My Struggle, Volume 1 by Karl Ove Knausgaard

Real life so real it’s boring

My Struggle is a six-volume autobiographical work by Norwegian author Karl Ove Knausgaard. Volume 1 of the series was published in 2009. Although Knausgaard himself is the protagonist of My Struggle, and his real-life family figures largely in these books, it is unclear how much of the text is fact and how much fiction, which may explain why the books in this series are generally considered novels. When Volume 1 was released, it made a major splash in the literary world. As the edition I read states, “My Struggle has won countless international literary awards.” After reading Volume 1, however, it is difficult to see what the big deal is. Knausgaard is very skilled at documenting life with detailed verisimilitude. Such talent, however, doesn’t preclude his highly descriptive prose from meandering pointlessness.

Knausgaard and I are the same age, and his tales of adolescence read very similarly to my own. He drinks and smokes with his friends, avoids his parents, tries unsuccessfully to find sex and love, wastes his time romancing a girl who really isn’t interested, dreams of being a rock musician, and builds his identity around selected bands that he likes. A third of the book is this long, convoluted story about an underaged Knausgaard expending a great deal of effort to sneak beer to a New Year’s Eve party, a party which ends up being lame anyway. If Knausgaard’s intention is to elevate regular, mundane life to the realm of literature, then at least he got the mundane part right. It turns out that growing up in Norway in the 1980s wasn’t that much different from growing up in Wisconsin. I don’t need to read about this life; I lived it.

More interesting are Knausgaard’s philosophical thoughts on matters like marriage, fatherhood, and death. He and I share some common ground in our views on such subjects. Sometimes when you find an author who sees things the way you do, it can be a revelation. “There are other people in this world like me!” In this case, however, the familiarity is just boring. For instance, roughly half the book is devoted to the death of Knausgaard’s father, dealing with his grief, getting through the funeral, and so on. That is something that most middle-aged readers can identify with, having lived through such events with their own parents. Leading up to the funeral, however, did I really need to read Knausgaard’s quotidian impressions of an airport, what he ate for breakfast at his brother’s house, or a review of the bands they listened to on the car stereo? I guess all this accumulation of prosaic observations is supposed to create an atmosphere of real life, as if to emphasize the common humanity shared by “normal people” who put their pants on one leg at a time like everybody else, but it all just feels like a colossal waste of time. Not until half way through the book does anything happen that’s beyond ordinary, and even after that, I spent about three hours of my life reading about Knausgaard cleaning a house.

This is the second book I’ve read by Knausgaard, the first being his 2020 novel The Morning Star. On the basis of these two books, I surmise that Knausgaard’s strategy is to lull readers into a sleepy security by inundating them in the bland minutiae of everyday life, thereby magnifying the intensity of a few startling occurrences with which he intends to shock them toward the end of the book. The Morning Star ended in a vague, inconclusive termination. Likewise, at the very end of My Struggle, Volume 1, Knausgaard hints at some unusual aspects of his father’s death but then never delivers the secrets, thus pressuring the reader to purchase the next volume. Whether a marketing ploy or simply artsy pretention, such deliberately half-assed endings just feel like a cheat. I have already purchased Volume 2 of My Struggle, because it was on sale for a low price, but now I’m not so sure I want to spend my time on it.

Old Books by Dead Guys Reviews Banned from Amazon

Book reviews from Old Books by Dead Guys will no longer appear at Amazon.com. They cancelled me!

When one submits a review to Amazon, they have an automated system that searches for words and phrases that may be offensive. This is how they keep profanity, hate speech, spamming, and just plain rudeness off their site. If the system finds something it doesn’t like, it sends the reviewer a message saying it won’t post the review, but it doesn’t tell you what exactly you did wrong.

To give an example of this automated censorship, I once wrote a review of a book by Alexandre Dumas, in which I used the word “Dumas’s.” After Amazon’s robot gatekeeper rejected the review, I figured out that it was because that was too close to the word “dumbass.” I changed that word, and it posted the review.

