Prose Books

hey, I know that this book is awesome, but is old too, the reality of Brazil is not that anymore, some people tend to form opinions about things that they don't know, that they have never seem with their own eyes. But the best thing is that it still is a really interesting novel, and if you read you won't forget, it is just the best book I ever read.

I would recommend this book to anyone as an absolute must read. I read it in the original Portuguese at the suggestion of a friend and if you have the ability, I suggest you do the same. The translation simply doesn't portray the magnificence and beauty of Amado's original. After living in Brazil for sometime, this novel is, to me, the most incredible portrayal of these youth and the circumstances in which they live. The book may be 70 years old, but it is certainly as applicable today as anything else I've read.

It is absolutely magnificant. This is the first time for me writing a book review online and I thought that I'd never do it, but after I saw that there's is copy out there somewhere I had to say that 69$ is nothing for this book. It is the only book I take along when I travel or move abroad. It is the book that can change your life, or atleast bring that special something to it. Now that I'm reading this through I have this funny feeling that it's not me writing, but from time to time you come across extraordinary matters that make you act in a very peculiar way. This is one them. Don't miss it.

Amado's literary output falls rather neatly into two periods. His early work is imbued with a strong sense of social responsibility, a fact for which he had some difficulty under the Vargas regime, and I believe he may have even done a short stint in jail over. The second period, the post-"Gabriela" books, are a lot more laid back and anecdotal.

Sorry to say that in general the second period is the one that's more fun to read, and the books he wrote in the second half of his life are what established his international reputation. A lot of his earlier stuff is not that great, with one exception - this book.

The story is about the kids on the street in Fortaleza, back in the 1930's. To say that they're poor doesn't do justice to it - they live on the street. By necessity they're thieves, but you can't help liking them. They have aspirations of their own in life.

Explaining it in a few words like that may make the American reader think that he's dealing with some "Angels with Dirty Faces" sort of story. It's not. This is not a sentimental novel. It's a reflection of some of the hard realities of Brazilian life, like the urban poverty that never seems to disappear. But it also reflects some of the inherent optimism and the very un-American concern with each other that Brazilians manifest - features of their society that make Brazil such a wonderful place.

This has to be the best book Jorge Amado has ever written. It was the first book of his that I ever read, it touched me so deeply, that I have read almost all his books since. It really lets you know about the poverty in Brasil, and what some people would do for money. Every character and every story in the novel makes sense. It touches my heart to see what some kids go through, not only in Brasil but in the whole world. As a proud Brasilian myself, It made me think a lot about the poverty in my country. The love story is also so romantic and sad. It's simply just the best book that I have ever read.

I was only recently introduced to Harry Crews, but this memoir should be required prior to reading any of his compelling fiction. One does not need to know about Mr. Crews to enjoy his fiction, but to read this book first is to build an affinity for the author. His memories of southern Georgia during the great depression and war years are the most accurate in tone of any non-fiction that has come out of the South. He has been linked to Flannery O'Connor, but to me he seems to be a more existential William Faulkner.

Although this book is not a typical work by the literate master of the hard South, it is a testament to his talent. This book made me see and feel the life of a 6 year old dirt farmer in Bacon Co, Georgia, and also give some insight into the basis of characters in Crews' fictional works. This is one of the best quasi-memoirs ever written, and even has a slight belief in human goodness not seen in his other work. Mr. Crews' more typical works (such as Feast of Snakes or All We Need of Hell) are very good novels in their own right, yet Childhood stands apart and above all of his other books combined. If you read nothing else by Harry Crews (which is not a good idea--you should read many of his books), this is the one to choose.

I would suggest this book to anyone who has ever read anything published by Harry Crews; specifically to those who haven't read anything by him, but who are interested in this magnificent author. After reading it, I found myself wondering how Crews was able to escape childhood, much less become of the the greatest Southern authors since Faulkner. Truly a fantastic book that will stand the test of time and inevitably cast Crews as one of the greatest authors of the 20th century!

Several associations, as I was born in Bacon County in the unincorporated community of ScuffleTown.I have never written A review of a book before. I really enjoyed the book because of all the associations of the area of my birth. My qeestion in my review would be. "How does one get from Bacon County to becoming A Professor at the UF?"

