How Literature Saved My Life - David Shields

Recently I went to the post office to pick up a package, and the woman behind the counter said, "We've been holding this one since January 1, is this for you?"  It was a big, flat manila mailing package--a book.  "Oh yes, that's mine."  It said 184 Clinton St and it said Flying Houses (I live at 148 Clinton, f.y.i.)

This was the first piece of mail I received for Flying Houses from a major book publisher (Random House/Knopf/Borzoi Books).  I was expecting it to be Taipei by Tao Lin (from Vintage).  I had requested that book.  I did not request How Literature Saved My Life.

Regardless, I took this to be a moment of divine inspiration: slowly but surely, Flying Houses was turning into a reputable media outlet.  I would not pass up the opportunity. Unfortunately I wish I had because I fear this review will satisfy no one.

David Shields (not James Shields, the pitcher for the Kansas City Royals formerly of the Tampa Bay Rays, who has also written a book) has written thirteen books, the most prominent of which appear to be Reality Hunger and Remote.  They also appear to be written in a "collage" style that eschews traditional forms of character and plot development in favor of a sort of stream-of-consciousness.  How Literature Saved My Life is also written in this style.  I have many problems with this book so I will enumerate them.

#1: Shields does not really discuss how he was about to lose his life

This is not The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression by Andrew Solomon.  It will not make you feel better if you are sleeping 20 hours a day and eating something and worry that you have no purpose to fulfill on earth.  He does describe some moments of ennui at a famous MFA program:

"I remember hearing my highly alliterative short story 'The Gorgeous Green of the Hedges' gently demolished in class and, upon returning to my apartment, eating bowl after bowl of mint chip ice cream until the room spun.  I remember admiring how some of my classmates (Elizabeth Evans, Mike Hutchison, Walter Howerton, Michael Cunningham, John Hill, Jan Short, Peter Nelson, Sarah Metcalf, Bob Schacochis) had figured out how to get their own personality onto the page.....I remember people saying that nothing ever happened to anyone in Iowa City and me wondering what in the world they were talking about.  I remember, above all, during the five years I lived in Iowa City, believing that what mattered more than anything else in your life was writing as well as you possibly could." (119-120)

He also later described being unemployed at age 30 and sleeping on his father's apartment couch in San Francisco and watching a uni-cyclist juggler on television, and how that had moved him to tears--and how, had he seen the feat in person, he would not likely be moved anywhere near as much.  This was a nice vignette.

The book is separated into more than a hundred of such vignettes, but the vast majority of them focus on Shields's engagement with a text or other such work of art.  In a sense this is prime material for Flying Houses because it gives us the very exciting opportunity of comparing his opinions to my own.

"Marcel Proust, Remembrance of Things Past.  The book that I think of as mattering the most to me ever, but I read it more than thirty years ago and I find that I have trouble reading it now.  Seems sad--do I still love it, did I ever love it?  I know I did.  Has my aesthetic changed that much?  If so, why?  Does one resist that alteration?  I think not.  The book still completely changed me, still defines me in some strange way.  Proust for me is the C.K. Scott Moncrieff translation in paperback, all the covers stained with suntan oil, since I read all seven volumes in a single summer, supposedly traveling around the south of France but really pretty much just reading Proust.  I came to realize that he will do anything, go anywhere to extend his research, to elaborate his argument about art and life.  His commitment is never to the narrative; it's to the narrative as such as a vector on the grid of his argument.  That thrilled me and continues to thrill me--his understanding of his book as a series of interlaced architectural/thematic spaces."  (152-153)

I could not read Swann's Way four years ago, and it is one of the three posts of Flying Houses that is (incomplete), though I did remark that,

"When I first heard about him, I thought it lied very close to the same aims I hoped to produce in my own work--the inexplicable singularity of a life, with all of its attendant idiosyncrasies, which thereby educates an audience more as to the total "meaning of existence." Lofty ambitions indeed, and I will say, after 60 pages, that I am sure Proust succeeds on his own philosophical level, but that 21st century American readers will find it extremely difficult to 'dig.'"

This does lead to the next topic, which is adapting literature to new forms of technology, but I would pause to remark that the above quotation may shed light on why I did not like How Literature Saved My Life: we seem to have a similar philosophy when it comes to creating literature that is "useful," but we go about it in different ways.  I do not like the "collage" method, though I did employ it in the past.  That method is popular with writing group peers and the so-called "MFA Contingent" but I prefer to take cues from modern masters and not try to invent new forms when society itself is enough of a spectacle that it bears relating in plain language, without the jumping around from topic-to-topic, channel surfing, twitter news-feed scanning, etc.  While I recently joined twitter about a week ago, and plan to use it sparingly, for marketing purposes (or to record funny incidents in my Tax Law class) I hope to fight against this urge to make literature more "user-friendly" for the "Me Generation."

#2:  This is not Taipei

I requested a galley copy of Taipei, which is Tao Lin's 3rd novel, from the author himself.  He told me that he would forward my information onto Vintage Books and that "hopefully" they would send one in January.  When nothing arrived, I cursed Vintage and major publishing houses (Melville House had sent my Tao's 2nd novel Richard Yates) and then went to pick up the package in early February.  It looked like they had come through!  Then I opened the package, incredibly, to find that it was this book and not Taipei.  Perhaps this is some elaborate trick or "test" being played on me (since Flying Houses may be "famous" for excerpting large sections of text), but I am sad that I will not be able to keep up with Tao's oeuvre.  However, while I don't necessarily disagree with Shields' statement, "I don't want to read out of duty," (167) I do want to read out of duty if people want my opinion on something.

But Tao is a good entry-way into the next point about technology.  For those unaware, Tao Lin is the foremost writer of my generation (we graduated in the same class from NYU) and has built his following entirely on his own through the various forms of social media.  His evolution as a writer has been fascinating to observe, and perhaps with this book he may actually enter some "year end best lists," as Mr. Shields apparently has. And the strongest part of this book, for me, are its comments on the current literary world:

"The individual has now risen to the level of a minigovernment or minicorporation.  Via YouTube and Twitter, each of us is our own mininetwork.  The trajectory of nearly all technology follows this downward and widening path: by the time a regular person is able to create his own TV network, it doesn't matter anymore that I have or am on a network.  The power of the technology cancels itself out via its own ubiquity.  Nothing really changes: the individual's ability to project his message or throw his weight around remains miniscule.  In the case of the web, each of us has slightly more access to a mass audience--a few more people slide through the door--but Facebook is finally a crude personal multimedia conglomerate machine, personal nation-state machine, reality-show machine.  New gadgets alter social patterns, new media eclipse old ones, but the pyramid never goes away....New artists, it seems to me, have to learn the mechanics of computing/programming and--possessing a vision unhumbled by technology--use them to disassemble/recreate the web." (188-189)

The only other point worth mentioning about Tao is usage of the term "scare quotes":
"Updike: 'I loathe being interviewed; it's a half-form, like maggots.'  Gertrude Stein: 'Remarks are not literature.'  Um is not a word, but I like how people use it now to ironize/mock/deflate put scare quotes around what comes next.  The moment I try not to stutter, I stutter.  I never stutter when singing to myself in the shower." (133-134)

"Scare quotes" are not a component of literature that has been accepted by the public on a mass scale by any stretch.  Tao Lin is largely responsible for the excessive use of "scare quotes" (and the reason I must put it in quotes, regarding Shields's failure to do so as a "hipper than thou" mistake) in new books, but Shields point is well taken nonetheless.  I confess this is a minor quibble but "scare quotes" deserve at least a moment of clarification.