I’ve had 5 to 10 reviews rejected over the past decade, out of 1300+ submissions. The most recent one was apparently the straw that broke the camel’s back, because all of my reviews, even the hundreds formerly deemed acceptable, have now been removed from the Amazon site. I doubt that any human being at Amazon has actually read my reviews. I have been banned by a software program.

So from now on, the only place one will be able to find my reviews is here at this blog. That’s too bad, because I think more people were reading them on Amazon than here. Oh well, if I really cared about the number of readers, I would have stopped writing this blog years ago. I basically just write it for my own enjoyment and will continue to do so.

Almost every review posted to this blog thus far ends with a link to the book’s Amazon page. Now none of those links will work. Just letting you all know, because I’m not going to go through 1400 blog posts and delete all of those links.

Thank you for reading Old Books by Dead Guys!

The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien by Georges Simenon

A suicide, but why?

Originally published in 1931 under the French title of Le Pendu du Saint-Pholien, this is the fourth book in George Simenon’s series of Inspector Maigret mystery novels. In English translation, this book has been published as The Crime of Inspector Maigret, Maigret and the Hundred Gibbets, and The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien. The title of the novel is a bit of a spoiler, so it’s best not explained.

Maigret has been in Brussels, conferring with the police there about a case. While patronizing a café in that city, Maigret spots a shabby, destitute-looking man handling a sizeable wad of cash. Maigret estimates the stack of bills to be at least 30,000 Belgian francs, which the suspicious character stuffs into an envelope that he addresses to a Paris address. Assuming this man is engaged in some form of thievery, Maigret decides to follow the guy, eventually tailing him to the train station. With apparently nothing else to do, Maigret follows his suspect on board a train traveling through Amsterdam to Bremen, Germany. There, the sleazy-looking fellow engages a hotel room, and Maigret takes the adjoining room. Spying on his suspect through the keyhole, Maigret watches as the man takes out a gun and, before Maigret can intervene, commits suicide.

After an examination of this mystery man’s belongings, Maigret determines that there is more to this story than meets the eye. Wondering where the money came from and why this man would so suddenly decide to blow his brains out, Maigret decides to investigate the suicide victim’s past. He immediately encounters an obstacle, however, when he discovers that this man, supposedly named Louis Jeunet, is traveling with a fake passport under an assumed name. The ensuing investigation into the dead man’s identity leads Maigret on a search stretching from Bremen to Paris, Rheims, and Liège.

This mystery makes for an intriguing puzzle that grips the reader’s curiosity and keeps one engaged throughout, but the story does have its problems. As happens in quite a few of these Maigret novels, the resolution doesn’t rely so much on Maigret’s detective work but rather on the suspects’ arbitrary decision to just spill their guts to him, as they do for roughly the final four chapters of this book. Simenon was an expert at constructing his crime novels around realistic and moving human stories, but the result is that sometimes the criminals’ and victims’ back stories take precedence over the actual mystery itself, as is the case here. The opening premise of the novel, with Maigret just following some guy on a whim, feels like a rather lazy, contrived means of setting up the revelations of alias Louis Jeunet’s past, which is really where Simenon directs most of his effort. Another element in this novel that I found a bit disturbing is that Maigret is actually responsible for the death of an innocent person, and he knows it, but it doesn’t seem to bother him too much.

Like most Maigret novels, once I picked this book up I didn’t want to put it down. Simenon’s prose is brisk and riveting. On the other hand, this is one where I felt like I had to suspend disbelief at times, and when I got to the end, I was left with a feeling of hmmm . . . that was odd. It defies expectations, and not always in a good way.

The Incredible Hulk Epic Collection, Volume 4: In the Hands of Hydra by Roy Thomas, Herb Trimpe, et al.

Boilerplate stories with pretty good art

The Epic Collection is Marvel’s line of trade paperbacks that reprint their comics from bygone eras, giving today’s readers a chance to experience the early runs of many of Marvel’s best-known superheroes from the 1960s and ‘70s. Nowadays, these comics are known as Marvel Volume 1, before they started renumbering all their titles with new #1s. The Incredible Hulk Epic Collection, Volume 4, reprints issues 118 to 137 from the Incredible Hulk title. These issues were originally published from August 1969 to March 1971. As is typical of the Epic Collection paperbacks, the comics are reprinted in color and brightly reproduced on matte-coated paper. The quality of the reproductions in this volume is very good.

