Dracula by Bram Stoker

Source of book: I read this during my waiting times in court, on my tablet.

The legend of the vampire stretches back before any human memory, with legends of blood-sucking spirits appearing in the earliest written literature. The vampire as the undead, however, appears to have originated in southeastern Europe, where it also received its present name. Our modern conception of the vampire, so ingrained in our culture as to be well known to nearly everyone, owes its existence primarily to this particular book, written by Bram Stoker in 1897. While it was a reasonable success when it was published, and was hailed by critics and other writers as a masterpiece, it did not become the universal sensation that it has since become until it was adapted for a film starring Bela Lugosi in the 1930s. (There have been many adaptations, serious and otherwise, since then. I was first introduced to the trope by Count von Count in Sesame Street - who was more of a sinister character at first than he is today.)

Stoker’s portrayal is notable for the full development of the legend as we know it today. Dracula’s appearance, powers, weaknesses - all are here in full form, and few additions or changes have been made since.

Stoker turned out to be a one-hit wonder. Nothing else he wrote is familiar today, although his original career as a theater manager continued to support him.

The book drew on a number of sources. The basic concept of the vampire as a nobleman preying on young women was drawn from The Vampyre, a short novel by John Polidori as the result of the discussion with Byron and Mary and Percy Shelley that also led to Mary writing Frankenstein. Stoker settled on the name of Dracula after discovering the real life Vlad III, “The Impaler,” a Fifteenth Century Romanian prince, who was also called “Dracula,” the son of Dracul, that is, the Dragon (Vlad’s father’s nickname). Stoker used some of the real life details of Vlad III in the backstory for his villain. (Peculiar side note: Vlad III’s son was known as Wihnea “the Bad,” which belongs with Ethelred “the Unready” and Ivan “the Terrible” in the pantheon of derogatory royal epithets.)

This is another book I really should have read in high school, but somehow missed. I won’t spoil the plot for those who have not read it, but the basic outline is presumably familiar to most of us anyway. The book is told through a series of diary entries by the major characters, none of whom initially know what the others know. The use of multiple perspectives helps to add to the drama, as the reader knows things that most of the characters do not. The reader gets to see them stumble around the truth until they finally all are able to each contribute a piece to the overall puzzle.

In fact, I would say that this is the best part of the book - the tight plotting and pacing. As a good horror book should, it draws the reader in more with suspense than with gore and death. The pace starts slowly, but gradually builds to a frantic chase at the end. It is easy to see why this book was the basis of so many successful films. It already has all the elements of drama in place without modification.

One of the things that struck me about the book is how Stoker both reinforces and subverts certain Victorian fears and stereotypes. First of all, the sexual undertones of the vampire legend, while largely implied rather than stated in this book (unlike in earlier references, where it is more explicit) clearly line up with Victorian anxieties: the helpless, innocent, young, beautiful female who is the favorite prey of the vampire. His desire to pierce her, and mingle fluids. The fact that his vampirism is a contagious disease, like the syphilis which was at that point incurable, leading to insanity and death. The idea that the vampire had to be invited in initially, but that he could come and go freely thereafter. Back in the 1700s, this superstition led to the unearthing of corpses to kill the supposed vampires, but the Victorians had their own fears for their daughters - as do we, which perhaps explains the continued fascination with vampires. (I’ve also heard the more pernicious outgrowth of this fear wherein African-American men are stereotyped as having insatiable and dangerous sex drives and Latino men are viewed as being continually engaged in smooth seduction.) I, myself, being male and not understanding certain genres at all, have a harder time understanding the apparently widespread female desire for the ministrations of the vampire. Stoker perhaps did, though, as he writes of Mina’s simultaneous commitment to destroy Dracula, and her sympathy for him.

