I feel like Niki Jumpei in Kobo Abe’s The Woman in the Dunes.

Reading The Woman in the Dunes got me thinking about freedom and attachment.

Was Niki free before he fell into the pit? It seems not, since even his ordinary job had become a burden. Was he free once he found himself in the pit? Still no, because he was driven by the desire to return to his familiar life.

But did he become free when he had the chance to escape the pit and consciously chose to stay? At first, it seems that this is when he comes closest to freedom, because he finally has a choice. And yet, hasn’t he become attached to his invention - the very thing that now keeps him in the pit?

Right now, I feel like Niki with a ladder within reach.

I live in a city that is under almost constant attack by drones and missiles. I could leave, but I don’t want to.

Can I be free if I cannot build my life the way I want to? When I choose to stay in danger, is it freedom that guides me, or attachment?

It so happened that I read The Things We Never Say by Elizabeth Strout and Ripeness by Sarah Moss in quick succession, and I wanted to discuss something that struck me. In both novels, there are characters who decide – in one case on their deathbed, in the other case, possibly after their death – to reveal to other people the story of their biological origins.
While the situations, the circumstances and the certainty of the revelations differ between the two novels, it made me think – why do people approaching the end of their lives feel it permissible or even necessary to disrupt another person’s life by confessing to them something that they probably didn’t want to know in the first place?

Does the confessor always have the moral right to do so, because it is “the truth”? Or is their ethical standing questionable precisely because the truth is not always welcome?

How should the dilemma of “revealing” vs “concealing” be considered in life?

And, more to the point, how compelling do you think it has been dealt with in these two novels?

My own thoughts on the matter are here.

In the case of The Things We Never Say, Reginald chooses to send a letter to his biological son without any consideration for what consequences it may have, which strikes me as particularly selfish, cruel and uncalled for. I can't recall any compunction on his part of the sort like: "I grappled with this idea for some time. I was unsure whether I should tell you, but on the whole I decided that the fullness of knowledge is better than obscurity, and as much as it pains me that it may cause you distress, I choose to inform you of this." Strout also portrays him as arrogant, contemptuous, and envious. With that in mind, I read his actions as having one clear motive – he wants, at the end of his life, to reclaim his son without much concern for what it may cause the young man to feel. Egoistic, to say the least.
Consistent characterisation on Strout’s part, but not too much depth on this particular matter. It may be an artistic choice; I don’t argue with that.

With Ripeness, the depiction is more subtle. Towards the end of the narrative, Edith says that she hopes her nephew would not read it, accepting that it may be too hurtful and unnecessary. She nevertheless doesn’t decide to destroy the letter. She leaves it on her computer in case Gabriel ever decides to seek information only she has. I can’t help thinking that her decision to compile the Italian account was dictated by the appearance of Henry in Méabh’s life, which also supplied me with the causal connection between the Irish and the Italian strands of the novel, which I initially missed. So, I would say it is a richer exploration – not surprising to find in a book dealing with the themes of origin and belonging. I also see that it is done with Moss’s characteristic restraint and attention to what can be not said.

The Labour government’s anti-democratic proscription of Palestine Action as a terrorist organisation has led to the withdrawal from sale in the UK of books by Sally Rooney, to avoid repression of her protest against the genocide in Gaza.

This interview surprised me. I'd also thought of Perfection as a novel that was almost mocking political action - it was a bit too content with its ironic detachment, a bit too distant, to get dirty with any real engagement. But here, it sounds like the author is more engaged than that. And its changed a bit my reading of the novel.

What do you think?

https://www.heistberlin.com/there-is-a-lie-in-the-book-vincenzo-latronico-on-perfection/

The poem was published in the Scots Observer in 1890 and then again in Kipling's seminal poetry collection "Barrack-Room Balads" in 1892.

Written as a dramatic monologue in the voice of a working class Cockney soldier, it lays out a long standing grievance that was now becoming impossible to ignore: the same public that shunned men in uniform during peacetime would call them heroes the moment war broke out.

“Tommy” was, and still remains, a nickname in Britain for the ordinary rank-and-file soldier. The ironic contrast between "Tommy, go away" and "Thank you, Mister Atkins" sharpens with each repetition.

The poem has outlasted most of the other Barrack-Room Balads because its subject refuses to become historical. British soldiers carried it through the First World War, and its refrain has been cited in parliamentary debates about veterans' welfare. That the poem helped shift public attitudes toward the British soldier in the 1890s was noted in Punch as early as the Christmas 1890 issue. Kipling gave the common soldier something no previous poet had offered: a voice that spoke in his own dialect, on his own terms, with a fury controlled enough to sound like wit but sharp enough to draw blood.