#3: Recommended Reading

In order to fully appreciate this book, I really think you have to have read all of the books that Shields references--and there are many:

(1) Leaving the Atocha Station by Ben Lerner
(2) Dead Languages by David Shields
(3) The Thing About Life Is That One Day You'll Be Dead by David Shields
(4) Spiderman (2002 film)
(5) Prometheus Bound - Aeschylus (?)
(6) Reality Hunger - David Shields
(7) Shortbus (2006 film)
(8) Laura (1944 film)*
(9) Love and Pain and the Whole Damn Thing (1973 film)
(10) Le Gout des Autres (2000 film)
(11) Anagrams by Lorrie Moore*
(12) "Weekend" by Amy Hempel*
(13) Chronic City by Jonathan Lethem
(14) The Last Studebaker by Robin Hemley
(15) Tree of Codes by Jonathan Safran Foer
(16) Built to Spill - Perfect From Now On (1997 album)
(17) In Bruges (2008 film)
(18) Calendar of Regrets by Lance Olsen
(19) The Guardians by Sarah Manguso
(20) The Name of the World by Denis Johnson
(21) Out of Sheer Rage by Geoff Dyer
(22) Zona by Geoff Dyer
(23) Elizabeth Costello by J.M. Coetzee
(24) This Is Not a Novel by David Markson
(25) "This is the Life" by Anne Dillard
(26) Butterfly Stories: A Novel by William Vollman
(27) History of a Suicide: My Sister's Unfinished Life by Jill Bialosky
(28) The Brothers by Frederick Barthelme
(29) The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera
(30) Remote: Reflections on Life in the Shadow of Celebrity by David Shields
(31) "The Dead" by James Joyce
(32) Sherman's March (1986 film)
(33) Speedboat by Renata Adler*
(34) Shit My Dad Says by Justin Halpern
(35) Although of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself by David Lipsky
(36) Now and Then by Joseph Heller*
(37) The entire oeuvre of J.D. Salinger
* books I actually want to read after this.

Note that this does not include the "55 works I swear by" section, along with perhaps a handful of other texts that are mentioned more briefly.

You do not need to read all of these books to "get" How Literature Saved My Life, but the book tends to function as a collection of books that inspired it.  While the book is marketed as "blending confessional criticism and anthropological autobiography," there is decidedly a focus on the former.

There are three parts worth noting where Shields slams Toni Morrison for complaining that her book didn't win an award and where Shields admits that he is actually kind of like George W. Bush and where Shields talks about Bryan Singer sitting next to Bush in first class where Bush confesses that he has been on Ambien "for years."  These are probably the "sexiest" parts of the book, though other parts do indulge in vague-erotica.

#4: Been There, Done That

The big takeaway from this book (for me, at least) is the "collage" as the new form of literature--and I don't buy it.  My zine "Autointoxication," (2003) flirted with this medium, and while some viewed it rather charitably, I am mostly embarrassed by it in retrospect.

Bite-size chapters (like in, oh say, Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut) may be something else entirely, but blending a work of creative non-fiction by mixing in one's own patina with the aggregate of artistic cultural linguistics amounts to a book of aphorisms that may serve as a nice collection of potent quotables (things to write on a piece of paper that you tape to the wall in your "writing station") but does not compel me to run out to my friends and tell them to read.

Shields has written 13 books and has been quite successful, it appears.  However this book leaves the impression that he has given up on fiction as a method towards reaching psychological realism.  He is, as he notes, an extremely ambivalent person, and I am quite ambivalent about this book.  On the one hand, I am quite honored that someone decided to send it to me, and it has certainly opened up my mind a bit when it comes to literary experimentation (while I doubt that I will return to the "collage" form anytime soon) and there are a few nice passages, such as this one:

"Some people seemed to think I was the Antichrist because I didn't genuflect at the twin altars of the novel and intellectual property (there's an oxymoron if ever there was one).  I became, briefly, the poster boy for The Death of the Novel and The End of Copyright.  Fine by me.  Those have become something close to my positions.  The key thing for an intellectually rigorous writer to come to grips with is the marginalization of literature by more technologically sophisticated and thus more visceral forms.  You can work within these forms or write about them or through them or appropriate the strategies these forms use, but it's not a very good idea to go on writing in a vacuum.  The novel was invented to access interiority.  Now most people communicate through social media, and everyone I know under thirty has remarkably little notion of privacy.  The novel is an artifact, which is why antiquarians cling to it so fervently.  Art, like science, progresses.  Forms evolve.  Forms are there to serve the culture, and when they die, they die for a good reason--or so I have to believe, the novel having long since gone dark for me..." (129, emphasis mine)

Even in this comparatively pristine paragraph Shields make a comment with which I take issue: I am under thirty (for another 60 days, at least) and I think I have a notion of privacy.

There is also a nice part about him working at a law firm:

"My entire twenties, I lived on practically nothing, slept on my father's couch for ten months.  At thirty-one, I was a proofreader for Pillsbury, Madison & Sutro (PMS), a San Francisco law firm that represented the wrong side of every case.  The lawyers hated their jobs.  I loved mine, though, since I spent my entire time there finishing my second novel.  All the other subalterns were as bored as I was, and they were happy to print out copies of drafts for me, retype pages for me.  It was Team Shields.  We also discovered something new called a fax machine.  Very exciting.  I'd arrive before anyone else, and the lawyers would thank me for being such an eager beaver." (163)

That passes the LSAT Test!  A newly formulated test on Flying Houses that says any mention of legal culture on page 163 in any book passes the test (163 was my LSAT score).

But on the other hand, I just get annoyed when people write D.F. Wallace or DFW.  Sure, he is literature's answer to Kurt Cobain, but I think he's put up on a bit of a pedestal.  Sure, I've yet to review Infinite Jest here, but I will, I will...I just can't put him on the same level as FSF--and no one refers to that master as F.S. Fitzgerald.  In my opinion, David Foster Wallace is occasionally great, but more often tedious, and it can be quite difficult to derive pleasure from reading his work--he has about a 10% success rate and a 90% fail rate, though admirers of his will slap me for saying this, and I may disagree with myself whenever I get around to reading Infinite Jest (2013 or 2014--that's a promise!).

It's a petty thing but people that abbreviate him DFW are part of the larger problem of the "MFA contingent," who like to wax philosophical about Amy Hempel and Barry Hannah and maybe occasionally Nabokov but never Mann.  These are new 20th-21st century writers that have taken the short story form as far as it can go while still being recognizable as a prose piece.  I don't intend a blanket criticism of everything they've ever done--I just shudder at the thought that the new way to write is to get an MFA, get published, and just keep writing really good short stories--forget about a novel--takes too long--with the weird middle coming in "linked-short stories."

I guess I am like Kafka "who was unusually susceptible to textual stimuli, [and] read only a couple of pages of a book at a time" (182) and just don't have the time to go to the library, on a full stomach, and sit there for hours devouring literature in a huge chunk.  I want to check my e-mail and worry about some more "real" urgency ahead of me.