Mina is the character that I found most fascinating in this book. Jonathan Harker, Mina’s eventual husband, gets bonus points for being a lawyer, and for showing ingenuity, but he is a more expected character. Similarly, the central character of Van Helsing fits a common pattern found in much literature of the time: the brilliant scientific mind, familiar with the legends, and prepared for nearly everything. Also present would be Lord Godalming, who has the necessary financing, and is desperate to avenge the death of his wife, Lucy, Dracula’s first victim in England; and the American, Quincey Morris, who is clearly the “expendable crewman” of the story. He might as well be wearing a red shirt during the story.

While Lucy is the typical Victorian female: innocent, demure, pure, sweet, and of course beautiful; Mina is in a much more modern mold. She is treated as an equal partner in the quest to destroy Dracula, and she continues to show her remarkable fortitude and capabilities even as she falls under his spell. It is she who finally reads Jonathan’s journal and brings it to the attention of Van Helsing, thus allowing him to determine the identity and location of the vampire. She insists on accompanying the rest back to Transylvania, taking part in as much of the physical rigour of the chase as her weakened condition allows. She is able to calm her husband’s fears, and stiffen his spine by taking his focus off of her and on to the task at hand. She is even able to swear the others to kill her should the need arise. This amazing capacity for self sacrifice, and for fearlessness in the face of what she knows may well destroy her is an entire level above the heroism of the men, who can act from a more ordinary and straightforward source of courage. Mina is allowed to display virtues other than those typically viewed as “female,” (see Lucy above) and instead can share the traits that can and should be the aspiration of all of us, male or female: courage, intelligence, good judgment, control of emotion, focus, determination.

I also appreciated that Stoker allowed Mina to participate in the adventure without being reduced to eye candy or a love interest. If anything, by marrying her to Jonathan pursuant to an engagement pre-dating the start of the narrative, he removes the possibility of sexual tension becoming the secondary focus of the story. She thus must be interesting for her own skills, personality, and actions, rather than primarily for the “will the hero get the girl” subplot. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but one does sometimes wish that more writers and filmmakers let their female roles in mixed gender groups rise above that of “love interest.” (I think this was part of the genius of the Star Trek franchise, and a reason that it has endured despite being a bit campy and dated.)

I will admit that I have always appreciated strong women, both in books and in real life. Perhaps that is why I married one. Contrary to Mr. Bennett’s surmise, I would definitely not prefer a stupid wife.

This book is definitely worth the read. Not just another gothic horror bit of pulp, this book truly is a classic, and an example of good writing - particularly in its plotting and pacing.

Note on the castle:
 
Dracula’s castle is as much a part of the legend as the man himself, and Stoker’s spooky description of the nighttime arrival there is masterful. It is unclear exactly which castle inspired the author, although he may have drawn on books by Jules Verne and Anne Radcliffe. There are theories that he was inspired by Castle Bran in Romania or New Slains Castle in Scotland. While these castles are all right in their own way - beautiful, in fact - I imagine something more like this, from the Carpathian Mountains described in the story, although this particular location is in Slovakia rather than Romania. 

                                     Spiš Castle from the Branisko Pass (Wikipedia Commons - Photographer not identified)

Click to expand picture for a better view.

 

The School for Husbands by Molière

Source of book: I own a beautiful Franklin Library hardback edition of the major Molière plays - an unread used book find.

A nouveau riche attempts to acquire high culture and makes a fool of himself. A health-obsessed hypochondriac falls for a series of quack doctors and their remedies. A religious huckster preys on foolish aristocracy to obtain money and sexual favors. A young, snarky hipster mocks everything and anything, but finds nothing to believe in - not even his own misanthropy. 

Are these plots from the late Twentieth Century perhaps? Quite the contrary. They come from the Seventeenth Century comedies Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, Le Malade Imaginaire, Tartuffe, and Le Misanthrope, by Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, commonly known by his stage name, Molière.

