Gregor Samsa
That Guy
Seeing listing my definitive favourite books (As seen through my hesitatnt attempts above) is too difficult, I'll list some of my favourite short stories/novellas.
Joseph Conrad-Heart Of Darkness I read this in a single sitting, compelled by the plot, prose and ideas raised throughout. The critique of imperialism in this text is clever and quite subtle, considering the context. It is apparent from the beginning of the text, even in aspects such as Marlowe remembering his idolisation of Francis Drake and John Franklin, seeing that Drake was virtually a pirate and Franklin eventually resorted to cannibalism. This is heightened by the use of abstract, surreal imagery, such as the French ship 'firing into a continent', and generally, the text's endurance is supported in this sense, as the issues raised remain relevant today.
The surrealism of the text is also emphasised through the structure, the story being an account [An unnamed seaman] of an account [Marlowe], the lengthy passages of his mediations upon the events demonstrating the extent to which he has been transformed by his experience. The closing passage is quite beautiful as well.
Additionally, it's interesting reading Heart Of Darkness and then comparing it to 'The Congo Diary', published in the Penguin Modern Classics edition of HoD. The Congo Diary is a huge contrast, written in terse prose, merely describing the events and details of each day, as opposed to the vivid language of Heart Of Darkness. I recommend both.
Franz Kafka-The Burrow. One of his later works, this story has been seen as the inverse of The Castle. [In the sense that The Castle deals with an outsider coming into a sealed environment, while in this case, the story concerns a protagonist trying to keep away outsiders.)
Simply, the plot depicts an unidentified creature lurking within the confines of his burrow, planning its defences against unseen intruders. What makes it great however, is how these concerns are reflected through the textual structure and language itself, which comes across as utterly claustrophobic and paranoid, never moving out of the creature's thought-processes within the burrow, constantly referring to those beings who may possibly break through the walls;
But you do not know me if you think I am afraid, or that I built my burrow simply out of fear. At a distance of some thousand paces from this hole lies, covered by a movable layer of moss, the real entrance to the burrow, it is secured as safely as anything in this world can be secured; yet someone could step on the moss or break through it, and then my burrow would lie open, and anybody who liked-please note however, that quite uncommon abilities would also be required- could make his way in and destroy everything for good. I know that very well, and even now, at the zenith of my life, I can scarcely pass an hour in complete tranquility; at that one point in the dark moss I am vulnerable, and in my dreams I often see a greedy muzzle sniffing around it persistently [Complete Short Stories, p.325.]
Even the ending is ambigious, although I won't spoil it here. [Among my other favourite Kafka stories are The Metamorphosis, In The Penal Colony, The Great Wall Of China and A Hunger Artists.]
Anton Chekhov-A Dreary Story. A rather depressing tome, in the best tradition, focusing upon the decline of an aging university professor. Like other Chekhov texts, the progression is one of natural processes, realism [In this sense, Chekhov's short stories are also very innovative, instead of depending on unlikely events and contrivances..] made compelling through the use of language and greater relevance. This is more aptly demonstrated through quoting the text itself;
Sleeplessness and the strain of combating increasing weakness leads to something strange in me. In the middle of my lecture tears suddenly rise in my throat, my eyes begin to smart, and I feel a passionate, hysterical desire to stretch out my hands before me and break into loud lamentation. I want to cry out in a loud voice that I, a famous man, have been sentenced by fate to the death penalty, that within six months another man will be in control here in the lecture theatre. I want to shriek that I am poisoned; new ideas such as I have not known before have poisoned the last days of my life, and are still stinging my brain like mosquitoes. And at that moment, my position seems to me so awful that I want all my listeners to be horrified, to leap up from their seats and to rush in panic, in terror, with desperate screams, to the exit.
It is not easy to get through such moments. [Chekhov Omnibus, p.95.]
However, it is not unremittingly depressive, also possessing some moments of subtle humour, and even an uplifting message. This message is an imperative that remains memorable to me; Indifference is the paralysis of the soul. It is premature death, namely that we must attempt fundamentally to care.
James Joyce-The Dead. I only finished reading this story yesterday, and it's already among the ranks of my favourite stories. Functioning not only as an independent work, but as the conclusion of Dubliners, the 'plot' almost resembles Chekhov in that it, like the other works in Dubliners is realist; little happens, in the conventional sense, but the dramatic catharsis and implications are enormous.
Essentially, this text relates a short period in the life of Gabriel Conroy, before depicting his epiphany as to the love of his wife towards another in the past. (Saying more would be spoiling it.) In this limited scope however, the meaning extends not only to the entirety of Ireland (As seen in the last paragraph. not printed here.
), but to human existence itself.
The prose in which this is related is beautiful, especially in the final passages.. The passage which follows however, is not part of the story's conclusion. Nevertheless, it is excellent.
A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from his heart and went coursing in warm flood along his arteries. Like the tender fire of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew or ever would know of, broke upon and illumined his memory. He longed to recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dull existence together and remember only their moments of ecstasy. For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul or hers. Their children, his writing, her houehold cares had not quenched all their souls' tender fire. In one letter that he had written to her then he had said:
Why is it that words like theses seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?' L
Like distant music these words that he had written years before were borne towards him from the past. He longed to be alone with her. When the others had gone away, when he and she were in the room in the hotel, then they would be alone together. [The Essential James Joyce, p.167]
Simply, I recommend all four of these texts thoroughly. All are well worth reading, and pondering.