Tommy:

I went into a public 'ouse to get a pint o' beer,

The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."

The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,

I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:

O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";

But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play

The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,

O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,

They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;

They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,

But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";

But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide

The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,

O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep

Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap.

An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit

Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.

Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"

But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll

The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,

O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes," when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,

But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;

An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,

Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;

While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' Tommy, fall be'ind,"

But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind

There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,

O it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:

We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.

Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face

The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' Chuck him out, the brute!"

But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;

An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;

An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!

One of her books was shortlisted, "The Adventures of China Iron", and one longlisted "We were green and trembling". I recently read both and ended up feeling lukewarm on her, was wondering if anyone had an opinion to share.

The first is a reversioning of an Argentine poem, Martin Fierro, from the perspective of his wife, an unnamed character in the original. Okay, feminist revisits of classics is nothing new, let's see how it goes. I found the meta aspects of it to be the most interesting aspect, was left not impressed by the "the natives have a perfect society" angle or the vulgar sex descriptions. "Our pussy jucies made us sticky", "his cock in my ass showed me Paradise". I found her prose to actually be good elsewhere, that just seemed a bit unnecessary.

"We were green and trembling" is based on the real story of a nun that crossdresses as man and becomes a conquistador in America in the early 1500s. I liked this one better. Her prose got to shine, loved all the descriptions of nature, but again, was left not fully satisfied with the extreme environmentalist ending that feels more like wish fulfilment.

I am glad I found this quick read for under 6 dollars.

This line stuck with me, given general Reddit/online discourse and the world sitting at a knifes edge.

The men fighting on the front lines, very often, had a unspoken treatise not to fire at each other. The fighters with half a boot, covered in mud and lice, using jammed rifles, and taking lead through the neck are the ones that are sharing tobacco and jokes and truces with the "enemy" at the front.

All the while, the gawking rabble is where the most vitriolic language takes place. The hate back in Barcelona is ten times the hate of the men with the guns in their hands. This goes for any medium. The commenters at the back, are the furthest from reality and able to factionalize themselves via an avatar and spew hate. I think of hateful content creators, and how far away from reality their followers are. We Organize ourselves to live a vicarious revolution through the world view of other fallible men, and use those characters as shields to lob bombs from way behind the lines, often with much more hate than anyone at the front could ever stomach.

When we get face to face with ourselves; with humanity, we find a reason not to be violent with one another. We looks for the reasons that led us to the battlefield in the first place, and when we find those reasons, we get literature: men who are angry about it, men who are taken by the rhetoric of the state, men who make a joke of it, men who lose limbs and lives over it.

Personally, I accept this as a challenge to temper my behavior unless I'm on some battlefront myself. Because Orwell is absolutely correct. These factions are driven by men behind desks, the fighting and the blood all fly at the very front lines only, and that's where the most humanity takes place during wartime. When you're running on 2 hours of sleep per night, and 200 calories per day, and holding a photo of your family in one hand, with a rifle in the other, all of a sudden "maxxing" and "mogging" and the online anger and online hate become such silly temerities that we'll have been embarrassed to have published.

I don't have a tight polemic here on the book, I just enjoy finding important messages that relate to present day reality inside of books where you'd least expect it. I wish there was more to read by Orwell. I'll take any suggestions from here. Best.

Hey all! I am just reposting the announcement and schedule as a reminder. Get your copies by next Saturday if you'd like to participate!

Over the course of the next few weeks, we will be reading, in this order:

1. "The Birthday Party" by Harold Pinter
2. "The Bald Soprano" by Eugene Ionesco
3. "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" by Edward Albee

Schedule:

• The Birthday Party by Harold Pinter
  • Begin reading on October 24
    • Live discussion thread open between October 24-31
  • Finish reading on October 31
    • Final discussion opens on October 31
• The Bald Soprano by Eugene Ionesco
  • Begin reading on November 7
    • Live discussion thread open between November 7-14
  • Finish reading on November 14
    • Final discussion opens on November 14
• Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf by Edward Albee
  • Begin reading on November 21
    • Live discussion thread open between November 21-28
  • Finish reading on November 28
    • Final discussion opens on November 28
• Final thematic trilogy discussion opens on December 5

All threads will have potential spoilers. Please keep spoilers for the end of the plays out of the Live Discussion Thread and please keep discussion of the play as a whole reserved for the Final Discussion Thread. No volunteers needed.