Born in an era when the profession of actor was considered to be morally suspect, Molière lived the sort of dramatic life one might associate with penny novels. He married the daughter of his (female) business partner, a girl half his age who is generally thought to be the illegitimate daughter of a nobleman. The Seventeenth Century equivalent of the tabloids accused him of marrying his own daughter, naturally, as Molière probably had an ongoing affair with the mother. (Reading the biographies of French intellectuals during this period is like watching the Jerry Springer show.) While performing in his last play, Le Malade Imaginaire, he was suddenly stricken, and died soon thereafter. Although the cause was almost certainly his tuberculosis, the popular rumor of the time was that he was poisoned at the behest of composer Jean-Baptiste Lully. Molière and Lully worked together on many of Molière’s plays, which included music and dance sequences. The two had a falling out, and Molière switched to Marc-Antoine Charpentier, causing a bit of drama at the time.

I first read Tartuffe in high school, and loved it. Since that time, in addition to the plays I have read, I have seen excellent local productions of Le Misanthrope (California State University Bakersfield) and Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme (The Empty Space, a local theater). I never ceases to amaze me how modern and relevant his plays seem. As much as I love Shakespeare for his glorious language and timeless understanding of human nature, I must admit that his plots speak of long departed eras. Thus, I am somewhat surprised that Molière isn’t more popular today.

The School for Husbands was Molière’s first full length play, although it is still shorter than most of his best known works. Two brothers, Ariste and Sganarelle have been given the care of two orphaned young ladies, Léonor and Isabella, respectively. Each hopes to win the love of his lovely ward.  Ariste is fairly laid back, and allows Léonor and her maid Lisette to attend fashionable parties, and generally treats her as an equal. Sganarelle, in contrast, prefers to keep his intended in a box, and governs her in an overbearing manner.

From the very beginning, it is clear that Sganarelle has no use for pleasure or society. He argues with Ariste over his antisocial behavior.

Ariste:     That surly humor, whose severity

    Shuns all the pleasures of society,

    Gives all your actions an eccentric air,

    And lends uncouthness even to what you wear.

Sganarelle: Of course, I must be fashion’s slave! Oh yes!

    And not content myself in how I dress!

    …

    Wouldn’t you like to see me ape the ways

    Of your young fashionable popinjays,

    Wear one of their ridiculous chapeaux

    That bare weak brains to every breeze that blows,

    And a blond wig that takes up so much space

    As quite to obfuscate the human face?

    A tiny doublet, like to disappear,

    And a great collar reaching down to here?

    Those sleeves, at dinner sampling every food,

    Those petticoats, as breeches misconstrued?

    Those ribbons on the shoes, which look as sweet

    As feathers look upon a pigeon’s feet?

    And those great canions, reaching from the knees,

    Which rob the legs of freedom and of ease,

    And give our gallant fops a straddling gait

    As though on shuttlecocks they ambulate?

    This is the way you’d like to see me dressed:

    Wearing this trash, like you and all the rest.

This is, of course, a brilliant and cutting takedown of the fashion of the time, and an excellent example of Molière’s cutting wit. However, Ariste’s response is sensible, and cuts to the heart of the issue.

Ariste:     Aways we must accept the general ways,

    And never draw on us the public gaze.

    In clothes as well as speech, the man of sense

    Will shun all these extremes that give offense,

    Dress unaffectedly, and, without haste,

    Follow the changes in the current taste.

    I have no wish to set men on the road

    Of those who always overdo the mode

    And, loving its extremes, would feel distress

    If anyone outdid them in excess.

    But I maintain no reason makes it right

    To shun accepted ways from stubborn spite;

    And we may better join the foolish crowd

    Than cling to wisdom, lonely though unbowed.

In context, I think Ariste’s use of the word “wisdom” is sarcastic. The point is that Sganarelle is drawing attention to himself through his aggressive disregard of fashion. He is seeking to make an impression every bit as much as the most fashionable. I am reminded of groups like the Amish and others who intentionally adopt fashions from the past. The problem is that this decision is held out as being somehow more “moral” than modern fashion choices - just as Sganarelle does here. He clearly thinks he is a better person, as becomes clear as the play progresses.