I was assigned this book in a tutorial class on the "mind of the south" by a professor during my senior year of college. I was immediately drawn to the author's experiences with tenant farming; being the son of a mother whose own father was a farmer that oversaw several tenents to his own farming operation prior to, and shortly after WWII. Crew's accurate depection of tenant farmer life was valididated, to this reader at least, by his portrayal of an agricultural system that was difficult to not only rural agricultural African Americans, but their white supervisors. Crews has done a wonderful job of incorporating the distinctly southern phrases and dialogue of the rural, agrarian south. I though my own mother was the only person who pronounced "hurricane" as "harrakin". Charachters such as Willalee Bookatee and his family were strikingly similar to those poor blacks, and whites, described in my mother's stories of working in the tobacco fields of rural NC. This book will shed some much needed light on the fact that the hard-core, rural south is not so far removed from the remodeled "New South".

Great book. I've learned so much about Maya Angelou and am fascinated by her life.

I am not African American, not African, not American, and this book was such an eye opener. It is so rich in humanity, it is a pleasure to read. Each one of the 6 books is written with a distinctive voice as a person is maturing. Maya has a way of writing that is refreshing, intimate and profound.

Through her eyes we become aware of the distinctive culture and values that her characters share or challenge. We see the need that every person has to live life fully and the questions we all need to answer about who we are and what are we here for.

I particularly liked the "All God's chhildren need traveling shoes" best. this book is a must for people who seek to accept that we can be different, yet valued.

It is a distinctive book because it is written in a way that lifts the spirits and intrigues the intelect. .... "to the determination to be no victim of any kind".

I happened to hear her speak at a lecture series. She spoke for an hour and I was interested to read more about her life. I am only on page 280 but this woman is amazing and her writing style is so crisp and clear, it is as captivating as she was as a speaker. I enthusiatically recommend this book.

I purchased this book after reading, "I know why the caged bird sings", I found myself captivated by the spellbounding aura of maya angelou and in a thirst for her story purchased this book. I have drank her words readily and my only regret is that like all great things, the pages shall run out and my feast shall come to an end. This is a wonderful gift for any Maya Angelou fan, it branches outside of her poetry and makes the goddess of words appear a little more human.

Other than Maya's poems, I have never read her autobiographies. WOW barely describes what I read and felt. I always thought of Maya to be just what she is....a poet, an author. To read how her early life was, I see how her life's experiences brought her to where she is today. Not only does she speak honestly, her style of writing makes one feel they are her in the books. The size of the book may seem intimidating, but I could not put it down. I had to schedule myself to study for my class and read this book!

There would be little point in giving a synopsis of each of the 24 stories in this book. That would give a false sense of repetition since many feature images of ash and overturned bathtubs -- the aftermath of nuclear war -- or struggles between mutants and normal humans, each fearing their extinction. But they don't seem any more repetitious than a skilled musician working variations on a theme for that is what many are. These stories, written in 1953 and 1954 -- with one exception, are arranged chronologically, so the student of Dick can see him play with an idea for two or three stories in a row.

Along the way we get the humor, intricate plotting, and sudden reversals in our moral sympathies characteristic of Dick. And there are the machines that so often are a force of death in Dick though they behave more and more like life. Such is the case with the title story, one of Dick's most paranoid and basis for the movie _Screamers_. When sophisticated weapons take on human guise and began to stalk man, what Dick calls his grand theme, knowing who is human and who only pretends to be, is starkly exhibited.

Other famous stories are "The Golden Man" with its purging of mutants before they infect the human gene pool, "The Father-Thing" which is what a boy realizes has replaced his real father, and "Sales Pitch", a story which anticipates, with its all purpose android advertising its virtues through rather thuggish means, the work of Ron Goulart.

There are some memorable stories not so well known. "Foster, You're Dead" was originally conceived as a protest against a remark by President Eisenhower that citizens should be responsible for their own bomb shelters. Its young hero lives terrified in a world where making knives from scratch and digging underground shelters are parts of the school curriculum and each new year brings the newest model of bomb shelter, terrified because his father can't afford to buy one for the family. "War Veteran" reads like a futuristic _Mission Impossible_ episode. The spirit of Charles Fort may be at work in "Null-O", a satire on the absurd philosophy that no distinctions between things are valid, a philosophy practiced by "perfect paranoids". (Fort may have inspired the weakest and first story in the collection, "Fair Game", with its van Vogtian plotting giving way at the end to a silly twist.)

Dick fans will see "Shell Game", with its colony of paranoids, as sort of a test run for Dick's _Clans of the Alphane Moon_, and the time jumping child of "A World of Talent" is reminiscent of Manfred Steiner in Dick's _Martian Time-Slip_. This collection also features one of Dick's occasional fantasies, "Upon the Dull Earth".

Any admirer of Dick will want to read this collection, and those needing an introduction to his work will find no bad stories in this exhibit of 14 months in Dick's career.

