“The Corrections” by Jonathan Franzen
How good could a book be? Everyone asks ‘Was it a good book?’ ‘Was is worth it?’ ‘Was is interesting?’
Could a book be simply ‘good’, or just ‘very good’, or ‘very very good’, or ‘excellent’? Rather, what if I said that it was so good that if it was a fish, its eye would be the size of your head? It was so good that if measured in the length of yarn, its distance would be enough to rap itself around the Earth six times and still have enough to cover the length of I-95 from Maine to Florida and back. Or, it was that good that if it was a laugh, you’d not want to stop until your eyes were crying rivers, your heart was pounding so fast it resembled a water pump on steroids, your hands were sweating so much that you wished for a second to be made of sand, to be dead.
I am talking about ‘The Corrections” by Jonathan Franzen and I’m still trying to answer the nagging question ‘how good was it?’
It probably wouldn’t be enough for you if I told you an elite magazine called it simply a ‘masterpiece’. You’d probably like to know more if I mentioned that when I read it all I could think of was forsaking everything else that made sense in life and wanting to run head over heels to the nearest book store for another of Mr. Franzen’s ‘masterpieces’. Yes indeed. The book was so good that it could make a lazyboy chair sit upright and beg to be taken out for a walk. It was so good that I resembled a dog who sniffed the juiciest stake it ever laid eyes on and simply turned away because there was something better, something more exciting waiting in the other room.
You know what? I can’t put it into words. And you know why? Because I lack the mastery, the skills, which Mr. Franzen has in order to create dimensions into the minds of the readers. That’s how good the book was. It not only engaged me as a reader, but it actually drew me into the substance of its words, it pushed me down a slipper slop on a brand new shiny slay while at the same time it held my hand and patted my back to calm me down. It was as good as the feeling I get after a crazy week when I finally marinate in front of the TV while watching the latest episode of ‘The Sopranos’.
As I was reading the colorful utilization of language, I couldn’t do much else but wonder at the possibilities this book opened for me as a writer. ‘And you thought you’ve read it all’ is all I could say to myself. No, my friend, you haven’t read anything until you read this book, because I can say that it’s not only worth its own literary genre (see hysterical realism) but the fact that after 100 years, it’d still be listed as the Tolstoy or Joyce of the 21’st century.
It’s useless to give you an idea of the story line, because for the first time in my life I realize that a book doesn’t need to have a story line to capture one’s attention. If a writer can unfold reality to a degree where he folds the edges of it to create his own dimension of feelings, of experiences and of existence, that’s all a reader would ever need.
If you are near a library, look for this book. If you are near a bookstore, buy a copy. And then, when you sit down to read it, whether its in the nighttime or during the day, you’d recognize the power of words, the beauty of language, the value of ‘goodness’ in a book.
Mr. Franzen, you are my god!
Could a book be simply ‘good’, or just ‘very good’, or ‘very very good’, or ‘excellent’? Rather, what if I said that it was so good that if it was a fish, its eye would be the size of your head? It was so good that if measured in the length of yarn, its distance would be enough to rap itself around the Earth six times and still have enough to cover the length of I-95 from Maine to Florida and back. Or, it was that good that if it was a laugh, you’d not want to stop until your eyes were crying rivers, your heart was pounding so fast it resembled a water pump on steroids, your hands were sweating so much that you wished for a second to be made of sand, to be dead.
I am talking about ‘The Corrections” by Jonathan Franzen and I’m still trying to answer the nagging question ‘how good was it?’
It probably wouldn’t be enough for you if I told you an elite magazine called it simply a ‘masterpiece’. You’d probably like to know more if I mentioned that when I read it all I could think of was forsaking everything else that made sense in life and wanting to run head over heels to the nearest book store for another of Mr. Franzen’s ‘masterpieces’. Yes indeed. The book was so good that it could make a lazyboy chair sit upright and beg to be taken out for a walk. It was so good that I resembled a dog who sniffed the juiciest stake it ever laid eyes on and simply turned away because there was something better, something more exciting waiting in the other room.
You know what? I can’t put it into words. And you know why? Because I lack the mastery, the skills, which Mr. Franzen has in order to create dimensions into the minds of the readers. That’s how good the book was. It not only engaged me as a reader, but it actually drew me into the substance of its words, it pushed me down a slipper slop on a brand new shiny slay while at the same time it held my hand and patted my back to calm me down. It was as good as the feeling I get after a crazy week when I finally marinate in front of the TV while watching the latest episode of ‘The Sopranos’.
As I was reading the colorful utilization of language, I couldn’t do much else but wonder at the possibilities this book opened for me as a writer. ‘And you thought you’ve read it all’ is all I could say to myself. No, my friend, you haven’t read anything until you read this book, because I can say that it’s not only worth its own literary genre (see hysterical realism) but the fact that after 100 years, it’d still be listed as the Tolstoy or Joyce of the 21’st century.
It’s useless to give you an idea of the story line, because for the first time in my life I realize that a book doesn’t need to have a story line to capture one’s attention. If a writer can unfold reality to a degree where he folds the edges of it to create his own dimension of feelings, of experiences and of existence, that’s all a reader would ever need.
If you are near a library, look for this book. If you are near a bookstore, buy a copy. And then, when you sit down to read it, whether its in the nighttime or during the day, you’d recognize the power of words, the beauty of language, the value of ‘goodness’ in a book.
Mr. Franzen, you are my god!
- by Simon Cleveland
posted by Simon Cleveland @ 5:19 PM
2 comments
2 Comments:
Your are Nice. And so is your site! Maybe you need some more pictures. Will return in the near future.
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Very pretty design! Keep up the good work. Thanks.
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