Although this volume is subtitled In the Hands of Hydra, Hydra only appears for an issue or two. There weren’t a lot of multi-issue story arcs back in the ‘60s and ‘70s. Rarely did a story last longer than two issues. In the first few issues of this Hulk run, Stan Lee has a hand in the stories, but he soon hands off the writing duties to Roy Thomas, who would succeed Stan Lee a few years later as Marvel’s editor in chief. This was the era of the classic Hulk, the brutish beast who frequently proclaimed “Hulk smash!” and frequently uttered variations on “Why can’t puny humans leave Hulk alone?” As in the Bill Bixby TV series, this Hulk never manages to explicitly kill anyone. There was a narrowly prescribed limit to what could be done with this character, and the same basic story involving Hulk, Betty, and Thunderbolt Ross is repeated over and over again issue after issue, the only variation being the adversary on the receiving end of Hulk’s blows. In this volume, the Abomination, Maximus, Kang, the Leader, Tyrannus, and the Absorbing Man all show up for an issue or two. The Fantastic Four, the Avengers, and Iron Man each make an appearance. Two stories are devoted to a forgotten Man-Thing prototype named the Glob.

With a few exceptions, the art is handled by Herb Trimpe. Trimpe was a big name at Marvel during this era, primarily for his work on the Hulk. His art, however, isn’t nearly as good as contemporaries like Neal Adams, John Romita Sr., or the Buscema brothers. Trimpe tends to draw stocky, cartoony-looking characters with marshmallow shaped heads. The first few issues in this volume are not very well-drawn at all. In one panel, Trimpe adds an extra knuckle to a finger. Halfway through the volume, however, it’s as if someone at Marvel told Trimpe, “You should imitate Jack Kirby’s style,” and his art improves considerably from there. The best looking issues in this book are the few that were inked by John Severin, who I’m guessing did more than just ink, because he brings a more detailed, expressive style that calls to mind Hal Foster’s work on Prince Valiant. This brief Severin run includes issue #133, a comic I owned in my youth and lovingly reread and copied until it pretty much disintegrated. In this exciting issue, Hulk fights the forces of Draxon, the dictator of Morvania, a one-story villain who was never heard from again.

This volume also includes a reprint of Marvel Super-Heroes #16 (September 1968), featuring a World War I aviator hero called the Phantom Eagle. I guess this story is included because he’s a Trimpe creation, but it doesn’t really belong here, even if the character does make a supporting appearance in one of the Hulk issues. Overall, the art in this book is good, the writing is not so good, and neither is really great. If you like old Silver and Bronze Age Marvel Comics, as I do, then this book is a satisfactory nostalgia trip, but it once again proves that the contents of the Epic Collection volumes aren’t always epic in quality.

Star Trek Movie Memories by William Shatner and Chris Kreski

The conflicts and compromises behind the film franchise

Star Trek Movie Memories was published in 1994, just after actor William Shatner ended his career as Captain Kirk in the Star Trek franchise. This book is the sequel to Star Trek Memories, published the preceding year, in which Shatner recounts the making of the original Star Trek television series. In Star Trek Movie Memories, Shatner provides his behind-the-scenes perspective on the making of the six Star Trek feature films featuring the original cast, as well as the Star Trek: Generations film, in which he made his final appearance as Kirk along side The Next Generation cast. Both books were cowritten by Shatner and Chris Kreski, a former television writer.

Much like the volume that preceded it, Star Trek Movie Memories is not so much a collection of personal anecdotes of Shatner and his costars, but rather a production history of these seven Star Trek motion pictures. In addition to Shatner’s recollections, Shatner and/or Kreski interviewed many of the cast and crew to get their side of the story. Leonard Nimoy’s voice is once again quite prominent in this volume. In many ways, Nimoy had a more active creative role than Shatner in the building of the film franchise, and Shatner gives his old friend credit where it is due.