This book, third in a set of five from Citadel Press (who are doing similar definitive collections of Robert Bloch & Theodore Sturgeon), collects all of Dick's short stories, the vast majority of them from the 50s - not coincidentally, the high-water mark of the sf pulps. All are introduced by later-era sf writers like Tom Disch, Norman Spinrad & this volume's John Brunner; unfortunately, all take pains to point out that the true value of these stories was in their raw wealth of ideas, which Dick later cannibalized and expanded upon in his novels. During his short-story tyro period, Dick wrote fast and furious (how does a story a week sound?) and the conventional wisdom states that these tales are too one-dimensional, formulaic and crudely-written to have much artistic quality on their own merits. I strongly disagree. While Dick's later novels are of course worth reading, these early stories literally SEETHE with fevered imagination: it's important to note that he does not employ recurring characters or settings here. He literally starts each story with a blank canvas, which only makes his prolific output that much more astounding. All of his obsessions and central themes are already present, but emerging as they did against the backdrop of the American 50s, the oft-noted 'flaws' in these small gems lend an eerily authentic surrealism and subversive power that his 60s and 70s work (when the world he lived in was already waist-deep in 'science fiction time', to use a Spinrad phrase) somewhat lack. Actually, Dick's COLLECTED STORIES, like much of the most resonant 50s sf, can be savored as much for their horror-story frissons, or their mythic and allegorical properties, as they can as pure speculative fiction. (And one could make the argument that such work, produced under the spectres of McCarthyism, The Bomb, flying-saucer sightings, a growing militarism and the incipient gray-flannelled paranoia festering in the newly-minted utopia of suburbia, was much more daring and revolutionary than similar Dick-inspired work published in the far-less-restrictive, anything-goes 60s). Sure, many of the characters in COLLECTED STORIES read like print versions of Kenneth Tobey and Morris Ankrum, but therein lies their power; they're true to the era in a way that 'better-written', more fully developed protagonists probably couldn't be. Anyway, to cut a long-winded sermon short, readers drawn to either sf or horror, as well as those who nominally detest both genres but do enjoy a touch of strangeness and obsessiveness in their fiction, should run out and buy SECOND VARIETY and the other four books in this series. You may be surprised to find many of these 'one-dimensional' stories, written hastily for money, clinging like burrs to your subconscious long after the work of Great Authors have slid noiselessly from memory. Mandatory reading.

The man is good. If you have not read any of Philip K. Dick I would highly recommend any of his books. He is by far the best Sci-Fi writer ever. Some of my favorite short stories from this book are "The Father-Thing, The Golden Man, The Hanging Stranger." Heck, they are all good. They remind me more of episodes of "The Twilight Zone" then just Sci-Fi.

Although not on quite the same level of Volumes One and Two in this five book set of all of Philip K. Dick's short fiction, Second Variety and Other Classic Stories is a worthwhile read for any PKD fan.

Dick cranked out stories very quickly in his early years, and some of these tales do have a certain sense of being rushed, but others, including the title story are nothing short of brilliant. As usual, Dick focuses on dystopic futures that are politically and/or environmentally ravaged; usually these stories have a level of humor too, but others in this collection are more purely downbeat.

While some stories are just okay, I particularly enjoyed "The Golden Man," "Second Variety" and "Foster, You're Dead." There are some other great ones, too. I would recommend this to any science fiction fan who wants to read some truly original fiction; this is another good collection of Dick's short stories.

In May of 1987 Underwood-Miller published a five volume set titled "The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick". The third volume of the collection was subtitled "The Father-Thing". In April of 1991 the Carroll Group republished the third volume changing the subtitle to "Second Variety". In addition to the change of title this volume now contains the story "Second Variety" which was originally in the second volume of the Underwood-Miller set. It seems clear that they made these changes in order to take advantage of the release of "Total Recall", which was around the time of the Carroll Group's re-release of the second volume of the series, and that did have the cascading effect of destroying the chronological approach that the original set of books used, but that doesn't change the fact that this is an excellent series of books and well worth owning by anyone who loves science fiction. Ultimately, this book contains the same stories as volume 3 in the original set, with the addition of "Second Variety" as the last story in the book.

There are 24 stories in this book, with a greater number of longer stories than were in the first two volumes of the series. While Dick's short stories are excellent, the novelette length gives him a bit more room to really explore some of his ideas, something which he uses to great effect in several of this book's stories. One theme which appears in several of the stories here is that of mutation. Dick clearly rejected John W. Campbell Jr.'s idea that mutations should always be viewed as good and leading humanity into the future. This idea is central to stories like "The Golden Man" , "A World of Talent", and "Psi-man Heal My Child", though that is not to say that Dick viewed mutations as bad either, simply that he used a more balanced and realistic approach to the subject.

