The Throwing of Books

This semester seems to be one of book throwing. Now, I know for English majors, the very idea of hurling a book across the room at full speed and considerable force seems reprehensible, even an act of sacrilege. But I confess! I have committed this blasphemy several times this semester. I think the first book that I threw across my living room was that of Finnegan's Wake. I was frustrated with a language that wasn't language and yet all language. I was frustrated at not being able to read. In conventional terms. I don't really blame myself for that one though; Sexson warned us this might happen.

Next, I threw Beckett.....lovingly. I had just read a particularly mundane passage in Molloy and frustratingly let the book fall to the floor with a satisfying thud. The important thing about Beckett though, is that I picked it back up. And I loved reading Malone Dies.

After throwing a Shakespearean play the other day (I'm beginning to detect a trend: This class is bleeding into others) after muddling through its lengthy introduction, I picked up The Alchemist. Mere hours later, I had the unmistakable feeling that this would follow the others. Turning the pages with restrained vehemence, I voiced my opinions to my sister and roommate. She had already laughed at me when, without provocation, I had thrown the book I was reading previously at least four feet to a clatter of pages on the floor. Now she laughed again. I'm glad I was some sort of amusement for her, at least. =)

I didn't like The Alchemist because it didn't engage me. It read like a self-help book with talk of "Personal Legends" and the "Soul of the World" etc. I noticed that after each revelation that Coelho presented, the narrative voice would change to describe in great detail how the boy now believed this, was certain of that. It seemed to me that Coelho presented the idea and then took the reader, embodied in the boy, and told that reader "you belieeeeeve me......you belieeeeeve", like a sorceror or a simple trickster whose trick was all too evident. Without a doubt, the greater themes of definitions of place and of dreams are of vital importance in anyone's life. Truly, we can often only know a place by leaving it, or at least by having a mentality that allows one to distance oneself from attachment and self-limitation. However, in the Alchemist I feel this theme is diluted or diffused even as it is staring me in the face like a brick wall. Is there anything wrong with wanting to find the truth for oneself, in wanting a book to engage me and entrap me like, say, a Nabokov novel??

I suppose I have become spoiled by a semester of reading Nabokov. I want to be so engaged in the details and their relation to the whole, grand master scheme that I almost physically cannot put the book down. I want to know there is something more beneath the surface, something tangible and concrete, even if that "reality" is an illusion as well. I am quite content to peel back the layers of one of his novels incessantly. As horrifying as it is to say this, I simply don't feel that connection or sense of being vividly engaged with the material this semester. Perhaps this is due to the fact that the low-brow is too obvious to be compelling, and the high-brow, such as Finnegans Wake, is like a fearsome giant looming over me. I have no weapons. I feel the works of Nabokov are every bit as difficult and meaningful, if not more so, than what we are reading.

I'm frustrated and wondering, why do I feel the constant need to throw something at the nearest wall?? I think Beckett may be my saving grace in the end, but only because Malone Dies gripped me. I simply don't know what to do about the throwing of books. Quite frankly, I don't think they can take much more abuse. =)