This is what we've got so far and I'm taking multiple breaks while making it cause I genuinely feel like a big fat degenerate (plus my mom wouldn't stop looking at my phone and I don't really know how to excuse this)
LOOK AT HIM!!! HE'S BEAUTIFUL!! OUR OWN PYSCHOPATHIC LITTLE BABY GIRL!
Izzy!
I Z Z Y
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It is twelve-twebty-three in the morning and I have "finished" House of Leaves. When I woke up, aware that this would be the session where I put the book aside, I became incredibly aware that there would be no way to talk about it without those dastardly quotes. It feels disingenuous; though it is correct, to a degree, to say that I've reached the point where the Record is done, and all that is left is appendices.
So, the entire Navidson Record has been read. Johnny's footnotes. The Whalstoe Letters from the appendices. I skimmed over the bits and pieces at the end, and followed the notes to whichever references came up, as they came up.
I did not read any of the poems, and there are likely other nifties that I've missed. Describing the final pages of this thing feels a bit like talking about completing in video game terms. You can go for one-hundred percent, or you can just experience the story and shelf it later. For this reason, I say I "finished" it, but didn't finish it (no quotes).
Preamble (pre-ramble?) aside, House of Leaves.
Early this morning, while speaking with a co-worker, I came up with what I felt was a satisfactory description of my feelings for the book: it's a bit like drinking absinthe. There's a very strong reputation to the spirit, just as this book has a reputation: both are mysterious, typically described in elite terms. And so you have this preconceived notion (House of Leaves is impossible to read, it will drive you mad, it's not for the faint of heart; absinthe is hallucinogenic, you'll experience an otherworldly psyche trip), and you build it up in your mind to be this major experience, this huge thing, and you're left a bit disappointed because it's nothing like what everyone tells you it's like.
But House of Leaves, unlike absinthe, at least left me with a pleasing taste in my mouth (actually, I'm eating a bag of græy Skittles, so it might be that). Once you realize what the book is, what it's trying to do, it becomes incredibly straightforward. Er, relatively speaking.
Johnny Truant's sections, in the beginning, did very little for me, though I found them far more desirable than any of those moments where Zampanò drags about physics (describing echoes, the chemistry of the house's walls). This guy is screwed up. I thought Raskolnikov needed therapy when I read Crime and Punishment. Johnny is broken in a way that I was so not ready for. There are not enough drugs in the world to fix this man.
So, there are a few beautiful moments here that just really caught me, and I regret a bit not flagging them. There's a line whose formatting I will not try to replicate, when discussing the potential history of the house, where colonists are wandering, starving, that was wonderfully unpleasant (reminded me a bit of The Jaunt, "It's eternity in there.") There's the story with the dog that I could have lived my life without reading. Halloway's madness was also wonderful to watch unfold.
It's been described as both a love story, and a horror story. Stephen King compares it to Moby-Dick. I feel like there are right ways to read it. And there are wrong ways to read it. Realistically though, it's far more approachable than I would have suspected, and quite a bit more pleasing. There are enter sections I skip when I re-read Notre-Dame, and I believe if I ever read it again, I'll take a similar approach. Perhaps I'll go through the entire book and only read Jonny's footnotes, or I'll only read Zampanò's manuscript. Perhaps I'll skip the Whalstoe Letters and see if reading through without that insight affects my experience.
At the end of the day, or beginning, early morning, whatever, it's an enjoyable read. A lot of work went into crafting this strange tome, and I'm glad I've given it the respect it deserves (you know, once I stopped letting Tears of the Kingdom distract me and actually read the bloody thing).
After this though, and coming off the back of my Philip K. Dick reading, I think I need something normal. Without any substance abuse, or madness, or any thin græy veils masking and disguising what's real. I had intended American Prometheus, but I don't think I'm really up for that. I need something light, a palate cleanser. I recently purchased a beautiful copy of The Neverending Story. Perhaps that will make for a good re-read.
Gives me an excuse to jam out to Lamahl.
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