Another theme which appears in several stories in this volume is that of humanity losing control of their technology, and we see this in such stories as "The Last of the Masters",
"To Serve the Master", and the title story "Second Variety", which was the basis for the 1996 film "Screamers". Along the same lines, we see mankind on the brink of elimination in stories like "Tony and the Beetles", and "Pay for the Printer" along with several of the stories which I had already mentioned. It is not surprising that Dick revisited many of these ideas over and over, as most authors do. Dick also had an incredible output of stories during the early fifties was incredible, with nearly all of the stories in the first three volumes were written between 1952 and 1954, so again one would expect a fair amount of repeated themes. What is surprising is that he manages to make the stories fresh by taking the reader in different directions each time.

This is a great volume in a great collection of Philip K. Dick's work. While changed slightly from the original collection, which was ranked 3rd on the Locus poll for collections in 1988, the completeness of the collection is still in tact. Outside of the stories I have already listed, there are other very good ones as well, such as "The Father-Thing", "Foster, You're Dead", and "Shell Game". The longer stories in this volume put it in front of the first two volumes in terms of the overall quality, but the whole series is certainly worthwhile.

Chesterton's genius is unquestionable - not because of the topic(s), but because his' logic is irrefutable.

This volume contains essays revolving around GK's conversion to Catholicism. As always, GK is illuminating and entertaining--several parts of these essays had me laughing out loud. GK has a marvelous talent for utterly dismantling an argument, an attitude, or a belief, while remaining so good natured about it that even his intellectual enemies must have liked him at least a little. Here, he mainly takes on Protestantism, modernism, secularism, Liberalism, and several other "isms" of the day that challenged the Catholic Church--some of which at one time or another had even attracted GK himself. In the end, he makes as convincing an argument for Catholicism that anyone could make. In the process, he throws much light on many political and social trends that were just gearing up in the 1920's, like birth control, divorce, moral relativism and secular humanism. GK offers grave predictions for these insufficient ideas, many of which sadly have come true beyond probably even his imagination.

Well worth the price to have ,The Catholic Church & Conversion,The Well And the Shallows & The Thing: Why I am a Catholic,all in one volume. Chesterton's writings on the Catholic faith was one of the reasons I came back to the Church.With common sense,humour & erudition Chesterton will convince you of the Truth of the Catholic Faith. Chesterton like all prophetic writers speaks to our time as much as his own.

G.K. Chesterton has "disturbed" this reviewer again. This reviewer has read Chesterton's books with the view of critisizing his books and ideas. Yet, each time this reviewer has found Chesterton's books a joy to read and "food for thought." Volume III of Chesterton's works is yet another book that thoughtful people should enjoy.

One of the arguments that Chesterton uses in these essays is that Catholic ideas and tradition have lasted while "modern" fads have quickly become dated. One of the agruments that Chesterton uses against Puritanism is that in the early 20th. century, Puritanism was something that no reasonable person would touch with "a barge pole." One of Chesterton's theses in this book is that while Catholcism has remained consistent for 2,000 years, Protestantism has become passe and has changed into meaningless modernism.

Chesterton has an interesting comment on page 280. To paraphrase part of this page, Chesterton remarks that modern Protestantism has replaced predestination with suggestion. The Catholic theologians have defended the Faith (The Catholic Faith) with reason. Along these lines, Chesterton effectively argues that Catholic authorities and theologians helf the beliefs of the Faith in a careful balence. The Protestants and modern agnostics have distorted both their own ideas and concepts by exaggerating parts of religion at the expense of everything else. This has led to distortion.

Chesterton gives reasons for his conversion to Catholicism. He proceeds to explain why other ideas and religious views were not reasonable. He also explains the distortions historians have made regarding the Faith. Chesterton's own intellectual curiousity led him to the Faith which he viewed as more sane and more reasonable.

Chesteron demonstrates historical insight in this volume. This reviewer gets the impression that Chesterton is holding something in reserve in making his historical arguments. He may have been inviting his critics to question his historical knowledge whereby he would give the historical details and knowledge. Readers should note that Chesterton was very knowledable of history.

Another interesting aspect of this book is Chesterton's concern over distoritions of language. He comments that some of the moderns were demanding a universal language and that they got was "journalistic jibberish." Chesterton remarks that Europeans had a universal language-Latin. Chesterton remarks that Latin was a precise language which had been neglected in favor of bad thinking and poor writing.

Chesterton did not engage in ad hominem arguements and was usually generous to his critics. He did not object to comments about his size and appearance. He could laugh at himself. Yet, he offer fierce cefesne of truth and honesty when they were attacked.

