maybe he’ll go on, like Philip K. Dick’s android or Hokusai, producing mesmerizing works into his nineties and hundreds, and most of his fans will finally discover other pleasures, having finally read Absolutely on Music and realized the depth of their paramour’s insanity.

Review of Grass on the Wayside by Natsume Sōseki

Droll and heartbreaking by turns, this so-called autobiographical novel was as easy to read as a series of newspaper articles and only slightly more varied in subject matter.

Soseki excels at bringing to life realistic situations. Making use of a fragmented style, the book is reminiscent of serial novels. He has some of the qualities of Balzac but is not as concerned with detail. He is considered the king of Japanese literature, though I can’t help thinking that Bakin could crush him in just about every way. Soseki proved that he could write with eloquence and style. But his brand of literature was more akin to the psychological involvement one finds in Akutagawa. He lacks some of Akutagawa’s precision as well as some of Toson’s razor-sharp clarity, not to mention Tanizaki’s breathtaking flow. He does have a good consistency though, and this novel is saved by the short chapter segments, in which the characters enact their private tragedies upon each other, quibbling over pennies until they’re bleeding tears until, as a reader you grow truly sad that Soseki, the artist, the sensei of a generation, had to put up with such trivial nonsense.

The family he grew up with, and the authenticity of those family members are explored, along with financial and family politics in general, but in a very dramatic way. Soseki didn’t shy away from depicting his hurt and anger, though this book was one of his last major works.

If you enjoy novels about struggling writers, definitely read this book, along with the story collection: Rosy Glasses and Other Stories by Kazuo Ozaki. What Soseki started was a blend of Western and Eastern ideals and styles which led to a burgeoning of the I-novel in Japan, which is similar to the confessional novel, and which often involves a first-person narrator. This doesn’t seem very revolutionary to us, but Japanese literature sorely lacked the psychological flexibility he brought to the table in that time.

Soseki’s achievement only becomes clear through deep reading. Finishing his complete novels (minus The Poppy which inexplicably remains untranslated) is like getting to know a teacher and friend so intimately that it leaves a permanent impression in your mind. At least, it makes me glad I set out to discover his wry, subtle humor, and his easygoing, polished style. This particular volume is not quite of the same quality as his masterworks, but you would be hard-pressed to find any other Japanese authors who will prove so consistently that they deserve their critical fame. His insights are always affecting and rewarding.

Review of Born a Crime: Stories From a South African Childhood by Trevor Noah

Trevor Noah’s autobiographical “stories” read like reminiscences. There are moments of wit, and some startling descriptions of life under apartheid.

 It is an especially brilliant audiobook performance from the author as well. There would’ve been no one more qualified or better able to read his work aloud than himself.

There is very little reportage but plenty of storytelling in this book. It is a sort of rags to riches story, but it focuses on what was important in Noah’s memories, rather than what the reader might expect. Raised by his mother in the unbelievable environment of South Africa at the time. I was more interested in the setting than I was in his awkward years, trying to talk to girls, go to dances, and get in with the crowd at parties and school. But he is relating the details of his life to reveal the incredibly valuable perspective he has gained. I had very little understanding of apartheid and didn’t even know who Trevor Noah was until someone recommended this to me. I guess I need to watch more television???

The vivid depictions of his mother, the communities he interacted with and the most complicated race politics I’ve ever read about combine to forma memorable picture of another part of the world most Americans can gain from exploring. It is an easy read, but challenging in the difficult circumstances it confronts you with. Sure he is witty, but his sense of humor wouldn’t have been enough to engage me without the unfamiliar territory he described. I am not a nonfiction reader by nature, and this still appealed to my thirst for literary entertainment. It’s hard to imagine true poverty, living in America, where our brand of poverty is having to eat at McDonalds because the other restaurants are too expensive. In this memoir, McDonalds WAS the expensive restaurant.

Trevor Noah has obviously gained a following. I only hope that my review, buried under thousands of ecstatic, more qualified reviewers, converts a few more people into trying this important book.