Every play is available online for FREE!!! Please feel free to use these or get your hard copies by the first day of reading.

（I used a translator, so I apologize if anything sounds awkward.）

Although I really wanted to write extensive thoughts on every single part of this book, I've been incredibly lazy lately and feel like I have zero sustained motivation for anything. So, I'll just write a simple summary of my overall feelings.

I was immediately drawn to this book from the start because I really love Sebald's long sentences. I don't know if studying German for so long influenced this, but I don't recall having such a distinct preference before. Sebald's language has a slow, heavy cadence. Sometimes, certain sentences give me the feeling of someone who has been tormented by psychological/mental issues for a long time, struggling to articulate their feelings to others (friends, family, doctors). They rack their brains, painstakingly turning vague, abstract pain into language. They might use metaphors, or it might involve personal associations and deep thoughts, often vivid and hitting the nail on the head. At other times, those sentences are just sorrowful memories, hazy places you can never return to. Although at times the text isn't exactly advancing the plot, but merely describing what "I" or Austerlitz or other narrators see—plants, animals, architecture, museums, etc.—I feel these things are a crucial part of the book's atmosphere. But I also wonder, if this were any other book, I might find it long-winded. Right now, my attitude toward Austerlitz is one of indulgence because I've already fallen in love with it ().

Regarding the narrative, the overlapping structure is rare and I really like it. Although at the beginning I genuinely couldn't tell whether the "I" speaking was Austerlitz or the narrator, which made me think the two had some mysterious connection. Later I realized it was just because Sebald doesn't like using quotation marks. Regarding this, referring to a passage I wrote earlier in my review of The Emigrants:

「This complete surrender of trust also appears in the story of Austerlitz and the narrator "I", and it is precisely why Austerlitz's story can be heard. Sebald's works are almost always like this: "I" meet someone and listen to them tell their story; or the protagonist is already dead, and "I" learn about that person's life from someone else's mouth, and it can even be a retelling within a retelling. Regardless, telling someone about yourself in spoken or written form, or keeping them company in person, is a way to keep these people alive in more memories. Memory is another dimension of life; it is truly elusive. Although those "narrators"—especially the first-person "I"—are like containers drifting around this earth, seemingly playing the role of "NPCs", in reality they also fully possess their own lives and meanings, grounding the main characters' stories with gravity. All of this proclaims the importance of connections between human individuals. This leads to an interesting point—if someone reads this excerpt, they'll find many "I"s, and in reality, although these "I"s appear in the same (very long) short story, they don't always refer to the same person. This is Sebald's signature; he doesn't like using quotation marks for characters' speech (the only time I can recall him doing so is in Austerlitz when Vera excitedly shouts his name upon seeing him). So unknowingly, the "I" shifts to another person. It's like a life drama composed of countless individual monologues; every "I" has walked to the center of the stage to narrate to the audience—even if there aren't many people there. This gives the reader the feeling that we have truly gotten close to each of these "I"s and patiently listened to them, and that we genuinely care about them; it feels like we are living in the twentieth century, and as we listen to the "I"s' words, something flows into our bodies, trying to make us stay here. This writing seems to tell us that the experiences and memories of all people on the ruins of history are fused together—creating those "understatements" that appear in history textbooks, while the things behind them are so real, intimate, and painful. The tide of history sweeps everyone away; individuals are too small, insignificant in the face of it. The only thing that makes "I" feel real are the people and things in their own life. If that's the case, how do we fight loneliness? Since it's inevitable?」