Volume III of Chesteron's works is well worth reading. As this reviewer wrote before, some may consider me as skeptic. However, Chesterton's writing, knowledge and reason is enough to make anyone pay attention and read his books to learn and to understand clear thinking.

This particular volume in Ignatius Press' collected Chesterton series pulls together his specifically Catholic books. Widely read in his own time, they were later praised by Hillaire Belloc and other writers during the Catholic revival in Britain. Yet they are little read in our time. One reason is that Chesterton converted fourteen years after writing his masterpiece, Orthodoxy, in 1908, and the current Chesterton revival is fueled largely by his novels.

My introduction to these books came in the brief overviews in Dale Ahlquist's G.K. Chesterton: Apostle of Common Sense, which whetted my appetite to read them. One in particular stood out: "The Catholic Church and Conversion." As with Orthodoxy, it's a lively book with a dull title. I was shocked reading his account of the three stages of conversion: 1. Patronizing the Church, 2. Discovering the Church, 3. Running from the Church. But for me, the book was full of shocks of recognition.

I generally don't like Omnibus type volumes such as the Collected Works, and would like to see Ignatius issue this book on its own, but if this is the only way to read it, I highly urge curious readers to obtain this Ignatius edition (Volume Three of the Collected Chesterton). All of the books in this volume were originally issued individually nearly a century ago, and are eminently worth reading. One of them is interesting because GKC wrote it late in life, and reviews some of the ideas in his earlier books. Were these books available individually now, they no doubt would all have reviews on Amazon. As with Orthodoxy, this volume showed me that Chesterton's non-fiction can be as startling and fresh as his fiction.

out of 3000+ books I have read. Much better reading than Clockwork Orange. Be with Mr. Enderby as he cooks, makes love and disses the Beatles. I would recommend the first book in the series to anyone. The subsequent books are not quite as good but better than most fiction.

And if you disagree with me, for cough

Agreed with the above reviews; Burgess seems to have been typecast as the guy that wrote Clockwork Orange and wasn't that a violent movie?...

Before reading the Complete Enderby, A Clockwork Orange was the only Burgess book I'd read and I remembered it as written in a dense, sort of russian/english patois that it was sometimes hard to follow. I didn't think that Anthony Burgess would/could be 'a fun read'

I was very pleasantly surprised to find the Enderby novels very accessible, very entertaining, very funny.

Linguistic pyrotechnics, complete plot control but with a willingness to go completely off topic if he feels like it, a love for the quirkiness of character, respect for poetry and poets but not blind respect; so he'll look at some of the aspects of poets and poetry-writing with an eye to making fun.

There's also some biting societal commentary that, considering 1965 as copyright for the first one, doesn't feel too dated.

I'd maybe describe this as Cormac McCarthy writing A Confederacy of Dunces. This would probably annoy Mr. Burgess, but I think that fans of either would enjoy these books.

Having all four novels in one omnibus edition is a luxury I would strongly recommend. You're not forced to read them straight through but you have the option.

The first thing to say about these books is that they're very funny. - They're very funny! - I spent several nights during the reading of them chuckling myself to sleep over the Enderbian maladventures I had ingested during my day's reading. They're also an uproarious satire of (and I'm sure to be leaving several things/groups/people out):

Postwar England
Poetry Awards
Women's Magazines
Magazines of any sort
Rome
Papism
Avaricious-Papist-Magazine editing women
Poets who sell out
Modern avant-garde film
Psychiatry (Big one here)
Psychiatrists (Even Bigger)
Pop Music
Pop Music Stars
Selenologists
Randy women Selenologists
Beat poets
The film industry in general
America
The American Bicentennial
Creative writing students
Women Creative Writing students
Black (Or, er, Afro-American) Creative Writing students
Talk shows
Subways
New York City
American women -"These American women were very straightforward people, quick to disclose their madness." P.534
American men - "The men were a bit slower." P.534
Spiritualist sessions
Hiberno-American Anti-Anglo sentiments
Theatre people
The American spelling of "Theater"
Anyone who dares to mess with Shakespeare

Well, that will do for starters. What makes all this satire, um, digestible, so to speak, is there is really no vitriol in it (or, well, not very much) and, further, what makes it actually palatable is that one is so busy pitying poor Enderby, in the first two books at least, that the verbal cuts, often hidden among Enderbian musings, hit us so often at unawares. Also, the old-fashioned poet trying to heed his Muse and not sully himself with the modern world catches it the most.