In summary, this book reads like a law review article.  It's not particularly enjoyable, there are tons of citations to authority (sadly without footnotes--but happily with a Cf. or two that I believe means "indirect support), and a reform is (sort of) proposed.  However, I am afraid that I have not gotten deeply enough into the mind of David Shields to fully appreciate his comic-linguistic asides.  Fans of his may love this, but as a newcomer and as a neutral critic, I can only regard this work as a "virginity loss" type experience--but laypersons generally don't receive galley copies.

My Bloody Valentine - m b v

Everyone wrote reviews of this album over the last two weeks (it is two weeks old tonight) and I still have not purchased it.  It costs $16.  I have been listening to it on streaming players.  As such I do not have it with me anywhere outside, in my iPod, playing on my headphones; I can only listen in my apartment, and with the AUX cable connecting my laptop to my stereo.  Listening to this album from tinny laptop speakers would be sacrilege.  When I have the discretionary income, I'll get it for the headphones.  

There was a 22 year wait for this album.  I joked on facebook two weeks ago that a betting pool should open up on whether m b v would really be released that evening or not.  I forgot about it and then listened to the first half of the album the next day and went to a Super Bowl party.  I watched Beyonce perform her halftime show and I asked my friend hosting if he liked My Bloody Valentine (I know he likes much newer indie rock, but he is not generally known for liking all of the Our Band Could be Your Life bands, except for Sonic Youth perhaps, which is certainly in the direction of My Bloody Valentine...).  He did not know about m b v, nor was he interested in how it might sound.

Oeuvre rule: I love My Bloody Valentine.  See Concert Review  (which still has one of the best pictures of a band I have ever taken, I think, because it looks like the cover of Loveless) and 50th Post Milestone in Anticipation of Concert.  I have heard almost all of their music.

And this is one of the many things that sets MBV apart from other bands: you start with Loveless, you don't get it necessarily, but it's good--then you move onto Isn't Anything and reflect that it may be even better than Loveless, but don't exactly make this generally known because it might cause other people to think you don't "get" Loveless--you hear all of the old stuff (maybe not the stuff from Geek! or This is Your Bloody Valentine--getting into that 1985 stuff separates the hardcore fans from the obsessive fans)--and you are content to listen to Loveless or choice tracks from other releases from now until the end of time, and you expect Kevin Shields to keep teasing everyone that he is going to put out another MBV album soon and take everything he says with a grain of salt.

Until two weeks ago.

The closest analogue to this situation is the excitement that surrounded the release of Chinese Democracy.  That album took 15 years to release.

This album took 22 years to release.

This album is much better than Chinese Democracy.

We don't know exactly what Axel Rose and Kevin Shields were up to during that period, but we know some details.  Shields worked with J. Mascis (he played guitar as a member of "the Fog" on a few songs during the time that Dinosaur Jr.--a band highly responsible for the development of the MBV sound--was broken up).  Shields worked with Primal Scream, apparently (I haven't listened to them enough to offer an opinion on it).  And then there was Lost in Translation.

I saw Lost in Translation in December of 2003--but before I came back to the States for that, I heard the song "City Girl" in Paris.  Another classmate and friend of mine recognized the extraordinary character of that song and he downloaded and we listened to it over and over and talked about how great it was and we wondered why something that seemed so effortless wasn't matched by anyone currently working.

A lot has changed since 2003.  Dinosaur Jr. is back together (and have been very prolific and successful).  Chinese Democracy was released.  iPods and iTunes became de rigeur, and Compact Discs flirt with obsolescence.  The Nirvana legend continues to generate income for Courtney Love.  The Rolling Stones put out a new album.  Weezer all but lost their former greatness.  The White Stripes and the Strokes "saved" rock and roll; The Arcade Fire brought "majestic rock" to the masses and won Grammy Awards.  The Yeah Yeah Yeahs became respected elder statesmen(persons?).  R&B and Hip Hop came back in a bigger way than the "Outkast album" from that year could ever anticipate.  Elliott Smith committed suicide (around the same time as "City Girl").  Lollapalooza and other music festivals (i.e Pitchfork) became cash cows.

People would shell out hundreds of dollars for festivals, now.  Coachella could offer Morrissey $45 million (and purely vegan food vendors) to reunite the Smiths on their stage, and he would reject them, and he now flirts with retirement.  David Bowie went away and is about to come back.  Michael Jackson was about to come back, and he died in the process.  Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore broke up, and Sonic Youth's 32 year legacy remains a question mark.  And then My Bloody Valentine came back in 2007.  And then Pavement played reunion shows.

Rewind back to October of 2000, my senior year in high school, and my [ex-]friend Jon giving me Loveless, telling me not to listen to so much Smashing Pumpkins because Billy Corgan was really just ripping off this album.  Listen to Jon speak at length about Siamese Dream--"it is exactly the same guitar sound!"  Listen to all of the other bands Jon endorses--Minor Threat, Fugazi, Sunny Day Real Estate, Slint, the Velvet Underground, Cap'n Jazz--go to college, find other people that like the same bands and become obsessed along with them.

And then go to see My Bloody Valentine play alone because you don't have any friends in the city you're in--or at least any friends that want to shell out $50.

And then have m b v come out when you are in the waning days of your 20's.

Every review of m b v must have this personal element.  To talk about the album itself seems like an afterthought.  The first track sounds kind of boring.  The second track reminds the listener that they are listening to MBV and that it is about to get awesome.  The third track, "Who Sees You," is probably my favorite song on the album.  It stands along with the best songs they have ever done.  I personally find "Is This and Yes" to be one of the weakest songs on the album.  "New You" and "In Another Way" blend into each other for me.  One of them is super awesome and the other one is only really awesome.  "Nothing Is" is often compared to "You Made Me Realise" and indeed is the most fun song to turn up really loud on the stereo and play guitar to, while "Wonder 2" is often considered a standout track, though I am usually worrying about what album to put on next by that point (or getting ready to go to bed).

You won't be reading this far unless you are already an MBV fanatic.  You won't care about this album unless you are, and you probably won't be converted to MBV with the release of this album.  That is one of the things about this band.  It's unlikely they will play the Super Bowl next year.  They're not a band for the masses, but they are one of the most popular "underground" bands in history.

With m b v their legend is complete.  Nothing more need be said at this time.

 

Die Hard - Dir. John McTiernan (The Die Hard Project #1 - JM)

Today we commence The Die Hard Project.  Better late than never....

Die Hard (1988)

Dir: John McTiernan

The Detective Turned Super Cop

by Jay Maronde

               

                In the summer of 1988, a Christmas movie was released. This movie, staring a then-upcoming actor named Bruce Willis would later be described as the standard to which all other action movies must be compared, and with this director John McTiernan gave birth to a franchise of movies so epic that that fifth in the series is due to be released this week, 25 years later! Of course, this movie is the original Die Hard, and as we moviegoers eagerly await the release of this year’s Die Hard 5: A Good Day to Die Hard, the fine staff at Flying Houses have decided to give you a little recap in case you may have missed or forgotten anything in the past 25 years.

