Haven’t read Lerner yet, but this makes me want to start with Atocha Station rather than jump to Transcription. Is it the better entry point, or does it matter less than I’m assuming?
On Flesh: this was one of my favorite reads last year. So much happens off the page, and the gaps between chapters do more work than most writers manage with full scenes. That monosyllabism you point to as the book’s signature makes sense of why the ellipses feel earned rather than evasive.
I am a longtime Szalay fan and there were things I really liked about the book, especially formally. It felt like he'd learned from all that short fiction he'd been writing and then moved past it. But the book kind of mystified me. I don't really get what the point of rewriting Barry Lyndon with a Hungarian rather than Irish hero was. In the context of Victorian social norms, Thackeray's satire was biting! Whereas it's really hard to feel like Szalay is making a coherent point about the social order beyond that it's random and alienating, which hardly feels like a daring statement today, and as you suggest that barely seems to be his interest anyway. Whatever this book is, it's definitely NOT the Barry Lyndon of our time, and Szalay's talent and inclinations seem extremely far from Thackeray's. So... what is going on?
I LOVED Leaving the Atocha Station, and thought to myself, "What's going to happen to this guy?" He continued on. Being a solid mainstream writer. I didn't know at the time, he would be the only one who would survive the purges.
I shared a copy from Calabasas library as part of an exclusive book club belong to. As Sartre said, the scenery changes, people come in and go out. For Szalay’s protagonist, his messy business includes a stream of women, a fluke of a war, various odd jobs in different countries, a procession though wealth and penury. He is passionless, affectless. At one point he owns an Audemars Piguet. The writing never screams. The characters never yearn. The women are faceless. Nothing happens. The author looks like he’s 32. I liked the book.
Haven’t read Lerner yet, but this makes me want to start with Atocha Station rather than jump to Transcription. Is it the better entry point, or does it matter less than I’m assuming?
On Flesh: this was one of my favorite reads last year. So much happens off the page, and the gaps between chapters do more work than most writers manage with full scenes. That monosyllabism you point to as the book’s signature makes sense of why the ellipses feel earned rather than evasive.
Yeah, Atocha is definitely better than Transcription. Agreed re Szalay.
Added to the TBR list! Thanks.
I am a longtime Szalay fan and there were things I really liked about the book, especially formally. It felt like he'd learned from all that short fiction he'd been writing and then moved past it. But the book kind of mystified me. I don't really get what the point of rewriting Barry Lyndon with a Hungarian rather than Irish hero was. In the context of Victorian social norms, Thackeray's satire was biting! Whereas it's really hard to feel like Szalay is making a coherent point about the social order beyond that it's random and alienating, which hardly feels like a daring statement today, and as you suggest that barely seems to be his interest anyway. Whatever this book is, it's definitely NOT the Barry Lyndon of our time, and Szalay's talent and inclinations seem extremely far from Thackeray's. So... what is going on?
I LOVED Leaving the Atocha Station, and thought to myself, "What's going to happen to this guy?" He continued on. Being a solid mainstream writer. I didn't know at the time, he would be the only one who would survive the purges.
I shared a copy from Calabasas library as part of an exclusive book club belong to. As Sartre said, the scenery changes, people come in and go out. For Szalay’s protagonist, his messy business includes a stream of women, a fluke of a war, various odd jobs in different countries, a procession though wealth and penury. He is passionless, affectless. At one point he owns an Audemars Piguet. The writing never screams. The characters never yearn. The women are faceless. Nothing happens. The author looks like he’s 32. I liked the book.