There is, though, a problem that another reviewer has pointed out - The problem of identifying with either Enderby or Burgess - or perhaps Enderburgess. The first two books, Inside Mr. Enderby and Enderby Outside, are much superior, in my mind, to the last two books. Here, Enderby is a character separate from Burgess. Yes, it's still partly autobiographical, but not SO autobiographical that one feels one is reading about Burgess himself, which is the sense that overwhelmed at least this reader while poring over (still chuckling, mind you) The Clockwork Testament and Enderby's Dark Lady.

Finally, there is something more to all this than just laughs (though these certainly help things along). Enderburgess truly believes in the sacredness of poetry and the poet's mission. He heartily defends them against the slings and arrows of the modern world, much to his sadness and discomfiture, it must be said.

The girl who comes to Enderby at the end of Enderby Outside, and serves, more or less, as his Muse incarnate, intones:

"When Shelley said what he said about poets being the unacknowledged legislators of the world, he wasn't really using fancy language. It's only by the exact use of words that people can begin to understand themselves." P.358 This is the Enderburgessian motto, the recurrent theme throughout the book. I can think of no better one with which to laugh and learn or relearn the poet's mission.

"Inside Mr. Enderby," is wonderful and off beat. "Enderby Outside," follows the off kilter story of Enderby and the absurdity that is his life. "The Clockwork Testament," as the title would suggest, has shadings of Burgess' very well known book, "Clockwork Orange." The "Testament," is surreal and twisted while funny at the same time. The final story, "Enderby's Dark Lady," is wonderful and surprising to the reader with value not only for fans of the dyspeptic poet but lovers of Shakespeare as well.

While slightly dated, these stories have a bite to them that speaks volumes of truth for anyone who has been an academic, a professional writer or just a little bit out of touch with the world around them. Enderby is often misunderstood and though he makes his living in a "communication" field, he has a lot of trouble getting his point across to others.

Not only are these books funny, but as is often the case with Burgess, the satire is thinly veiled and pointing at both society and himself.

Leave it to Burgess to create a poet so quirky, so outrageous and neurotic that you have to laugh at every page of his misdaventures. Whether offending strangely clad women in a gay bar or defending himself with a toilet seat, this man lives and was not just created. Clueless about the machinations around him and the pathetic hangers on that want to steal some of his glory, in his poet Burgess paints a disspiriting picture of the 1970s literary scene in London. His world is nightmarish, if leavened by a poet's vision and uncontrollable, irrepressible creativity.

Highly recommended and certainly one his best.

I had heard of this book many years before I was tempted to read it, and now I truly regret my lack of interest in Sassoon up to this point. He is a great poet, but as a memoirist he absolutely sparkles. Robert Graves' book, "Goodbye to all that", often described as a classic, is a mere string of unrelated anecdotes compared with Sassoon's modest, humorous, poignant account of his own youth, which takes us from his childhood in Kent to the end of his military career after the First World War. Don't hesitate to read this book, especially if you enjoy seeing the English language used at its very best.

World War I had a far greater impact on Britain than the US for the obvious reasons that they were in the war for over four years and suffered horrific casualties. The literature produced by that war made a sharp break from what came before, which reflected the feeling in the country that the war had irrevocably changed life in Britain. This is well illustrated in Siegfreid Sassoon's "The Complete Memoirs of George Sherston," a fictional version of his own experiences. The first part covers Sherston's pre-war life, with his obsession with fox-hunting. This is so well written that you will enjoy it even if you don't have the least interest in the subject.

The next section, "Memoirs of an Infantry Officer" covers his experiences in World War I, during he is highly decorated. The horrors of the war, which many of Sassoon's class thought would be a great adventure, are accurately portrayed. Eventually he becomes disillusioned with the war, and writes a letter denouncing it that could have led to his court-martial. A close friend (Robert Graves in real life) gets him classified as having a mental disorder and he is sent off to a hospital to recuperate.

This book is deeply moving and is one of a handful of books that changed the way that the English-speaking world views war. Sassoon's writing style is plain on the surface, but its plainness makes the emotional impact all the greater.

I find this book completely compelling, particularly volume 2 (Memoirs of and Infantry Officer). The descriptions of degradation experienced by those who fought in the trenches and their ability to create a sub-culture of derring-do is powerful in its modesty.Sassoon's mounting frustration is skilfully portrayed, especially in his allusion to details about provision for and management of warfare. His ennui is almost palpable on those train journies across France.

The first volume (Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man) is possibly of more interest to those of us born and raised in the parish where Sasson himself lived. I enjoyed playing 'spot-the-location', but must declare that I am in possession of a comprehensive list, produced by Brenchley History Society,of pseudonyms/real names.