                Die Hard was adapted from a novel titled Nothing Lasts Forever written by Roderick Thorpe. Mr. Thorpe had previously written a little book called The Detective, which was so popular that it had been made into a 1968 movie starring none other than “old blue eyes” himself, Frank Sinatra.  After the success of The Detective, Mr. Thorpe wrote a sequel with full intentions of it being made into a movie. Praise was lavished on this book from many venues and eventually Twentieth Century Fox agreed to begin production. As he was contractually obligated, Sinatra was given the right of first refusal to play the lead role.  He refused, and from here began one of the most extensive searches for a lead male actor in Hollywood history. When I say extensive I truly mean it, as the role of John McClane was offered to a laundry list of the best male actors in a generation before Bruce Willis finally accepted the role. This list included Arnold Schwarzenegger, Nick Nolte, Richard Dean Anderson, Don Johnson, Sly Stallone, Burt Reynolds, Richard Gere, Mel Gibson, Harrison Ford, Tom Berenger, Robert Deniro, and Charles Bronson.

When Bruce Willis was finally convinced to take the role it was in no small part due to Rupert Murdoch’s personal offer of five million dollars. With a lead actor signed, a director was needed, and after being approached numerous times John McTiernan eventually agreed with the stipulation that he be allowed to “lighten the edges” of a script which he had already twice refused claiming that it was “a real nasty piece of work.”

                John McTiernan then began, scene-by-scene, to assemble what we have already described as the pinnacle of the entire action movie genre. First and foremost, the original script called for terrorists who were really terrorists, and McTiernan immediately turned them into thieves masquerading as terrorists so that “the audience could enjoy them stealing a boatload of money.” Further, the original “Detective” was more of a super cop, and McTiernan had this idea that the role should be more of an “everyman.” As such he felt Willis was perfect for the role and with some more minor tweaks to the original story, the Die Hard we all know and love came about. McTiernan’s vision was not small though, and as such a massive moviemaking process was undertaken, it was greatly due to this big comprehensive vision that Die Hard is such a great movie.

Besides his script work in order to make the movie lighter and more fun McTiernan also demanded the highest caliber of music from his sound designer Michael Kamen. The idea to use Beethoven as the theme music for most of the movie was McTiernan’s, and initially Kamen staunchly refused, saying that he would gladly butcher the entire catalogue of Wagner or Schubert for the movie, but the thought of using lovely Ludwig Van was too much for him to stomach. To counter this, McTiernan explained to him that he wanted the movie to feel inspired by the Ultra Violence of Director Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange, and Kamen, being a Kubrick fan himself, eventually consented.

This however wasn’t McTiernan’s only slick move to make Die Hard the fantastic film that it is: he also decided that he needed a real life office tower to shoot the exteriors of Nakatomi Tower. Being that not too many buildings of that size are unoccupied and or available for almost complete demolition, he came up with an interesting solution: he would use 20^th Century Fox’s brand new 90% completed office tower (and of course Fox charged themselves rent on their own building). They also required the production team to import from Italy enough marble to retile all the plazas and stairs outside the building.

                Besides a great set, great action, and a great hero, any good action movie needs one final thing to really reach the other plateaus that the Die Hard films have reached: a resoundingly evil villain.  To fill this role the producers and director gave a British stage actor (of very high repute) his first role on the silver screen. At the time the directors and producers were sure he would be good, but Alan Rickman was so good in the role of Hans Gruber, that over two decades later he’s still the man to call when you need a really evil villain. Rickman is exquisite, and McTiernan’s particular high intensity directorial style was essential in achieving this wonderful performance from a film novice. The clearest example of this delightful collaboration comes later in the movie when McClane meets Hans. In the original script there was never a meeting between these two lead characters and the producers had lamented this extensively. One day during rehearsals McTiernan discovered that Rickman was quite talented at faking an American accent and as such the scene was born. The part of this scene that really highlights both of their genius is while Hans is speaking quite convincingly with a Midwestern American accent, McClane offers him a cigarette, and while non smokers may have never picked up on this subtle detail, Hans smokes like a European. This subtle nuance—along with many others—added a level of detail to the movie that is a big part of the reason why it stands out. As I’ve mentioned before, it’s quite apparent that McTiernan went scene-by-scene to make this movie as utterly fantastic as it is.

                While I could go on and on about how delightful this movie is, it would be completely remiss not to mention the outstanding co-stars. Bonnie Bedelia is fantastic as John McClane’s estranged wife—beautiful, but not someone that an Everyman couldn’t attain. Reginald Vel Johnson as the first cop on the scene and John’s radio ally on the outside was perfectly cast, especially considering that at that time he was already America’s favorite police officer from being one of the stars (opposite one Steve Urkel) from television’s Family Matters.

                John McTiernan had a tremendous vision for Die Hard that was so well executed that it has become the seminal action movie. By really demanding the best from all his actors and production staff he made a movie which has not only stood the test of time, but 25 years later still has America clamoring for more. 

The Bond Project: The End? (Part Two)

I know, I know.  It seems as if we cannot stop the Bond Mania.  I believe this will be the 30th post on Flying Houses dedicated to James Bond.  I am sure there are other sites on the internet that have more Bond memorabilia, but this will be the last one (seriously--The Bond Project is officially over as of this post unless I decide to watch Bonds 1-20 + Never Say Never Again and replicate what my colleague Mr. Maronde has endeavored to provide--and I do not think I have the patience for that).  Also, this is the last day I can publish this post in good faith because Skyfall will be released on DVD and Blu-ray tomorrow.  Happy Valentine's Day.  

A Bond Project Wrap Up: Part Deux
by Jay Maronde

This is it. My last Bond article for a minute (Until Bond #24--JK). It’s probably best this way. Most women don’t want to hear too much about James Bond while at the bar, and thinking about James Bond all day leaves one quite prone to telling women at the bar all about Bond.  But after ranking all the films, it seemed to me that there were still some things left unsaid—ratings to be made, pithy comments I never got to commentate—so here dear readers is a long list of Bond Bests including the best cars, Bond girls, henchmen, and villains.

Let’s start with the cars because some of the choices are a little bit obvious.

TOP 5 Bond Movie Cars

1.       The Silver Birch 1963 Aston Martin DB5

No vehicle has ever been more iconic or more fully aligned in the world’s understanding of a character. The car has been in numerous films and plays a huge role in Skyfall.

2.       The Aston Martin “Vanish”

 

Die Another Day wasn’t that great of a film, and everyone hated this car but I think it’s super awesome for Bond to be driving an invisible car. Aston Actually designed and produced this car strictly for the film and while in real life you cannot purchase an invisible car, you can however purchase a V12 Vanquish and get your 007 dreams on.

3.       The Lotus Espirit S1

 

From The Spy Who Loved Me. I’m not necessarily a large fan of the film or of seeing James Bond outside of an Aston, but a car that turns into a submarine is clearly so James Bond that it hurts.

4.      The BMW 750iL

       

From Tomorrow Never Dies. James Bond has a smart phone that not only starts his luxury car but can also completely control the machine.  Oh and by the way, Bond has this smart phone over a decade before the release of the iPhone.

5.       M’s Jaguar XJ Ultimate Long Wheel Base

“Just get out of the way! Don’t you know the car!?!” M’s car is a standout. A real touring saloon that Bond steals with M inside.  Just imagine being able to power around London in one of Britain’s finest luxury cars with police lights to avoid all the traffic troubles!

Honorable Mention: The BMW R1200 Motorcycle

From Tomorrow Never Dies. As an avid motorcyclist I would like to consider myself somewhat knowledgeable of the various types of motorbikes, and the BMW R1200 had long been a favorite even before Bond put one through all of its courses while handcuffed to Wai-Lin. The R1200-C model inspired by the film was even better.