Joseph Conrad-Heart Of Darkness I read this in a single sitting, compelled by the plot, prose and ideas raised throughout. The critique of imperialism in this text is clever and quite subtle, considering the context. It is apparent from the beginning of the text, even in aspects such as Marlowe remembering his idolisation of Francis Drake and John Franklin, seeing that Drake was virtually a pirate and Franklin eventually resorted to cannibalism. This is heightened by the use of abstract, surreal imagery, such as the French ship 'firing into a continent', and generally, the text's endurance is supported in this sense, as the issues raised remain relevant today.
The surrealism of the text is also emphasised through the structure, the story being an account [An unnamed seaman] of an account [Marlowe], the lengthy passages of his mediations upon the events demonstrating the extent to which he has been transformed by his experience. The closing passage is quite beautiful as well.
Additionally, it's interesting reading Heart Of Darkness and then comparing it to 'The Congo Diary', published in the Penguin Modern Classics edition of HoD. The Congo Diary is a huge contrast, written in terse prose, merely describing the events and details of each day, as opposed to the vivid language of Heart Of Darkness. I recommend both.
Franz Kafka-The Burrow. One of his later works, this story has been seen as the inverse of The Castle. [In the sense that The Castle deals with an outsider coming into a sealed environment, while in this case, the story concerns a protagonist trying to keep away outsiders.)
Simply, the plot depicts an unidentified creature lurking within the confines of his burrow, planning its defences against unseen intruders. What makes it great however, is how these concerns are reflected through the textual structure and language itself, which comes across as utterly claustrophobic and paranoid, never moving out of the creature's thought-processes within the burrow, constantly referring to those beings who may possibly break through the walls;
But you do not know me if you think I am afraid, or that I built my burrow simply out of fear. At a distance of some thousand paces from this hole lies, covered by a movable layer of moss, the real entrance to the burrow, it is secured as safely as anything in this world can be secured; yet someone could step on the moss or break through it, and then my burrow would lie open, and anybody who liked-please note however, that quite uncommon abilities would also be required- could make his way in and destroy everything for good. I know that very well, and even now, at the zenith of my life, I can scarcely pass an hour in complete tranquility; at that one point in the dark moss I am vulnerable, and in my dreams I often see a greedy muzzle sniffing around it persistently [Complete Short Stories, p.325.]
Even the ending is ambigious, although I won't spoil it here. [Among my other favourite Kafka stories are The Metamorphosis, In The Penal Colony, The Great Wall Of China and A Hunger Artists.]
Anton Chekhov-A Dreary Story. A rather depressing tome, in the best tradition, focusing upon the decline of an aging university professor. Like other Chekhov texts, the progression is one of natural processes, realism [In this sense, Chekhov's short stories are also very innovative, instead of depending on unlikely events and contrivances..] made compelling through the use of language and greater relevance. This is more aptly demonstrated through quoting the text itself;
Sleeplessness and the strain of combating increasing weakness leads to something strange in me. In the middle of my lecture tears suddenly rise in my throat, my eyes begin to smart, and I feel a passionate, hysterical desire to stretch out my hands before me and break into loud lamentation. I want to cry out in a loud voice that I, a famous man, have been sentenced by fate to the death penalty, that within six months another man will be in control here in the lecture theatre. I want to shriek that I am poisoned; new ideas such as I have not known before have poisoned the last days of my life, and are still stinging my brain like mosquitoes. And at that moment, my position seems to me so awful that I want all my listeners to be horrified, to leap up from their seats and to rush in panic, in terror, with desperate screams, to the exit.
It is not easy to get through such moments. [Chekhov Omnibus, p.95.]
However, it is not unremittingly depressive, also possessing some moments of subtle humour, and even an uplifting message. This message is an imperative that remains memorable to me; Indifference is the paralysis of the soul. It is premature death, namely that we must attempt fundamentally to care.
James Joyce-The Dead. I only finished reading this story yesterday, and it's already among the ranks of my favourite stories. Functioning not only as an independent work, but as the conclusion of Dubliners, the 'plot' almost resembles Chekhov in that it, like the other works in Dubliners is realist; little happens, in the conventional sense, but the dramatic catharsis and implications are enormous.
Essentially, this text relates a short period in the life of Gabriel Conroy, before depicting his epiphany as to the love of his wife towards another in the past. (Saying more would be spoiling it.) In this limited scope however, the meaning extends not only to the entirety of Ireland (As seen in the last paragraph. not printed here.
), but to human existence itself.The prose in which this is related is beautiful, especially in the final passages.. The passage which follows however, is not part of the story's conclusion. Nevertheless, it is excellent.
A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from his heart and went coursing in warm flood along his arteries. Like the tender fire of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew or ever would know of, broke upon and illumined his memory. He longed to recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dull existence together and remember only their moments of ecstasy. For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul or hers. Their children, his writing, her houehold cares had not quenched all their souls' tender fire. In one letter that he had written to her then he had said:
Why is it that words like theses seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?' L
Like distant music these words that he had written years before were borne towards him from the past. He longed to be alone with her. When the others had gone away, when he and she were in the room in the hotel, then they would be alone together. [The Essential James Joyce, p.167]
Simply, I recommend all four of these texts thoroughly. All are well worth reading, and pondering.
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