Not only does Sganarelle adopt this philosophy for himself, he also imposes it on his ward. After Ariste indicates that he intends to continue to give Léonor her freedom, Sganarelle relies:

Sganarelle: Do as you will. But I intend that mine

    Live not by hers, sir, but by my design.

    Dress in a decent woolen serge or baize,

    And wear black only on the proper days;

    That closeted, as girls should be, indoors,

    She put her mind all on household chores,

    Mending my clothes when other work is done,

    Or knitting me some stockings just for fun;

    And that, completely deaf to all sweet talk,

    She never go unchaparoned to walk.

   
Lest one mistake this idea for a relic of the Seventeenth Century, I will note that there is a subculture familiar to me that advocates this exact idea.

Molière recognizes the logical result of this plan. In typical fashion, he lets the servant have the cheeky response. I might even go so far as to say that the servants have all the best lines in any Molière play.

Lisette: Indeed, I am appalled at all these quirks.

    Imprison women? Are we among Turks?

    I hear they treat them there like slaves, or worse,

    And that is why God marks them with his curse.

    You must think us quite ready to discard

    Our honor, that you put it under guard.

    Come, do you really think all these precautions

    Are any obstacle to our intentions,

    And that, when we’ve an mind, we can’t prevail,

    And make a fool out of the smartest maile?

    You act like madmen when you spy on us.

    The greatest danger is for you to hector:

    Our honor wants to be its own protector.

    You almost give us a desire to sin

    When you take such great care to hem us in;

    And if a husband used constraint on me,

    I might let him see what he should see.

Ariste, too, thinks this is ludicrous.

Ariste: Suspicions, locks, and bars are all misplaced,

    And will not keep our girls and women chaste.

    ‘Tis honor that must hold them to their duty,

    Not our confinement of their beauty.

    It must be a strange woman, I confess,

    Who owes her virtue solely to duress.

    We hope to rule their every step in vain;

    I say the heart is what we have to gain;

    My honor would I think in jeopardy,

    For all my worry, in the custody

    Of one who, if temptation should assail,

    Would lack only a ready chance to fail.

Sganarelle cannot understand this apparent laxity, but Ariste replies:

Ariste:     At least thank God I am no martinet.

    I’d hate to practice those forbidding ways

    That force children to count their father’s days.

A brilliant and piercing line, that.

Unsurprisingly, Sganarelle’s austerity has not exactly won Isabelle’s heart. Rather, she loves Valère, a young man that Sganarelle disdains. While Valère bemoans the fact that Isabelle is kept under wraps, his servant Ergaste notes that “That helps your cause, and you have grounds for hope, In that he gives your love so little rope. Be steadfast in the course you have begun: A woman that is watched is halfway won.”

The majority of the play from this point forward involves Valère and Isabelle plotting to get married to each other. They both use Sganarelle to unwittingly pass messages to each other, and indeed, to set up the marriage ceremony itself. This, like the other mad schemes that Molière is fond of, makes for a delicious farce at the expense of the sanctimonious Sganarelle. The lovers use words charged with a double meaning, using Sganarelle himself to convey their love for each other, and he never suspects it. Their plots eventually lead to a situation in which Sganarelle is convinced that Léonor is attempting to elope on Ariste. While Ariste is shocked that his ward did not confide in him, he has no wish to interfere.

Ariste:     I never will accept the weakling’s part,

    Of wanting to possess a loveless heart.

Ariste need not fear, of course. Léonor is bored by the overeager young men chasing her.

Lisette: Each one tries hard to please your eye, I’m sure.

Léonor: And that is just what I cannot endure.

    I’d rather hear good plain talk any day

    Than all the silly empty things they say.

    To them their blond wig is a smashing hit;

    And they assume they are the soul of wit

    When they come up with some ironic jest

    To the effect that older men love best.

As Le Misanthrope proved, Molière anticipated the hipster by about 350 years. In the end, of course, everything turns out fine for everyone. (It is a comedy, after all.) Except for Sganarelle, but he gets his proper comeuppance.