TOP 5 Bond Henchmen

1.)    Jaws

Always Jaws. He’s the only henchmen to reprise his role. He’s so famous it hurts and Richard Kiel still does appearances for the James Bond franchise.

2.)    Dario

From Licence to Kill and played magically by Oscar winner Benicio Del Toro. I would suggest watching this whole movie just to catch the glimpses of early genius at being so creepy. Truly, if Jaws wasn’t Jaws, Dario would easily be #1.

3.)    Oddjob

 The classic hat throwing monster mute dude might even be more famous than the villain for which his featured film is named (Goldfinger). The actor Harold Sakata paid a high physical toll to film his death scene as he was really electrocuted.

4.)    Nick Nack

Herve Villechaize is remarkable, fun sized, and hilarious. He is the only redeeming factor in what could be one of the worst Bond Films: The Man with the Golden Gun.

5.)    Xenia Onatopp

The only lady to make this list will actually appear in this article twice as what’s really better than a lady henchman who kills via fornication?

Honorable Mention:   The two weirdos from Diamonds are Forever.

Credited as Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd and played by Bruce Glover and Putter Smith, these two hand-holding murderers are funny as all get out and eliminated in a lovely manner by Bond, but not before the very end of the film.

TOP 5 Bond Villains

#1: Silva

Skyfall’s epic villain is played masterfully by the remarkable Javier Bardem. To be honest, Silva is without a doubt the surprise of Skyfall. A real twisted warped evil villain, so weird and evil on so many levels that he easily tops our #2 on this list.

 #2: Max Zorin

The genetically engineered villain from A View to a Kill, played as only could be done by Academy Award winner Christopher Walken. It’s really hard to top Walken when it comes to the “creepy factor,” and had Bardem been anything less than stupendous, Walken would easily be #1

#3: Auric Goldfinger

“Ha ha ha, no Mr. Bond, I expect you to die.” One of the earliest villains in the canon could easily be the best. Mega rich and super weird, Goldfinger not only operates on numerous continents, but also has a plan to rob Fort Knox.

#4 Telly Savalas

Savalas is easily the best Blofeld amongst the several actors to play the part—creepy, scheming, and definitely trying to ruin the entire world. While Blofeld appears numerous times throughout the James Bond canon, Savalas easily does the best job.

#5: Hugo Drax

Evil, Hitler-esque, and eugenically-minded, this super villain from Moonraker not only intends to destroy the whole world, but plans on repopulating it with his sort of people. Oh yeah, and he steals the space shuttle and builds an international space station several decades before the real ISS.

Honorable Mention: Gustav Graves and Colonel Moon

Two villains in one from Die Another Day. Granted, both of these actors are supposed to be playing the same deranged North Korean bent on world domination, but without both of their wonderful performances this already rough movie completely falls on its face.

TOP 10 Bond Girls

        Well, now that we’ve come to the very end and to the part that everyone has been waiting for, I must be honest and admit that ranking these 10 women might have been even harder than ranking the films themselves, as there are soooo many beautiful women in the world of Bond. I’m sure I will upset a lot of people with this list, but IDGAF, this is my article and my opinion.

#1: Agent Caruso

The busty Italian agent that Bond has hidden in his closet at the opening of Live and Let Die. Played magically by the horror film classic Madeline Smith, and reportedly working through being massively anxious due to Roger Moore’s insanely jealous real life wife being on set during filming, Miss Smith is amazing. Her busty physique has provided her with mountains of work throughout the years, but her doe eyes, plush pouty lips, come hither attitude, and bad Italian accent are absolutely perfect to compliment the debonair Moore. Further, Bond should totally be involved with a real life sex symbol, not just a very pretty actress.

#2: Honey Ryder

The original Bond girl herself, played by the super famous Ursula Andress comes in a very close second—such a close second that if I preferred blondes she could easily be first. 

#3: Vesper Lynd

Played by the radiant Eva Greene, Vesper Lynd is the only woman who Bond ever loved. Casino Royale’s main female lead is gorgeous, and I know more than a few women who dream of being her.

#4: The Countessa Tracy  Di Vincenzo 

Played  by one of the biggest stars of the day Dame Diana Rigg, the only woman who Bond ever marries is gorgeous, and while her performance against George Lazenby leaves just a little to be desired, this co-star of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service certainly gets the job done.

#5: Xenia Onatopp

The villainess who literally screws people to death is the only person to appear on multiple lists in this article. This remarkable lady henchman from Goldeneye was a little known actress but major model and sex symbol before this film, and Famke Jannsen has since gone on to remarkable silver screen greatness as the X-(wo)Man Jean Grey and numerous other roles.

#6: Dr. Christmas Jones

Denise Richards being a James Bond girl and then later marrying Charlie Sheen easily serves to prove how much that guy is “winning.” Her role in The World is Not Enough  was almost written for her Playmate of the month self and her name leads to one of the best puns in the canon when at the end of film Bond says: “I thought Christmas only comes once a year”

#7: NSA Agent Jinx

Played by the stunning Halle Berry, to not include Jinx (Bond’s American spy counterpart in Die Another Day) would be utterly remiss. I almost wish I could put her higher but Jinx trying to be the American Bond only serves to highlight how super awesome Bond really is.

#8: Domino

The kept woman from ThunderBall. Miss Claudine Auger was Miss France before attaining this role. Her beauty is still remarkable all these years later and her chemistry with Connery is beyond reproach.

#9: Maud Adams

BUT NOT FROM OCTOPUSSY. It sounds completely crazy but Adams can’t have the award for the movie named after her character. To be honest, she was too old in that film and she only made Roger Moore look older. However, a few years before that, she starred as Scaramonga’s girlfriend in The Man with the Golden Gun, and while I utterly loathe Moore’s treatment of her during the film, her beauty shines through so much that she easily makes this list.

#10: Strawberry Fields

We never learn the real first name of Gemma Arterton’s character in Quantum of Solace until the film’s final credits, but the actress is absolutely perfect as a foil towards Daniel Craig’s Bond. Her death scene is as fine of an homage to the James Bond Canon as has ever been dreamed.

Honorable Mention: Carey Lowell

As CIA pilot Pam Bouvier from Licence to Kill. I just love Carey Lowell. 

Batman: Arkham Asylum (A Serious House on a Serious Earth) - Grant Morrison & Dave McKean

Arkham Asylum is a tough nut to crack.  On the one hand, it is a brilliant examination of mental illness and the violence that can flow from insanity.  On the other, it collapses under its own weight and fails to live up to its potential.  This may be so because it tries to cram as many Batman Villains (led by the Joker) as it can into one fairly concise story.  As the Joker explains, Batman is given one hour to escape from Arkham Asylum after he has entered by way of invitation:

"'Time to begin the evening's entertainment, I think.  If you're feeling up to it.'
'Up to what?'
'A nice little game of hide and seek.  You have one hour, sweetheart and there's no way out of the building.  One hour before all your friends come looking for you.  There's the Scarecrow and Clayface and Doctor Destiny, of course.  He seems so frail in that wheelchair but all he has to do is look at you and you stop being real.  He does so want to look at you darling.  Oh, and don't let's forget Croc.  He came up out of that damp, dark cellar this morning, dragging his chains behind him.  They all want to see you, so why don't you just run along now?'" (23-24)

Not mentioned by the Joker but included in this book are Maxie Zeus (who seems like a demented version of Dr. Manhattan from Watchmen), Professor Milo, the Mad Hatter, Black Mask, and Two-Face.  And I must admit that, like The Long Halloween, the best parts of this book involve Harvey Dent.