The writing in this volume has some of the lyrical quality of his autobiography (The Old Century and Seven More Years - out of print)on which it is based. Rather than a treaties on Hunting, I consider this to be a gentle study of the awakening of Sassoon's poetic sensibilities; the Hunt and the relationships he formed with particular characters was, for him, an early catharsis. They also augur the events and characters in the following volume.

The final volume (Sherston's Progress)is probably most poignant if one is aware that this is, indeed, a thinly veiled autobiography. Sassoon's heroism is, for me, as great beyond the era of World War I as it is within it. This volume should certainly be read within the context of the previous two, but stands alone as a testament to the debt future generations owe to the perseverance of men such as Sassoon.

A rhetorical question. I've looked for these memoirs off and on in used book shops for years, chiefly because I remembered the first, foxhunting volume so fondly. I don't agree at all with the other reviewers that this section of the "memoirs" is dull. If you like animals or learning about lost sports and conventions--alpine climbing when it was a club activity, say, or round-the-world sailing--you'll enjoy Sassoon's description of hunts and hunters, especially those of the equine sort.

Sassoon's three volumes wrapped up into one take the reader into another world. First volume describes life in the English country, where a young George Sherston becomes completely immersed in fox hunting. To say he becomes consumed by this is an understatement. Sassoon's intimate depictions of the countryside, to include the life of a country gentleman are so detailed you can clearly "see" and feel how young George felt.

Volume 2, Memoirs of an infantry officer take George into the trenches of France, where again with graphic details, the horror and calamity of the fighting in WWI are brought to our attention. Of note is the latter part of the volume where Sherston's morals are challenged, and how he deals with this mental dilemma.

Volume 3 takes Sherston from the trenches of France, to a stint in Ireland and Palestine, but ultimately back to France where the novel is brilliantly wrapped up.

Sassoon's experiences in the war have given us perhaps one of the greatest novels from the era. The writing is absolutely outstanding and will give you pause to put the book down.

Leave it to Bernhard to come up with the ultimate writer's irony: failing to write the first sentence of his masterpiece, even after the most meticulous planning (as you'll see when you read the book), and naturally failing to write the book he intended, the writer ends up with a 150-page masterpiece about...failing to write the first sentence of his masterpiece.

I've read all of Bernhard's novels, and I always recommend this one to people unfamiliar with him. I've read it twice; it's short enough to be read in an afternoon, and the effect after reading it is, "I have to read this again!"

I like his other novels for other reasons, and will even concede that Concrete is probably his most masterful work that must have required immense concentration, but Concrete and Woodcutters are about his best for plain old grousing. His comments about his sister are particularly stinging, to say the least.

Reading Concrete, you feel that there is a kind of stillness of air that's hard to describe.

It's too bad that this book has apparently gone out of print again. Definitely check this one out if you see it somewhere.

Thomas Bernhard's "Concrete" is a concentrated, excessive and disturbing stream-of-consciousness monologue by Rudolf, a reclusive, wealthy Viennese music critic who lives alone in a large country house. Rudolf suffers from sarcoidosis, a disease not described in the narrative, which is characterized by inflammation of the lymph nodes, lungs, liver, eyes, skin, and other tissues. Physically miserable and obsessively fearful of death, he also is a man paralyzed by his misanthropic, conflicted, exhaustingly relentless thoughts. Trapped in his own mind, Rudolf is a literary creation directly descended from Dostoyevsky, Kafka and Beckett.

Rudolf has been working for ten years on a biography of Mendelssohn, yet has failed to write even the first line of his work. "I had been planning it for ten years and had repeatedly failed to bring it to fruition, but now had resolved to begin writing it on the twenty-seventh of January at precisely four o'clock in the morning, after the departure of my sister." It is an intention to begin writing that recurs again and again throughout Rudolf's narrative, an intention to begin writing at a specific time in a specific location after the completion of specific preparatory tasks. And in each instance, Rudolf fails to begin, a sign of procrastination bred by obsession or of extreme writer's block or of extreme mental imbalance.

When Rudolf's sister leaves the house, he still cannot begin to write. Despite her departure, her aura remains: "Although she had gone, I still felt the presence of my sister in every part of the house. It would be impossible to imagine a person more hostile to anything intellectual than my sister. The very thought of her robs me of my capacity for any intellectual activity, and she has always stifled at birth any intellectual projects I have had . . . There's no defense against a person like my sister, who is at once so strong and so anti-intellectual; she comes and annihilates whatever has taken shape in one's mind as a result of exerting, indeed of over-exerting one's memory for months on end, whatever it is, even the most trifling sketch on the most trifling subject."

This theme, Rudolf's hatred for his older, worldly sister, runs throughout his narrative, the sister becoming one among many reasons (or excuses) for Rudolf's intellectual paralysis, his inability to write, even his inability to function in day-to-day life.

