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4.02 AVERAGE
4.02 AVERAGE
challenging
dark
emotional
hopeful
reflective
sad
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
In my experience, the French have become notorious for novels in which next to nothing happens. This might be the first one of that class which I can wholeheartedly endorse to every reader.
I first heard about Francois Mauriac reading James K.A. Smith on the evolution of secular society and I have quickly learns that when Smith makes any sort of pop culture or art reference, it should be taken action upon immediately. I quickly learned that Mauriac was the Nobel Prize winning Catholic counterpart to the popular philosophizing of Camus and Sartre in post-war Paris. For whatever reason, his brand of aggressively philosophical religious self-examination has fallen to the wayside in every circle I have ever heard from. It is to our great loss that things are this way and I look forward to reading and recommending more of his work in the future.
Is the the tangle of Vipers surrounding us, or is it within us? That is the question that slowly becomes more relevant to an elderly man on his deathbed, surrounding by family members of all sorts who are eager to secure their family fortunes. He is a profound atheist and a man who tries to be honest about his own short-comings and deceptions while always remaining assured that he saw been more severely abused by his so-called "Christian" wife and children than he has been abusive. Now he needs to find a way to dispose of his hard earned millions before he kicks the bucket, all while recording a life time of slights and avoiding thinking of those beautiful moments of grace that haunt the encroaching shuffling of moral coil.
This book is as deeply and personal spiritual as an could endeavor to be, but it rarely mentions God or eternity or meaning. It is a story of an unrepentant Scrooge on Ivan Ilyich's deathbed, surrounded by the family from the Twilght Zone episode The Masks. The book is mainly deathbed reminiscences and the revelation of all the hiding one man can do within a lifetime. It is an incredibly introspective read that sheds light on the hypocrisy of cultural religion and the true spiritual experiences at the core of every individual existence. Originally, Mauriac's own Roman Catholic Church was uncomfortable with the depths of exposure he called to light in the complacent middle class experiences of French Catholics, but this is a book that needs to be read, by those who are religiously content and those who are truly searching.
I first heard about Francois Mauriac reading James K.A. Smith on the evolution of secular society and I have quickly learns that when Smith makes any sort of pop culture or art reference, it should be taken action upon immediately. I quickly learned that Mauriac was the Nobel Prize winning Catholic counterpart to the popular philosophizing of Camus and Sartre in post-war Paris. For whatever reason, his brand of aggressively philosophical religious self-examination has fallen to the wayside in every circle I have ever heard from. It is to our great loss that things are this way and I look forward to reading and recommending more of his work in the future.
Is the the tangle of Vipers surrounding us, or is it within us? That is the question that slowly becomes more relevant to an elderly man on his deathbed, surrounding by family members of all sorts who are eager to secure their family fortunes. He is a profound atheist and a man who tries to be honest about his own short-comings and deceptions while always remaining assured that he saw been more severely abused by his so-called "Christian" wife and children than he has been abusive. Now he needs to find a way to dispose of his hard earned millions before he kicks the bucket, all while recording a life time of slights and avoiding thinking of those beautiful moments of grace that haunt the encroaching shuffling of moral coil.
This book is as deeply and personal spiritual as an could endeavor to be, but it rarely mentions God or eternity or meaning. It is a story of an unrepentant Scrooge on Ivan Ilyich's deathbed, surrounded by the family from the Twilght Zone episode The Masks. The book is mainly deathbed reminiscences and the revelation of all the hiding one man can do within a lifetime. It is an incredibly introspective read that sheds light on the hypocrisy of cultural religion and the true spiritual experiences at the core of every individual existence. Originally, Mauriac's own Roman Catholic Church was uncomfortable with the depths of exposure he called to light in the complacent middle class experiences of French Catholics, but this is a book that needs to be read, by those who are religiously content and those who are truly searching.
It's a deep novel, the kind that can be written only an author with keen sensibility into human nature and human relationship with one another and with the world.
The novel is framed as a vengeful letter an old man is writing to his wife, who apparently is responsible for "that lost cause, my life." He enlists the reasons (his petty jealousy --which he doesn't think is petty--, his wife's indifference toward him, his wife's devotion to their children). The story moves back and forth in time seamlessly, recounting the narrator's youth in the past along with the visit from his children and grandchildren in the now. The letter, in turn, turns into a confession, somewhat in a sense similar to Augustine's confession in that he revisits his sins to objectively reevaluate his past judgments and convictions.
Complex as it is, with a distasteful narrator, the novel is compelling as we readers get invested into his fate. Will he be passing on his letter to his wife finally? What would happen to his inheritance, which he tries so hard to keep away from his children?
It is deemed a "catholic" novel, but it is more so a "family" novel, as the main conflicts tangle around members of his family. There is a void in every one of us, that can't be filled with earthly matters, and the disillusionment in the end comes very subtlety that unless one is a careful reader, one would miss it. There is a kind of transformation, but human mind is so limited, that despite the transformation and new mindset, there's only so much we can do solely with our intellect and determination.
What he truly sought was the genuine attention and love from his family members. Love that doesn't get compromised by pitiful and earthly human interests.
--------------------------------------------------------------
The drama of our two lives, yours and mine, was conditioned by things which happened to me as a young man, things you never knew or, having known, promptly forgot.
The more conscious I was of their dislike, the more intolerable did I become. My youth was a prolonged condition of suicide. I was deliberately uncouth simply because I was afraid of being unconsciously so.
I resented the simple-minded way in which they exhibited their petty motives, because it forced me to realize that my own motives were precisely similar.