Lisette’s words conclude the play:

Lisette: [to the audience] If any husband is a churlish fool,

    This is the place to send him - to our school.

I highly recommend Molière as an entertaining and amusing author, but also as a piquant commentator on our own times. The School for Husbands is not a bad place to start, although all of his major works are enjoyable and well worth a read.

Note on the translation:

My version of these plays was translated by Donald M. Frame in the 1960s. As one can tell from the quotes, he attempts to retain the rhymed couplets in iambic pentameter, which actually works pretty well. I am not sure which translations were used for the live versions that I saw, but the language worked well there as well. I found that Molière generally wrote in a simple enough style so that the translations did not need to search too much for a good English equivalent. I will admit, however, that I have not read them in the original French, so I must go by what I have noted in the English versions.

Note on the music:

Jean-Baptiste Lully is considered to be the father of the French Baroque style. Immensely popular during his lifetime, and a favorite of the aristocracy, his works are largely forgotten today. He, like Molière, was a frequent subject of the tabloid, being a notorious libertine with a taste for both women and men. His death was also oddly ironic. While beating time with a staff, he accidentally smashed his toe. It turned gangrenous, he refused an amputation, and the infection killed him.

Lully’s music accompanies most of Molière’s plays, although it is practically never heard in that context today, which is a shame.

Lully’s successor, Marc-Antoine Charpentier, in contrast, was more famous for his sacred than for his secular music. His style is more backward-looking, often using the modes and counterpoint from Renaissance era music in combination with the newer Baroque styles. Modern musical judgment generally considers Charpentier to be the superior composer to Lully, although both were excellent and influential within their own spheres. Lully influenced opera and ballet for centuries thereafter, while Charpentier established the sacred style that would be perfected by Bach and Handel a half century later.

For comparison, here are the Te Deums by each composer, performed on period instruments. I find both to be inspiring and delightful in their own way. I will admit that Charpentier managed to write one of the most memorable trumpet themes of all time.

This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Source of Book: I own this.
Date originally published on facebook: September 14, 2010

I recall reading a short story and an excerpt from The Great Gatsby in high school, but had never really spent time with Fitzgerald before.

This was his first novel, and launched his career. It is an odd combination of elements, being partially in ordinary prose, partially in blank verse, and partially in the form of correspondence between characters. Fitzgerald built the novel from previous efforts, which explains the feeling that certain parts don’t quite fit the rest of the novel.

This Side of Paradise was also, like several of Fitzgerald’s works, partially autobiographical. The protagonist, Amory Blaine, is essentially himself, and he recounts several of his early romantic affairs. I purposely did not read about Fitzgerald himself until after I finished the book, so I could enjoy the book without being distracted by the man. However, I gained some interesting insights into the book afterward by examining his life, and the parallels with the book.

The plot can be generally summarized as this: a young man grows from childhood to early adulthood, learns of himself, becomes disillusioned with love and life, and is left dissatisfied.

Amory, like the author, was born to a moderately wealthy family, attended Princeton, served in the armed forces at the very end of World War I, and fell in love with a difficult, fascinating woman. In the book, she chooses to marry money, and leaves Amory heartbroken. In real life, she chose Fitzgerald after his book became a success. Their marriage was the opposite of a fairy tale, however. They both partied and drank to excess. She spent the last years of his life in a mental institution with schizophrenia, later dying in a fire. He drank himself to death at a young age.

It was an odd coincidence that I read this book while reading G. K. Chesterton’s Orthodoxy. As a young man, Fitzgerald read voraciously; Chesterton was a favorite author early on, and is mentioned throughout This Side of Paradise. At first, Amory cites Chesterton as a favorite, and later rejects him as he loses faith in everything.