The third point is the relationships between the characters. "I" and Austerlitz, Austerlitz and Gerald, Austerlitz and Marie, Vera and Agata. Also Austerlitz's teacher, and the person working in the French library at the very end of the book (if I remember correctly). The most captivating part is that there's no emphasis on any traditional romantic relationships; it dawned on me later that this is a very queer book. Actually, I could talk a lot about every single pairing, but I think the most mysterious one is "I" and Austerlitz. While reading, the reader is rarely reminded of the "I"'s presence or thoughts. Indeed, from a narrative perspective, the "I" is just a window, a tool for transitions. However, there are still a few places in the book that narrate the "I"'s attitude toward Austerlitz, and Austerlitz's trust in me—for example, the aforementioned giving "me" the keys to his house, and the most explicit yet belatedly realized thing: the entire narrative itself! Even if Austerlitz went to see a psychologist, he might not say this much—of course, I know the "I" as a narrative window has to write it this way—but just thinking about Austerlitz pouring his heart out and completely opening himself up for the narrator to see makes me feel this is so deep and mysterious. The "I" rarely expresses opinions in the story, but listening itself is already immense support. I think this is a relationship I really like... maybe it's my ideal QPR (queerplatonic relationship), where we can talk openly and honestly about anything, but without creating emotional burdens for each other, and we don't even need to be together all the time... The distance is very comfortable; it sounds too ideal. Also, regarding Austerlitz and Marie, although it's the closest thing to a romantic relationship in the whole book (not considering all the married people), I'm very relieved it didn't head in that narrative direction. In my mind, Marie has long, red, wavy hair and wears a black coat. She is very kind; after all, few people are willing to spend time and energy on someone with mental health issues, hoping to help them get better. Her line "Tomorrow is your birthday, I will wish you happiness, which is like praying for a broken machine to start working again" (roughly) left a deep impression on me. And Austerlitz's own desire for her is exactly the manifestation of how, despite being so withdrawn and unapproachable, he still desperately needs intimate connection—otherwise, he wouldn't have accepted "my" approach at Antwerp Central Station, otherwise Gerald's death wouldn't have been the beginning of his entire life going downhill (that part also left a deep impression on me). And the fact that Marie didn't just keep sacrificing herself and left him at that time was also what I expected. I kind of prefer seeing someone like Austerlitz, living in torment, encounter some warmth but not be able to possess it permanently, because in a sense, he is pitiful but genuinely difficult to get along with. In short, I feel this book is about people with similar temperaments attracting each other, making one feel less lonely, but in the end, no one can stay by your side for long—the ending where Austerlitz leaves for Paris wasn't what I expected. I thought he and "I" would become more closely connected, which would at least offer some comfort. But well, that's just how it ended.

I feel this book has a massive aftertaste, not only reflecting on the issues of history, individual existence, memory, and massacre in the story, but also the blank spaces in the character relationships. Sebald's narration is very restrained, yet he always writes things that make you think deeply. When applied to character relationships, I can't help but imagine the things not written in the book. After all, if the things that are written are like that, how much closer must they be in their everyday lives? How did they get along? I've thought about Austerlitz and Gerald's days at school, imagined Agata and Vera's companionship at home, imagined Vera waking up from a nightmare one midnight after Agata left, walking alone to Agata's favorite park (Agata's farewell part is very painful and tear-jerking, but I absolutely loved it), imagined Marie facing the gloom in Austerlitz's heart, and whether she would meet Austerlitz who was looking for her. Although these imaginations are purely my own fantasies based on personal preferences, they made me happy anyway.

A few more points. First, regarding the characters' speech. On one hand, most of the time it's reported speech, one layer, or two. I really like that somewhat calm, melancholic feeling. On the other hand, the rare times when quotation marks are directly used for dialogue always provide a strong emotional impact. For example, when Vera sees "Austerlitz", and in Vera's retelling when Agata shouts "I—don't—un-der-stand—". This mixed technique is very dynamic and better highlights certain emotions when needed. Second, the entire book doesn't emphasize any gender and doesn't sexualize any character, which makes me very comfortable. In contrast is Kafka—I bought his short story collection because Sebald greatly admired him, but after reading the third story, A Country Doctor, I couldn't continue. It was too symbolic, the story was too violent, and the narrator's language was too disgusting; even the profound metaphors were completely uncomfortable. Third, Austerlitz's aromanticism (and I've recently finally found this label for myself), although his tendency stems more from historical trauma rather than identity exploration as often discussed, the atmosphere is something I like. Plus, it's so rare in novels that it makes me cherish it even more.

Overall, I love this book for its memories and reflections on history, its detailed observations of nature and humanities, its narrative that deviates from mainstream society, and its narrative structure, language style, and queerness. That's pretty much it, hehe.

2026/08/02

Hey guys. Thanks for your warm reception to the first installment of this series.

Just posted this, and it's been weeks of full-time research.

Still processing it myself, but I'll be here to answer any questions.

If you could commission a fully illustrated copy of any book for yourself, which book would you pick? Why?

It would be one of a kind and just for you, so you wouldn’t have to consider what would appeal to anyone else or what would sell.

I think I would choose either Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities or Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I think both have scenes of high drama that would be thrilling to see rendered.

Any thoughts on the kind of artwork?