When comparing the two Memories books sheerly on the basis of subject matter, the making of movies in the 1980s is not nearly as interesting as the making of a groundbreaking sci-fi television series in the 1960s. Much of the text in this Movie Memories volume has to do with battles over script changes, contract negotiations of the actors and writers, and meddling by Paramount studio executives. This second book, however, does include more personal reflections from Shatner, and it reads more like it was written in Shatner’s voice. There is a touching chapter in which he describes the hard times in his career between the end of the television series and the beginning of the movie franchise. He also talks about his marital problems and his relationship with his daughters. Shatner closes the book with a candid examination of his coming to terms with the bittersweet feelings engendered by the death of Kirk and the end of his involvement with Star Trek.

It still feels, however, like Shatner is holding back a bit for diplomacy’s sake, particularly in regards to his castmates. It’s common knowledge that there has been some bad blood between the fictional captain and his crew over the years, but Shatner has a tendency to focus on the bright and sunny side of their relationships. He mentions at one point, for example, that James Doohan and Walter Koenig held a grudge against him, which made their joint participation in Generations difficult, but he never reveals the history behind that animosity. No longer does Shatner hold back on Gene Roddenberry, however, who was duly credited in the first book for his creation of Star Trek but is portrayed as the nemesis of the Star Trek franchise throughout this second book.

Reading Shatner’s first Star Trek Memories book made me want to go back and watch the original television series. Likewise, Star Trek Movie Memories inspired me to binge-watch the six original-cast motion pictures. Like a good DVD commentary, this book proved to be a valuable companion volume to the film series. Star Trek Movie Memories is not always as exciting or as forthright as the reader might hope, but like its predecessor it is a very informative book and a welcome trip down memory lane for even casual Star Trek fans. You don’t have to be a Trekkie zealot to enjoy it.  

Death in Venice and Seven Other Stories by Thomas Mann

A chore to get through

As an avid reader of literature both old and new, I like to give authors who have won the Nobel Prize in Literature a try (the prose writers at least; not so much the poets). I don’t think the Nobel laureates are necessarily the greatest writers who ever lived, but when I sample from that list of authors I can be reasonably sure that I’m going to get a good read, and I also get exposed to the literature and history of many different nations and cultures. Sometimes, however, the strategy doesn’t pay off, and I come across a laureate whose work I just don’t get or enjoy. Such is my first experience with German author Thomas Mann, winner of the 1929 Nobel.

Death in Venice and Seven Other Stories is a collection of Mann’s short fiction in English translation, first published in the U.S. in 1930. The title selection, “Death in Venice,” is probably Mann’s best known short story. In this 1911 work, an aging writer decides he needs a break from his routine, so he takes a vacation and ends up in Venice. There he becomes obsessed with a “beautiful” young Polish boy who is staying in his hotel. The writer proceeds to stalk this prepubescent boy, which makes for a very creepy read. At the same time, however, the creepiness is the only interesting aspect in an otherwise boring story. Mann was gay (though married with children), and it is admirable that he bravely introduced gay themes into his work. Pedophilia, on the other hand, is met with zero tolerance these days, so that unapologetic aspect of the story pretty much negates any of its positive qualities. Likewise, a story about an incestuous romance (“The Blood of the Walsungs”) is also difficult to engage with or defend.

The other stories in the book are not as offensive but equally as dull, if not more so. Although this is a collection of short stories, most of them are just shy of being long enough to be designated novellas. It’s hard to justify such lengthiness when these stories are comprised of so much description and so little plot. In just about every case, the first half of the story could be simply deleted, and it wouldn’t affect the end result much, other than to make each story less of a chore to slog through. The entry entitled “A Man and His Dog,” is simply that: a man describing his dog, ad nauseam. I don’t know if it’s fiction or nonfiction, but either way it is very tedious and pointless. Likewise, “Disorder and Early Sorrow” is a description of a party where almost nothing happens. The story may include social commentary, but it’s not enough to keep you awake.