I count 9 Batman Villains in The Long Halloween, and I thought that book felt was short at 370 pages.  This is even shorter (120 pages), includes 10 villains, and eschews page numbers that make for easy excerpt searching (though there are nice "extras" with the book that includes a black-and-white script of all the text, which will be referred to for this review) and it is necessary to say word or two about the drawing style.

The Long Halloween has fairly typical illustration for a Batman book, and I enjoyed it.  Arkham Asylum, by contrast, is probably the most shocking Batman book for its visual style.  Everything seems blurry and bloody and if the reader is on Amanita Mushrooms or something then they may be tempted to see things in the pictures that aren't really there (or maybe they are really there, and the artist, Dave McKean, has hidden them in such a way that the reader questions themselves).  One could imagine that this renders Arkham Asylum a triumph of the graphic novel form, and while this book is at times brilliant, one simply cannot say that the book is "highly recommended" if the second half of it collapses under the weight of its first half.

That is how I feel about this book in a nutshell.  The first half is wonderful, and the second half is a crazy collection of action, Tales of the Black Freighter-esque literature-within-literature, and a tidy ending that renders everything that came before almost meaningless.

There are good moments in the second half, such as the Clayface/Scarecrow/Mad Hatter triple threat that bombards Batman one-by-one at the height of the action, or the ending that involves a decision made by Two-Face, but Arkham Asylum would have benefited by extrapolating more background information on the "Rogue's Gallery."  Clayface and Destiny, for example, are quite interesting, but they are left behind shortly after their introduction, as are most of the other villains.  The result is a story that would be a perfect template for a theme park ride (much better than say, "The Dark Knight" at Six Flags) in a sort of reverse-Pirates-of-the-Carribean situation, but fails as a work of literature.  As a "comic book," it is all well and good, but the story is not unsettling in quite the same way as The Dark Knight Returns (or Red Son or Watchmen, for that matter).

I also don't think I am exaggerating the level of sophistication that went into its production:

"The subtitle was taken from Philip Larkin's poem 'Church Going.'  The story's themes were inspired by Lewis Carroll, quantum physics, Jung and Crowley, its visual style by surrealism, Eastern European creepiness, Cocteau, Artaud, Svankmajer, the Brothers Quay, etc.  The intention was to create something that was more like a piece of music or an experimental film than a typical comic adventure book.  I wanted to approach Batman from the point of view of the dreamlike, emotional and irrational hemisphere, as a response to the very literal, 'realistic' 'left brain' treatment of superheroes which was in vogue at the time, in the wake of The Dark Knight Returns, Watchmen, and others." (preface to script)

Will you enjoy Arkham Asylum if you like Batman comic books in general?  Probably.  Is it as good as The Killing Joke?  Not by a long-shot.  That was a shorter story, dense and concisely-packed into a neat package.  However, I wouldn't buy The Killing Joke (in hardcover at least) because of its length.  You can read it in one sitting at Barnes & Noble.  The same goes for Arkham Asylum and I bought it off Amazon.

If you are interested in horror or the macabre, this actually might be your favorite Batman book.  But I am personally more interested in comedy and drama and imaginative excess.  This book has moments of dark humor and a dramatic moment or two--and it certainly shows some imagination in the telling of Dr. Arkham's back story--which is probably the strongest element of the book.  And it even pays reference to Batman's often debated homosexuality, when the Joker squeezes Batman's butt and then says, "What's the matter?  Have I touched a nerve?  How is the Boy Wonder?  Started shaving yet?" (14)

But unfortunately it is just not enough.  In short, it opens up like a bat out of a hell (terrible cliche and pun, I know, but accurate) and then whimpers its way through its second half.  Just when all the fun is supposed to begin, the reader might ask themselves what all of the fuss is about this book.

Regardless, I didn't consider reading this book a waste of time--I would just not want to drum up any unrealistic expectations of its greatness.

NIED #10: BLS Student Audit 2012 - PSG Cuts, Tuition Hikes

As we near the end of law school and the Negligent Infliction of Emotional Distress column (there will be 24) I wanted to double-check and be sure that every column I had written for BLS Advocate would also be included on Flying Houses (because it is no secret that I often feel my words being ripped from my throat and twisted in just the slightest way to make way for a completely different interpretation).

My guess is that I forgot to post this column (which was written April 7, 2012) because I posted my Presidential Speech when I ran for President of the Student Bar Association last year.  Also, I was a bit nervous about posting it because BLS Advocate was in its first year and there were concerns about taking away perfectly good traffic from that site.  I think 10 months later, it is safe to post.  I also think a lot of students don't really care (or even know) about the way this school used to be, so I post this as a refresher.  

Note however that some commentators felt the need to break out the "hatorade" on BLS Advocate.  I ask that you please refrain from duplicating that experience.  If there was anytime that my "popularity" at the school hit an all-time low, it was certainly around the time of this column.  I have nothing against BLSPI and I feel that if I spend $450 to have dinner with Geraldo, then I am entitled to make light of the situation....Also I was corrected about my use of the phrase "Hobson's Choice" but I am leaving it in because I still think it's being appropriately used.

Moreover the situation is even more frustrating now than it was for me then--keep in mind that this was before the NIED column "On the Cusp."

Last week, a few representatives from the American Bar Association set up in the Moot Court room from 5:00 – 6:00 PM on a Monday.  They wanted to hear students’ opinions of our law school.  How many of us showed up?  I don’t know—7?  8?  I know that when I arrived I was the 4^th. 

                I used this opportunity to lobby for a napping room, and for a broad mandate to all law schools that class sizes must be reduced if the legal market can ever hope to be fixed.  BLS may or may not already be implementing such a mandate—and the size of next year’s 1L class should help determine that.  I also mentioned a brief story about the public service grant from last year. 

                If you were here, perhaps you remember the one day “push” to get a petition signed by as many students as possible.  Perhaps you remember our argument—that we had counted on the $5,000 being there for the summer for which we applied—and to remove it with the simple explanation that “the government cut our funding,” when there are plenty of other ways to make up for an $800,000 shortfall (the approximate cost of providing $2,000 extra per student) does not indicate a willingness on the part of the administration to really help students manage the cost of law school.

                BLS may, or may not have inflated their “9-months after graduation employment” numbers.  Big whoop.  So has everyone else.  BLS participated in the merit scholarship “scheme” where falling beneath the 40% mark in your class meant a reduction in your scholarship. Big whoop.  Some schools are even tougher—33% was my barrier everywhere else.   BLS may, or may have not, participated in “scholarship stacking,” which is a vague practice that involves packaging all of the highest “scholarship earning” students in the same section, or same larger section, first year.  This is more evil than fair, but difficult to prove (though not impossible).  And I do know that Section 16 from last year [2010-Ed.] is a powerhouse. 

                New York Law School’s case is getting dismissed.  Brooklyn’s case is getting dismissed (I’m calling it right here) because they can’t allege anything truly audacious—their only hope is the “scholarship stacking” argument—but even that might fly as a reasonable business judgment.  BLS is a 501(c)(3) and it should not care about profits.  But this is the #65 law school in the nation, and keeping such a high public profile costs a lot of money.  The cleanest way to make up for the shortfall without harming any existing funding or expenses is to raise tuition. 