The overwhelming mood of this book, as seen through Amory’s eyes, is one of ennui, a boredom with life, people, and himself. Amory is described as an egoist – certainly accurate, and a remarkably self-aware description by Fitzgerald. Amory is always about himself. Even the women he loves, he loves as a reflection of himself – they mirror his own personality and provide a foil for his talent and wit. To a degree, this is a similar character to Sir Willoughby in George Meredith’s The Egoist, who also views others as a mirror for himself. However, while Willoughby evokes pity even as he is ruthlessly exposed for the reader, Amory remains an unsympathetic character throughout.  A real strength of the book is the way Fitzgerald is able to acknowledge his weaknesses, even though he was ultimately unable or unwilling to master them.

The contrast with Chesterton could not be greater. Chesterton is one of those larger than life personalities, like an overgrown child who is still discovering the world for the first time. Everything is thrilling and exciting to him. Conversely, Amory is thrilled by nothing. Even young love seems diminished. The whole narrative seems to give the feeling of a world shrunken and desiccated. The color has entirely gone out.

Another facet of this novel that struck me was the parallels with modern society. Amory could easily be from my generation. He is bored with work, love, and knowledge. He considers himself smarter than everyone else, despite a lack of evidence. He has difficulty believing or caring about anything.

The era, too, fits the modern era. The boom of the gilded age gave way to the war, then to the ‘20s and prohibition, and finally to the great depression. Although the book was published in 1920, Fitzgerald’s personal circumstances already gave a hint of the depression to come. The soulless drinking, partying, and self regard carried through the ‘20s, leading to a cultural hangover much like we are experiencing today. Amory despises the poor, even as he is threatened with poverty himself.

From the aesthetic point of view, this book is of mixed quality. At times, the use of language and description is piercingly good. Fitzgerald’s ability to show personality with a minimum of words can be breathtaking. So too, he captures the emotions of youth extraordinarily well, particularly as he was young himself at the time.

The book has its weaknesses as well. The tone and form is inconsistent, probably due to the multiple sources drawn together at the last. Fitzgerald also has a tendency to drop literary names, simply listing Amory’s current reading list at various times, and expecting the reader to draw conclusions. This works to a degree if the reader is familiar with Chesterton, Swinburne, Brooke, and others of the late Victorian and Edwardian eras. However, it lacks the clarity and wit of the passages where he allows the personalities to come through his writing directly.

The most memorable lines of the book come right at the end, in the form of Amory’s thoughts as he walks through a graveyard on his way back toward Princeton. He has just delivered a speech to a wealthy father of a friend from school in which he argues for socialism, despite believing little or nothing of what he says. The irony is that these memorable lines were largely stolen from the diary of his future wife, who never attained his renown, but became bitter over his success.

As Amory reflects on the meaninglessness of modern life, deciding that there was no God in his heart, and little left but disillusion and unrealized dreams, he describes his generation as, “[A] new generation dedicated more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success; grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken.” In the final line, he stretches his hands to the sky and laments, “I know myself, but that is all.” Such is the lament of our present age. 

Super Sad True Love Story by Gary Shteyngart

Source of book: borrowed from the library.

Shteyngart is a youngish (ok, roughly my age) Jewish-American author. He was born in Leningrad, now thankfully returned to its historical name of Saint Petersburg, and immigrated to the United States as a child. I decided to add this book to my list because of previous experience with a few articles by Shteyngart from Slate and The New York Times, a review of the book, and my wife’s description of another of his novels, The Russian Debutante’s Handbook, which she described as really bizarre.

This book is apparently much darker than his others, and dark it is indeed - particularly the last third of the book. It also contains a constant battering of sexual references, and a few (thankfully) brief and thoroughly unsexy sex scenes. I do have to say, though, that this is an important component to this book.

Lenny Abramov, who is probably a stand-in for the author in many ways, is a middle aged Jewish man, with parents from the old country. He falls in love with a much younger Korean-American girl (she is too immature to be called a woman), Eunice Park, and the “super sad” doomed love story begins. Along with this romance goes the rapid decline and failure of the United States, which is pictured in an alternate, yet familiar, scenario. Headed by a single “Bipartisan” political party dominated by a Dick Cheney-like figure, we have invaded Venezuela. Our national debt is so problematic that China eventually cuts us off, leading to chaos. So far, this is a bit of a typical left-leaning dystopic vision of the future, although to his credit, Shteyngart generally avoids making his point about left or right. Everything and everyone is in decline, and the government is fixated on eliminating dissent while promoting consumerism.