There are a few selections here in which the characters aren’t totally off-putting, and Mann does offer a shoestring plot to weave amongst all the heaps of description. “Tristan,” “Tonio Kröger,” and “Felix Krull” are examples of stories that start out promising enough. Vague and inconclusive endings, however, pretty much render any satisfaction null and void. It’s almost as if Mann wants to disappoint readers. I guess this is what artsy types would call “challenging the reader,” but it’s just annoyingly pretentious. “Felix Krull,” in which a criminal recounts his gradual moral degradation, is the best entry in the collection, but that’s not saying much.

When I picked up this book, I was expecting something along the lines of Hermann Hesse, a German writer who was Mann’s contemporary and at least his acquaintance. Hesse, however, writes works that engage and inspire the reader, while Mann seems to do his best here to try readers’ patience and alienate them. For all I know, Mann may be one of the greatest novelists of all time, but I can’t say much for his short stories. There is nothing in this collection that makes me want to delve into one of his longer works like Buddenbrooks or The Magic Mountain.

Stories in this collection

Death in Venice

Tonio Kröger

Mario and the Magician

Disorder and Early Sorrow

A Man and His Dog

Blood of the Walsungs

Tristan

Felix Krull

The Map That Changed the World: William Smith and the Birth of Modern Geology by Simon Winchester

Too much hero worship and too many tangential digressions

The geologist William Smith is hardly a household name, but then again, how many geologists are? Perhaps Smith is more renowned in his native England, but Americans who aren’t specialists in this field are unlikely to have heard of Smith before coming upon Simon Winchester’s 2001 biography, The Map That Changed the World. Smith’s claim to scientific fame is that he discovered that rocks are arranged in strata, formed in different geological eras, and each strata can be identified by the fossils it contains. This was a very controversial idea at the time, when most people, scientists included, believed that God created the Earth a few thousands, not a few billion, years ago. Smith, also a skilled surveyor, was able, over the course of almost two decades, to single-handedly map the distribution of geological strata over the entirety of England, Scotland, and Wales. Because of good old-fashioned British classism, Smith was unfairly denied the credit he deserved for his discoveries. After reading Winchester’s book, one might also say he hasn’t gotten the biography he deserves either.

The most bothersome aspect of Winchester’s book is his unrelenting hero worship of Smith. There’s no attempt made for even the semblance of objectivity. First of all, “Changed the World” is a bit of an overstatement, isn’t it? Winchester makes it sound like prior to Smith’s map, everyone believed that the Earth was 6,000 years old. Later in the book, he does let it slip that maybe a few other scientists had the same idea. In a book that’s largely about fossils, Winchester doesn’t even mention Georges Cuvier, the Frenchman often credited as the “founding father of paleontology.” Winchester asserts that Darwin would never have formulated his theory of evolution were it not for the earlier pioneering work of Smith. That may be true, but the same could be said for at least a hundred other scientists. That’s what scientists do. They build upon the foundation of knowledge established by those before them. Smith did the same thing, even though Winchester tries to convince you that he was a savant who conducted research and experienced scientific revelations in a vacuum.

I don’t mean to make less of Smith’s discoveries and accomplishments; I only mean to make less of Winchester’s writing about them. Winchester repeatedly uses the words “genius” and “triumph” far too often throughout the book. Just tell us what the guy did, and let the reader be the judge of whether he’s a genius or not. The fact is, Smith only seems to appear sporadically in the book, while Winchester goes off on way too many extended asides: the history of prehistoric life, the history of coal, the history of canal building, the history of Bath as a tourist destination, Winchester’s own travels in the region, etc. Smith, meanwhile, feels like a forgotten guest in his own biography. Winchester also enjoys rattling off the names of myriad English towns and villages as if the reader grew up in this neighborhood and is expected to be intimately familiar with the area. Instead of a New York Times Bestselling scientific biography, the result often reads like a book aimed at a regional audience about a hometown boy who made good.

I read a lot of science biographies such as this. Of those written for a popular audience, the best ones grab your attention with an exciting story of the adventure of discovery. In that regard, The Map That Changed the World is a little on the boring side, mostly due to Winchester’s numerous digressions. Did I learn a thing or two about geology? Yes. Did I learn as much about Smith as I expected? No, not really. If there’s a more academic biography of Smith out there, it might be worth reading, but Winchester’s book wouldn’t inspire me to want to seek one out.

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