                Tuition increased from $46,610 to $48,416 this year [$49,976 this year-Ed.].  3Ls did not bear the cost of the increase—but 2Ls did [3Ls, I think, did bear the cost of the increase this year--note the "I think" because this is not a formal Complaint-Ed.].  And 1Ls find themselves in the fortunate position of a smaller class by 100 students, and the unfortunate position of being the final class to have the 40% scholarship renewal barrier imposed upon them.  

                It is worth noting that I have not seen any student movement to reinstate the $5,000 summer PSG.  It is a fact of life that we accept.  I would like to argue that it is not unreasonable for us to seek this additional funding.  With the new system, students may be tempted to work 25 hours per week at the internship and 15 hours at some other place that might pay and make up for the shortfall.  This may include non-legal work like in a restaurant or something, and the school is not exactly encouraging students to do this, but they should know that students will be doing this, and that these sorts of jobs are not going to make them look any more attractive to prospective employers.  Thus, students are left with a choice – work 40 hours a week at one place – 15 of those for free – or try to make up the difference.  The school should not force students to make such a Hobson’s Choice when it is clear that other funds may be easily diverted to the cause (look, for example, at BLSPI, and how they fund scholarships….by getting students drunk and convincing them it’s a really good idea to spend $900 to have dinner with Geraldo, or $3,000 with the commissioner of the NHL….).  The result is that students need to think more creatively and do even more legwork to best avoid financial disaster.  But I hate students that complain about how busy they are.  We all are.  Get over it. 

BLS is not the only law school to hike its tuition, and it has to stay competitive.  We cannot blame BLS for everything, but we can try to urge it to be different from other schools and implement some really original policies.  It’s my hope that the change will be coming soon. 

                Christopher J. Knorps is a 2L at BLS.  He enjoys studying bankruptcy law.  You may find his other work at flyinghouses.blogspot.com.  Like Jamie Moyer, he believes that people should never count themselves out.  You may fail, and fail, and fail, and people may call you a freak and a loser who doesn’t know when to call it quits, but when you are still pitching at age 49 in the Rockies starting rotation, you will have the last laugh.    

1Q84 - Haruki Murakami

What I Talk About When I Talk About Murakami: Mystery and Memory in 1Q84 

by Emily Dufton

My notebook states that I finished reading Haruki Murakami’s 925-page opus 1Q84, first published in the United States in October of 2011, on March 2, 2012. Almost exactly a month earlier, on February 1, I scribbled in my book that I had finished rereading, for the third time, Murakami’s 2008 memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, which is perhaps my favorite of his works. In the four weeks and one day that spanned the completion of Running and 1Q84, I left behind the stark and direct world of Murakami’s nonfiction and reentered the familiar fictional world this author has so consistently reproduced over the course of a dozen novels and thirty years. Which is to say that I left behind his essays – so clean and concise, about early morning training runs in Hawaii and traversing the route of the original marathon in Greece – and reentered that other, stranger place that I can only associate with this particular writer’s fiction. Here is a man who writes books the same way he runs marathons: methodically and purposefully, creating a world of chaos out of the mundane.

In what can only be credited to the construction of a coherent oeuvre, there exists in the fictional world of Murakami a very specific, if often troubling, place: a Japan that lives on the border of reality and imagination, a world of mystery, confusion, disorientation and delight, where men – and his protagonists are almost always men – are confronted by the fantastic and often surreal as they struggle within the context of quotidian Japanese life. I think of Toru Okada in The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, whose story begins when his cat runs away. This small event seems to trigger (or release) a series of events, some of which border on the completely phantasmagoric, even as Toru remains chained to his everyday routines. Throughout the book there are these wonderful, quiet moments, far outside the scope of missing cats and missing wives and psychic prostitutes and newly acquired abilities to heal, that reveal the majesty of Murakami’s craft: it is within descriptions of Toru making small meals, drinking a beer at the kitchen table alone at night, or the thoughts Toru has as he looks up at the sky where the real beauty of Murakami’s writing lies. These moments, far more than the mysteries, seductions, and action that also suffuse the text, interested me most during my initial reading of the book and they’re the ones that I carry with me now, years after I put the book back on the shelf.

Other examples of the Murakami Man are myriad: the unnamed protagonist in A Wild Sheep Chase who follows a sheep (and a ghost) to the mountains of Hokkaido while he revels in the stark silence of the cold northern territory. There is young Kafka, in Kafka on the Shore, who runs away from home and hides in a library near the ocean, reading books as rain quietly falls and a man who kills cats wanders the streets. And there is Tengo, one of the protagonists of 1Q84, a young writer and math tutor in Tokyo whose introduction to a remarkable young woman named Fuka-Eri and his induction into a parallel world do little to stem his interest in listening to records at home or wandering through a nearby park. And these are just a few of the many Murakami men who sit idly by as the strangest and most remarkable situations draw them into their grasp, these men-boys who so often live alone and exist in that strange, liminal, crepuscular world between no-longer-adolescence and slack-jawed-adulthood, looking through the fridge for another beer or something to eat while, outside of their apartments, two moons are rising in the sky.

It’s as though Murakami himself doesn’t quite know what to focus on, probably because he loves both stories – the magical and the mundane – so dearly and so deeply, as they both so profoundly influence his work. There is mystery, challenge, tension and thrill hovering around the nucleus of all this writer’s work, but there, at the dead-center of the story’s very core, is thick description so anthropological in shape that its attention to the minute details of quotidian Japanese life could allow aliens to mistake Murakami’s books for lessons in the post-World War II, late-twentieth century Japanese experience. And this is the purposeful (or concomitant) result of a man who writes his books on the fly. In a 1997 New York Times review of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Jamie James noted that Murakami “does not plot his novels beforehand but lets the story reveal itself to him as he writes.” This makes sense. In some sense, a reader could get the feeling that if a character busies himself with stir-frying leftovers for an entire scene, it was most likely written on a day when that was all that Murakami wanted to do too.

But this is not a retrospective on Murakami’s collected works; it is a review specifically of 1Q84, which I intend to write in a specific way. March 2, 2012, is eleven months ago now, and 1Q84 still sits on my shelf. I’ve hardly opened the cover since I finished the last page and noted the date of its completion in my little book. But I’ve decided to keep 1Q84 there, shelved and unopened, while I write this review. I don’t want any new experience to influence what I want to say. Instead, this review is going to be written blind, based entirely on the memories and feelings I’ve retained after finishing the book. Why? Because it is only in Murakami’s work where I find myself paying such close attention to the quiet moments that lie so far outside of the story’s main action: to food, to drink, to a character sitting on the floor, to the moments late at night when the wind blows or there is quietly falling rain. 1Q84 is full of such moments – one might argue that these moments make up too much of the text – moments of solitude and loneliness, of characters trapped in place, of people trying to work through issues of magnificent scope (religious cults! Parallel worlds! Mysterious pregnancies! Missing children! Unanswered questions about a mother’s marital fidelity!) in a manner more befitting of trying to figure out what to have for lunch.

So, that being said, I don’t want to provide a synopsis of the tale, which is too convoluted to be adequately explained, nor do I want to focus exclusively on what I liked or didn’t like. Instead, I’m going to focus less on 1Q84 itself than on two other, very specific things: first, on how the book made me feel when reading it, and second, on what I can continue to recall about the text nearly a year after completing it. Less a traditional investigation of style and form, this will be an analysis of the reading experience and an examination of the metaphysics of memory as they concern Murakami and 1Q84.