There was about it all a sense of quiet happiness from which I felt myself excluded. It was a zone of dreamlike innocence which I was forbidden to enter. It was a quiet sea of love which died into nothingness a few feet from the rock of my presence.
I took her hand, as I might have taken the hand of an unhappy child, and, like a child she leaned her head upon my shoulder. I received the gift of it merely because I happened to be there. The earth receives the fallen peach. Most human beings come together not as the result of any deliberate choice, but like trees which have grown side by side, their branches interlacing in the simple process of their growth.
The Abbe Ardouin raised you up, and spoke of how we must make ourselves like little children if we are to enter the Kingdom of the Father. "She lives, she sees you, she is waiting for you." But you shook your head. The words did not even penetrate to your brain. Your faith was useless to you. You had thoughts for nothing but that flesh of your flesh, which was going to be laid in the earth and would soon know corruption. It was I, the unbeliever, who realized, as I looked at what was left of Marie, the full meaning of the word "remains." I was overwhelmed by a sense of departure, of absence. She was no longer there.
It is then that I feel it impossible to deny that a way does exist in me which might lead me to your God. If I could reach the point of feeling satisfied with myself, I could fight this sense of pressure with more hope of success. If I could despise myself unreservedly, then the issue would be settled once and for all. But when a man is as hard as I am, when his heart, as in my case, has become dead wood, when he can inspire only hatred, and create about himself nothing but a waste land, ten he has no defense against the onrush of hope.
What better proof could there be that hope springs eternal in the human breast? We are none of us without it.
I wonder whether you will understand what I mean when I say that where his treasure was, there his heart was not?
The novel is framed as a vengeful letter an old man is writing to his wife, who apparently is responsible for "that lost cause, my life." He enlists the reasons (his petty jealousy --which he doesn't think is petty--, his wife's indifference toward him, his wife's devotion to their children). The story moves back and forth in time seamlessly, recounting the narrator's youth in the past along with the visit from his children and grandchildren in the now. The letter, in turn, turns into a confession, somewhat in a sense similar to Augustine's confession in that he revisits his sins to objectively reevaluate his past judgments and convictions.
Complex as it is, with a distasteful narrator, the novel is compelling as we readers get invested into his fate. Will he be passing on his letter to his wife finally? What would happen to his inheritance, which he tries so hard to keep away from his children?
It is deemed a "catholic" novel, but it is more so a "family" novel, as the main conflicts tangle around members of his family. There is a void in every one of us, that can't be filled with earthly matters, and the disillusionment in the end comes very subtlety that unless one is a careful reader, one would miss it. There is a kind of transformation, but human mind is so limited, that despite the transformation and new mindset, there's only so much we can do solely with our intellect and determination.
What he truly sought was the genuine attention and love from his family members. Love that doesn't get compromised by pitiful and earthly human interests.
--------------------------------------------------------------
The drama of our two lives, yours and mine, was conditioned by things which happened to me as a young man, things you never knew or, having known, promptly forgot.
The more conscious I was of their dislike, the more intolerable did I become. My youth was a prolonged condition of suicide. I was deliberately uncouth simply because I was afraid of being unconsciously so.
I resented the simple-minded way in which they exhibited their petty motives, because it forced me to realize that my own motives were precisely similar.
There was about it all a sense of quiet happiness from which I felt myself excluded. It was a zone of dreamlike innocence which I was forbidden to enter. It was a quiet sea of love which died into nothingness a few feet from the rock of my presence.
I took her hand, as I might have taken the hand of an unhappy child, and, like a child she leaned her head upon my shoulder. I received the gift of it merely because I happened to be there. The earth receives the fallen peach. Most human beings come together not as the result of any deliberate choice, but like trees which have grown side by side, their branches interlacing in the simple process of their growth.
The Abbe Ardouin raised you up, and spoke of how we must make ourselves like little children if we are to enter the Kingdom of the Father. "She lives, she sees you, she is waiting for you." But you shook your head. The words did not even penetrate to your brain. Your faith was useless to you. You had thoughts for nothing but that flesh of your flesh, which was going to be laid in the earth and would soon know corruption. It was I, the unbeliever, who realized, as I looked at what was left of Marie, the full meaning of the word "remains." I was overwhelmed by a sense of departure, of absence. She was no longer there.
It is then that I feel it impossible to deny that a way does exist in me which might lead me to your God. If I could reach the point of feeling satisfied with myself, I could fight this sense of pressure with more hope of success. If I could despise myself unreservedly, then the issue would be settled once and for all. But when a man is as hard as I am, when his heart, as in my case, has become dead wood, when he can inspire only hatred, and create about himself nothing but a waste land, ten he has no defense against the onrush of hope.
What better proof could there be that hope springs eternal in the human breast? We are none of us without it.
I wonder whether you will understand what I mean when I say that where his treasure was, there his heart was not?
challenging
emotional
mysterious
reflective
sad
fast-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Close Reads podcast read, and it was interesting. I feel bad that the father was so caught up in his own life and assumptions about his family that he neglected his wife and children. Because of those decisions, he was unable to really save those relationships at the end of his life.
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Might give it more stars upon rereading. I like Mauriac’s writing style.
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I enjoyed this book, because all of the technical aspects were in order. The main character was complex, the themes developed and unfolded as the book progressed, and Mauriac is simply a good writer. But I don't think that I can truly understand and internalize it. I do not have the life experience at 17 to understand the decades of bitterness that the main character accumulates, nor the ambiguous spiritual release he is offered. Granted, I don't generally need to share experience with a character to understand them, but in this case I think it's necessary. In short, I enjoyed the book because it was extremely well-written and interesting, but I'd like to revisit it in the future and see if there is more waiting in the wings for me in terms of connection with its themes.