The culture in this parallel universe is also a discomforting parody of our own. In what I consider the strongest feature of the novel, the author takes our most annoying modern trends and takes them to the logical extreme. Everyone communicates primarily through devices called an “äppärät,” kind of an all encompassing Facebook/smartphone combination that streams constant information about everyone within view. Through it, one can find out everything about another person from their bank balances to their medical histories. Users are constantly rating others in the room on their “hotness” (I cleaned that one up a bit) and “personality.” The uses are so attached to these devices that some commit suicide afte the network goes down for a long period. Between the äppäräti and the network that is an obvious Facebook analogue, everyone is completely exposed to everyone else - except in any way that actually matters. The concept of a real personal relationship is lost on pretty much everyone except Lenny. Perhaps worst of all from Lenny’s point of view is that books are looked on as dirty relics. Nobody reads, even online. Words are used to convey a minimum of necessary information, but nothing of depth.

Shteyngart’s choice of name for his ubiquitous device is brilliant. The original Latin word that became our “apparatus” also drifted into Russian to become the unforgettable “apparatchik,” the term for a Communist Party functionary. The man who was a tool of the apparatus, so to speak. James Billington (our current Congressional Librarian, by the way) once described the apparatchik as “a man not of grand plans, but of a hundred carefully executed details.” The little widget that functions as a cog in the global information link thus shares the root word for both its functions.

In addition to the oversharing and obsession with image, youth, and materialism, the fictional culture is casually sex-drenched. This is perhaps the hyperbolic end result of Juicy Couture and sexual marketing. Everything - and I do mean everything - has a name that is somehow sexual, at least by innuendo. One of the more mild ones is the nightclub named the Cervix. The actual personal interactions (called “verbals,” to distinguish them from online interactions, which are the norm) consist primarily of vulgarity, innuendo completely divorced from any possible meaning or application to the situation, and absurd racial epithets. (Old Jewish guys calling each other “My NEE-gro!”)  Unsurprisingly, this leads to everything be decidedly non-sexy. Shteyngart deliberately makes all of the actual sex, which is fortunately brief and not particularly graphic compared to everything else, seriously icky. Completely the opposite of a turn-on.

As I noted above, this is why the relentless, bludgeoning vulgarity is crucial to the point. Shteyngart has pushed the worst of our sex-saturated, consumer focused, and image worshiping culture far past any boundary of good taste, revealing its true emptiness.

As if this emptiness wasn’t enough, the author adds another bleak layer. Lenny works for a company that, in addition to eventually ruling the world, sells life-extension technologies to the ultra-wealthy. The book is permeated with Lenny’s fear of death, and the tantalizing promise of immortality-on-earth. For a large price, of course. Lenny must sell the dream for a living, all while realizing he is not quite wealthy enough to afford it himself.

In my opinion, this is one of the book’s big weaknesses, though. Shteyngart is great at describing the disease, but he has no cure. There is really no relief from the constant depression, there is no real resolution, and the book just kind of ends after the calamity. I know, plenty of books share this pessimism, and many offer no hope. Somehow, though, I felt like there was nothing left worth liking or loving when he was done. Lenny may have learned something, but nothing that would actually benefit him in the future. I felt like there could have been something there, but there wasn’t. It just faded into nothingness, like Lenny’s life eventually would. Perhaps that is what the author intended.