What I remember most from 1Q84 are people stuck, trapped if you will, in places they cannot leave for reasons they do not entirely understand. Everyone seems trapped in 1Q84: Aomame and Tengo trapped in a parallel world, Fuka-Eri and young Tsubasa trapped in a cult, the Leader of the cult trapped in a painful body, and nearly all of the characters trapped somewhere in the past. Then there are the physical, constructed restrictions as well. This book features more people trapped in apartments than any of Murakami’s works I’ve ever read before, and this is an author notoriously fond of placing his characters in constrictive locales.

First there is the long period where Aomame, Murakami’s female protagonist (a trainer at a Tokyo gym when she’s not a hired assassin), is stuck in a new apartment in a new complex in an underdeveloped section of Tokyo for – what is it, days, weeks, months? She is kept there by the Dowager, her employer, for her own safety and is sent groceries, a stationary exercise bike, and weights to lift to keep her fit. Her only access to the outside world is through the deliveryman who comes weekly to bring supplies from the Dowager, a window and balcony that look out onto a park, and the NHK man/ghost who knocks on her door from time to time. She is kept there for chapters, maniacally exercising in the apartment to stay in shape, chopping and stir-frying vegetables for meals, and waiting through the time by reading or staring outside. She is caught between the interior and exterior worlds in the apartment in the same way she is caught between 1984 and 1Q84.

(Is it strange that, after reading those chapters, I wanted the same solitude? A blindingly white apartment in a place where I knew no one and no one knew me, where people brought me what I needed and I had no responsibilities other than riding a stationary bike and preparing simple meals?)

Then there is Ushikawa, the private detective hired by the religious cult Sakigake to investigate Tengo and Aomame. Usikawa, whose constant descriptions of being ugly made me pity him (surely he can’t be that bad; no one is), camps out on the ground floor of Tengo’s apartment building to keep an eye out for Tengo’s comings and goings. He has nothing in the apartment but a sleeping bag and a hot plate. He wraps himself in the sleeping bag to avoid the cold and stares out the window with binoculars and a camera, eating cans of beans that he’s heated up for dinner. Is there a more pitiful existence, even for a private eye? Staring between the slats of a Venetian blind, hoping the person that you’re looking for walks past? Not only does Ushikawa spend multiple chapters waiting in this empty apartment, but if I recall correctly, it’s also the site of his death. Poor Ushikawa – Murakami never gave you a break.

Fuka-Eri also remains housebound. As public interest in her novel "Air Chrysalis" reaches fever pitch, she is forced to remain inside Tengo’s apartment, sleeping in his nightshirt and listening to his records while he’s at work. Here is, as Murakami describes her, a preternaturally beautiful 17-year-old girl who lives with Tengo for days and weeks, forced into house arrest because of the strangeness of her visions. When she and Tengo finally have sex (in the weirdest sex scene I’ve ever read, even for Murakami), it is, of course, Aomame who gets pregnant. How? Why? Do these questions even matter? And when Fuka-Eri disappears – a clean break if I ever read one – we don’t need to know where she goes, in the same way that we, the readers, don’t seem to have to know the answers to any of the questions Murakami brings up.

Ultimately, what remains with me almost a year after finishing 1Q84 is how unsatisfying the storyline really is. More than any other feeling, and more than any other of his books, Murakami’s latest opus left me feeling sad. It was a half-finished, half-baked, coitus interruptus of a text, one that brought forth all of my favorite Murakami ideas only to leave them, half-assembled, in the nearly-1,000-page book on my shelf. There is a startling number of questions unanswered at its end. I remember being two-thirds of the way finished, then three-quarters through, then four-fifths complete, wondering when Aomame was going to get out of the white apartment, when the questions about Tengo’s mother’s relationship with that strange man were going to be resolved, how Murakami was going to explain all of these things, while the number of pages dwindled and the storyline seemed stuck. It was frustrating, watching the remaining pages on the right side of the book diminish while so much remained to be explained and understood.

There is so much beauty in Murakami’s work. The descriptions of the hothouse where the Dowager would meet Aomame for tea, where exotic flowers grew and butterflies fluttered and landed lightly on the Dowager’s shoulder, are such lovely visions of Japan (or anywhere) that I can’t get them out of my head. The meal that Aomame shares with her policewoman friend Ayumi at the Italian restaurant, with thick description of their entrees and choices of wine, seemed as comforting as eating a rich Italian meal myself. Tengo standing on top of a children’s playground slide, staring up at the moon (two moons? One moon? How many did Tengo see?) at night, is a stunning scene in its powerful simplicity.

So why then does Murakami’s book have to ultimately feel co-opted? Lost? Half-finished and unsatisfying and DOA? There was so much discussion of him receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature a few years back, with various reviewers calling 1Q84 genius, his chef d’oeuvre. But I couldn’t help feeling a little gypped at the end, as though I bought into a promise someone made but couldn’t fulfill.

For all the reasons I love Murakami – his creativity and vigor, his intelligence and prolificacy, the quietness of his writing that centers on moments of such stunningly peacefulness even in the midst of so much surreality – I enjoyed 1Q84. But for all the reasons Murakami pisses me off – his lackadaisical style, his hanging questions, his unplanned endings and his liminal characters – 1Q84 also deeply pissed me off. Maybe it’s impossible to answer all the questions Murakami brings up. Secret religious cults, tiny creatures that emerge from dead goats’ mouths to spin an ethereal chrysalis, mysterious pregnancies, a world with two moons – I mean, it’s all a lot to deal with, a lot to convey. And I’m not suggesting that every question an author brings up demands an answer within that same book; certainly, I’d assume, neither is Murakami. Instead, what he notes, and what is necessary to understand, is that there is mystery in the world – deep and trenchant mystery – especially in a place as otherworldly as Japan, which deserves to be looked at and examined, if not understood.

And the grace of Murakami’s books is not only that he brings up such luscious mysteries, but that he cloaks them in the quotidian ubiquity of daily life: there might be a woman who covertly kills abusive men for her job, but her days are still filled with the quiet rising of the sun and the silent nights when she stays up long after everyone else is asleep. There’s still the daily question of searching the fridge to see what could be stir-fried into dinner, and that is comforting, even if it makes me upset.

But still – still – I wanted more. I didn’t want 1Q84 to end like the television series "Lost," with a quick and ill-conceived wrap-up that was superficially satisfying while doing nothing to illuminate the larger story. But it did. Both "Lost" and 1Q84 started big, making enormous promises that ultimately neither could fulfill. Did they take storytelling too far? Bite off far more than they could chew? Perhaps, and maybe that’s why Murakami didn’t win the Nobel Prize and "Lost" became a laughingstock rather than a television series that earned a rightful place in the pop culture canon.

Even so, I’ll probably never get rid of my copy of 1Q84. Like when I finished Infinite Jest, there’s always an element of pride to completing a large and monumental work. And that, I guess, is the strange relationship we have with texts: we keep our books long after we’ve completed them because, in the process of reading, they become our friends. 1Q84 will stay on my shelf even as it remains one of my most frustrating friends, a book I’ll look at again from time to time just to remind me to keep away from starting things I know I can’t complete. Still, it’s a friend I won’t abandon any time soon. Friends like these are important – or at least some of them are – because they remain meaningful long after we’ve finished reading what they contain.