A book that I really wanted to like because it came highly recommended to me. At the start of the novel, I was captivated by the whimsical yet brooding atmosphere of Lenu and Lila’s childhood. There was this tense feeling of their naivete falling apart as they grew up in impoverished Naples.

Growing up was perhaps the issue with this book. By the time they reached their teens, the characters and the book became unlikable. Lila became this caricature of a teen girl that seems brilliant, smart but destructive. Lenu feels trapped, Lenu feels like she’s never good enough, but yet there’s no real sense of her trying to break out of this vicious cycle. Their sagas just read like ‘tragedy porn’ by the second third of the book. I frankly wanted to get it over and done with by then.

There are times when I just wanted to tell Lenu, to just live her life, just let Lila implode. Perhaps the novel is a criticism on the adults that offered these children absolutely no guidance; perhaps it’s a critique on what abject poverty does to the mind and the soul.

The book has been praised for its portrayal of women in literature; I do agree with that to a degree as it portrays Lenu and Lila’s transformation from girls to young women rather well. Admittedly, it’s a perspective that I’ve rarely read in the literature that I commonly consume. However, I found that the books reduced the men into just vehicles to advance the plot. Every man is just a love interest or just a means to an ends. I’ve found myself forgetting who is who because of simply just how poorly developed the men are.

So where does this book leave me? Unfortunately, it’s a disappointment; easy reading but nothing groundbreaking; the prose is not exactly beautiful either but perhaps some of it was lost in translation.

I love Carson and was very excited when she was announced the winner last week. After reading all the celebratory, feverish in-praise-or Anne Carson pieces I read Shephard and Krotov's Nobel column and found it very funny, refreshing and kind of liberating.

Here it goes for those who haven't read it: https://newrepublic.com/article/216421/anne-carson-nobel-prize-literature-perfect-laureate

The column also pointed me in the direction of the duo's previous Nobel hot-takes. Here's one of Jon Fosse: https://newrepublic.com/article/176006/nobel-prize-literature-fosse-return

And one on László Krasznahorkai: https://newrepublic.com/article/201543/nobel-prize-literature-boring-now

(you can find them all on archive.is)

would love to get your insight/opinions!

Welcome again to the TrueLit General Discussion Thread! Please feel free to discuss anything related and unrelated to literature.

Weekly Updates: N/A

Hi all, here is the announcement for our 30th, 31st, and 32nd read-along where we are taking a slightly different track. We will be reading a series of three plays all having to do with 'bad parties in literature.'

Over the course of the next few weeks, we will be reading, in this order:

1. "The Birthday Party" by Harold Pinter
2. "The Bald Soprano" by Eugene Ionesco
3. "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" by Edward Albee

Schedule:

• The Birthday Party by Harold Pinter
  • Begin reading on October 24
    • Live discussion thread open between October 24-31
  • Finish reading on October 31
    • Final discussion opens on October 31
• The Bald Soprano by Eugene Ionesco
  • Begin reading on November 7
    • Live discussion thread open between November 7-14
  • Finish reading on November 14
    • Final discussion opens on November 14
• Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf by Edward Albee
  • Begin reading on November 21
    • Live discussion thread open between November 21-28
  • Finish reading on November 28
    • Final discussion opens on November 28
• Final thematic trilogy discussion opens on December 5

All threads will have potential spoilers. Please keep spoilers for the end of the plays out of the Live Discussion Thread and please keep discussion of the play as a whole reserved for the Final Discussion Thread. No volunteers needed.

Every play is available online for FREE!!! Please feel free to use these or get your hard copies by the first day of reading.

I'm currently reading W.G. Sebald's The Rings of Saturn and absolutely loving it. His style of 'literature of associations' reminds me of Murnane or Proust; these writers use a similar structure of meaning-building by which they present a series of seemingly unrelated ideas, with some sort of 'epiphany' on discovering their connectedness. In Sebald we explore 'psychogeography' while Murnane explores 'mental landscapes,' usually to similar ends. I get a similar sensation from watching How to with John Wilson - following tangents along strange paths and finding yourself back at the beginning.

I can't help but notice the absence of women or non-male writers in my encounters with this form. I've read some modernist and post-modern texts from big name writers like Clarice Lispector (The Hour of the Star) and Virginia Woolf (Mrs. Dalloway and The Waves) but they haven't scratched this particular itch so far.

Does anyone have suggestions for other writers / texts to check out? Does anyone know how deep this particular rabbit hole goes? Does this style / genre / technique have a name?

Paris Review unlocked their “Art of Poetry” interview with Anne Carson to celebrate her winning the Nobel!