Stoner: My Thoughts

“Sometimes, immersed in his books, there would come to him the awareness of all that he did not know, of all that he had not read; and the serenity for which he labored was shattered as he realized the little time he had in life to read so much, to learn what he had to know.” 

*

I read John Williams' Stoner last summer.

Revived in 2012, plucked from obscurity, it was hailed as 'the greatest novel you've never read' (Sunday Times) and 'the must-read novel of 2013' (The Guardian). It had been on my to-do list for a little while. After all, the excitement surrounding this enigmatic book resurfacing from almost half a century ago (1965, to be precise) was impossible to ignore.

During June 1963, after reading the manuscript, Williams' agent complimented the author on his novel. She informed him that it would not be a best-seller, however. It was published, it was admired, and it went out of print.

In this sense the novel's sombre life reflects that of its protagonist, William Stoner. It is no secret that he is born, he lives and he dies. In fact, the first paragraph covers his life in the manner of a work of fiction being summarised:

       "William Stoner entered the University of Missouri as a freshman in the year 1910, at the age of           nineteen. Eight years later...he received his Doctor of Philosophy degree and accepted an                     instructorship at the same University, where he taught until his death in 1956."

However, as passive as this opening seems, Williams then begins to explore his construct's life with so much engaging, depressing intensity that I found it almost impossible to stop reading. It was one of those books that I could not leave at home: I took it with me to places in case I could grab a quiet five minutes alone with William Stoner.

Yet the novel has had a divisive, almost sombre life since publication after being shrugged off the bookshelf by its contemporary generation. For me, this gave the beautiful prose an extra spark, especially considering that Williams himself died decades ago, never to know how the world of literature would eventually appreciate his powerful work of art.

Such a clash in opinion between one generation and another speaks deeply about literature itself: perhaps some works of fiction just do not connect to the time period they are in. If you read a modern novel soon, and dislike it, then perhaps it simply isn't for you. Perhaps, in fifty years, or even a hundred, people will begin talking about it, reading it, and admiring it. Sometimes there is just no way of knowing.

To conclude, I would like to draw your attention back to the quote from Stoner with which I opened this post. I find the protagonist's thoughts incredibly suitable to describe the conception of the novel itself back in the sixties; so much blossoming hope crushed by reality. Maybe Stoner's new lease of life, and now being firmly viewed as a modern classic by many, is justified and fitting for a novel that stands as a dual symbol for both success and failure within the world of literature.

Alex.

The Fountainhead: My Thoughts

"I could die for you. But I couldn't, and wouldn't, live for you." 

Russian-American novelist Ayn Rand had manuscripts for The Fountainhead, what was to become her most famous work, rejected by numerous publishers for being overly intellectual. 

After having read around 300 pages of the 700+ that make up the novel, I was beginning to understand why it was labelled as such: I admit that this epic tale of architects, artists, journalists and businessmen within the corrupt, political world of the New York's aristocracy almost defeated me. The theorising and professing of a barbaric set of values is somewhat irritating. 

I needed a break from it all. In fact, I could barely look at it for a while. 

However, the characterisation of the novel's protagonist, architect Howard Roark, perhaps the most intriguing and surprising construct that I have ever encountered, and a solitary, twisted glow in the darkness of Rand's fictional world, lured me into returning.

And I am absolutely glad I did. 

In addition to the disturbingly brilliant Roark, characters such as the intense Dominique Francon, the symbolic Peter Keating, the brutal Gail Wynand and the infuriating Ellsworth Toohey (whose idiotic name even begins to grate on the reader after a while) inhabit the murky, violent world generated by explicit greed and materialistic values. 

It makes for a truly incredible work of art on Rand's behalf. Although I strongly disagree with the author's capitalist beliefs, The Fountainhead is one of the finest works of literature in existence. To read it is an intense and overwhelming experience, and can understandably leave one with a feeling of discomfort that naturally emerges from spending hours in the company of greedy, selfish and downright terrible characters. 

But do pursue with this unique narrative - it is absolutely worth it. 

The brilliance of some novels can have you hooked; the gripping repulsiveness of The Fountainhead, on the other hand, has you downright addicted. 

Alex. 

Conflict

Exposed, skeletal figures were captured in their

Vain attempt to escape being suffocated by an invisible

Pursuer, which now suspends them in time,

Their glistening screams hollow and silent.

The night’s terror departed like an ascending veil,

Under which death was concealed. Now it hangs above,

Recalled, lingering, waiting to launch yet

Another attack on more exhausted victims.

Fresh and tender, a revived atmosphere rings

And echoes with the trauma of a

Vicious battle. The day will tend

Gently to the wounded; yet, hope of a true

Conclusion is but a dream in a realm of nightmares,

Evaporating in thin, spiralling clouds. Any remaining life

Braces for the horror of another dark

Onslaught in this noiseless, compulsive

Massacre. 

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” - Ernest Hemingway

The title of this opening post is my favourite quote related to literature. Hemingway's powerful words are a reminder of the emotion and power which stems from reading and writing. It suggests, in my opinion at least, that literature is immortal. As long as people channel their emotion and experiences into words, poetry, novels, short stories and other forms of writing, literature will accompany us through the best and worst of times, capturing life in new and thought-provoking ways - and this is perhaps the most beautiful aspect about this form of art: it is undeniably and absolutely human.

Indeed, we bleed words as the troubled Hemingway once said. We hoard them, too, and crave their power to conjure images and feelings. We learn the lessons they teach us. Writing and reading is a deep, artistic form of escapism, and it always will be. Such reasons are exactly why I decided to set up this page: because when literature captures your interest as deeply as it has mine, sharing and debating thoughts and opinions is an excellent way of bringing the words to life away from the page. To bring literature to the internet is to pair up two ideally suited partners: and I for one certainly hope it is an extensive and emotional love affair between them.

Thank you for reading my first post. I hope you will enjoy sharing your passion for reading, writing and words of any kind with me, for I certainly will with you.

Alex.