The other weakness that bothered me was one that I also found in a (rather less serious) modern dystopia, The Eyre Affair: the book has a number of incidents and people that seem important at the beginning, but then just disappear, and nothing ever comes of them. It’s like the author started off with one plot, switched to another, but left a few characters and scenes from the old plot. In this book, several characters appear in the beginning, and are lavished with enough attention that the reader thinks they may be relevant later. Even worse than the original disappearance, they briefly reappear near the end only to be summarily whacked, with no explanation as to why. I realize that Lenny has no idea either, but it seems that the author might at least let us in on the secret. Otherwise, they just take up space without really contributing. In The Eyre Affair, there is at least the hope of a sequel that might tie up a few ends, but this book is clearly meant to stand alone.

A few other notes on the book. The format isn’t exactly original, but it does serve the plot well. The story is mostly told through Lenny’s diaries, but between chapters are brief “transcripts” from Eunice’s online interactions with her mother, sister, friend, and a few others. In comparison with Lenny’s self-reflective and rather literary musings, Eunice’s interactions are almost devoid of any emotion or personality. She kind of cares about her friends and family, but never gets past the surface. Her feelings are never allowed to show, which makes her a rather unsympathetic character. One wonders if Lenny just wants to fix her.

What Shteyngart does best in this book is observe and mock the ills of our society. Even the little things. His description of Orange County as viewed from a satellite  is superb:

I zoomed in on a series of crimson-tiled haciendas to the south of Los Angeles, rows and rows of three-thousand-square-foot rectangles, their only aerial features the tiny silver squiggles that denoted rooftop central air conditioning. These units all bowed to the semicircle of a turquoise pool guarded by the gray halos of two down-on-their-luck palm trees, the development’s only flora.

I once turned off the freeway in Irvine while on the way to San Diego to stretch the legs of my then very small children. We found a random park. Good lord! The identical new mini-vans, the thousand dollar strollers, everyone wearing the same designer yoga pants. I imagine everyone had matching Dyson vacuums and stupid dogs with sweaters too. I still get the shivers.

I also liked his description of a dive restaurant, “this spicy Sri Lankan joint, where for nine bucks you could eat an insane shrimp pancake and some kind of ethereal red fish while baby roaches tried to clamber up your trousers and drink your beer.”

This is all good fun, but Shteyngart is deadly when he takes on religion. Eunice’s parents are ultra-traditional Korean Christians, he of the abusive kind. Her mom puts up with it, because the famous and popular Reverend Cho “read to us Scripture which say woman is second to man. He say man is head and woman is arm or leg.” Do not get me started on the preachers within the modern Patriarchy movement - and even in more mainstream Christianity these days - which say that a woman should stay and take physical abuse with submission. Unless you want an extended rant. Shteyngart is also far too accurate in his description of Reverend Cho’s rallies, with the combination of traditionally dressed young women, hackneyed pseudo-classical music (surely the reference to a Mahler violin concerto is as ludicrous to the author as it is to anyone who actually knows anything about Mahler), and lots of stuff to buy. I am curious as to when Shteyngart attended one of these. Did he merely watch TBN, or did he suffer through a crusade or two? Either way, he is uncomfortably close to the mark.

Clearly, Shteyngart is opposed to religion, and Lenny himself wishes to convert the faithful, deluded masses, as he sees them. But Lenny is still faced with the quandary. He wants to live forever, particularly if he can love Eunice. But he also is haunted by his therapist’s question, “Why do you think you would be happier could live forever?” As Tolkien put it, mortality is the gift given to man: to die before one wearied of life. Lenny wearies of life, and eventually accepts, perhaps embraces, the idea of his death. And thus the book ends with the words “silence, black and complete.” The solution for the fear of death is to loathe life enough to be ready to end it. I’m not convinced this is a particularly good alternative to the Dylan Thomas approach. (“Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”) Either way, the world is without hope.

I can’t say I recommend reading this book unless you are willing to suffer through the sexual bludgeoning or the vortex of hopelessness. However, it does serve a necessary purpose by rendering naked, so to speak, the emptiness that occupies the center much of our society. It is only through that recognition that we are able to raise our eyes and look for something and someone higher than ourselves.

Gary Shteyngart. Picture by Mark Coggins. Used pursuant to the Creative Commons Attribution License.