But it is not merely his sister that Rudolf despises. He also despises Vienna, the city where he once lived (and where his sister continues to live). "Vienna has become a proletarian city through and through, for which no decent person can have anything but scorn and contempt."

A complete recluse, his mental world bordering on solipsistic isolation, Rudolf no longer has any interest in social life of any kind. "To think that I once not only loved parties," he reflects, "but actually gave them and was capable of enjoying them!" Now he sees no reason or need for the company of others, for the people Rudolf spent years trying to "put right" but who only regarded him as a "fool" for his efforts. As Rudolf thinks, in a long, discursive interior response to his sister's claim that his desolate, morgue-like house, "is crying out for society":

"There comes a time when we actually think about these people, and then suddenly we hate them, and so we get rid of them, or they get rid of us; because we see them so clearly all at once, we have to withdraw from their company or they from ours. For years I believed that I couldn't be alone, that I needed all these people, but in fact I don't: I've got on perfectly well without them."

Rudolf is isolated in his own mind, a man who cannot accept the imperfections of others and of the world, but also cannot accept his own imperfections. And it is perhaps this, more than anything else, which explains his inability to get along in the world, his inability even to write the first sentence of his Mendelssohn biography. "Once, twenty-five years ago, I managed to complete something on Webern in Vienna, but as soon as I completed it I burned it, because it hadn't turned out properly." As Rudolf says, near the end of his short, but exhausting, narrative:

"I've actually been observing myself for years, if not for decades; my life now consists of self-observation and self-contemplation, which naturally leads to self-condemnation, self-rejection and self-mockery. For years I have lived in this state of self-condemnation, self-abnegation and self-mockery, in which ultimately I always have to take refuge in order to save myself."

"Concrete" leaves the reader exhausted from Rudolf's excessive and relentless narrative, giving truth to the remarkable power of Bernhard's literary imagination and narrative voice. It is a stunning literary achievement, perhaps the best work of one of Austria's greatest twentieth century authors.

"But naturally we do need someone, otherwise we inevitably become what I have become: tiresome, unbearable, sick - impossible, in the profoundest sense of the word. I always believed that I could get on with my intellectual work if only I were completely alone, with no one else around. This proved to be mistaken, but it is equally mistaken to say that we actually need someone. We need someone for our work, and we also need no one. Sometimes we need someone, sometimes no one, and sometimes we need someone and no one. In the last few days I have once more become aware of this totally absurd fact: we never know at any time whether we need someone or no one, or whether we need someone and at the same time no one, and because we never know what we really need we are unhappy, and hence unable to start on our intellectual work when we wish and when it seems right.
...
On the one hand we overrate other people, on the other we underrate them; and we constantly overrate and underrate ourselves; when we ought to overrate ourselves we underrate ourselves, and in the same way we underrate ourselves when we ought to overrate ourselves. And above all we always overrate whatever we plan to do, for, if the truth were known, every intellectual work, like every other work, is grossly overrated, and there is no intellectual work in this generally overrated world which could not be dispensed with, just as there is no person, and hence no intellect, which cannot be dispensed with in this world: everything could be dispensed with if only we had the strength and the courage."

"..., and even Schopenhauer was ruled in the end not by his head, but by his dog. This fact is more depressing than any other. Fundamentally it was not Schopenhauer's head that determined his thought, but Schopenhauer's dog. It was not the head that hated Schopenhauer's world, but Schopenhauer's dog. I don't have to be demented to assert that Schopenhauer had a dog on his shoulders and not a head."

"...my life now consists only of self-observation and self-contemplation, which naturally leads to self-condemnation, self-rejection and self-mockery. For years I have lived in this state of self-condemnation, self-abnegation and self-mockery, in which ultimately I always have to take refuge in order to save myself."

"It actually makes us ill if we always demand the highest standards, the most extraordinary, when all we find are the lowest, the most superficial, the most ordinary. It doesn't get us anywhere, except in the grave. We see decline where we expect improvement, we see hopelessness where we still have hope; that's out mistake, our misfortune. We always demand everything, when in the nature of things we should demand little, and that depresses us. We want to achieve everything, and we achieve nothing. And naturally we make the highest, the very highest demands of ourselves, completely leaving out of account human nature, which is after all not made to meet the highest demands. The world spirit, as it were, overestimates the human spirit."

etc., etc. ...

Thomas Bernhard's "Concrete" is a concentrated, excessive and disturbing stream-of-consciousness monologue by Rudolf, a reclusive, wealthy Viennese music critic who lives alone in a large country house. Rudolf suffers from sarcoidosis, a disease not described in the narrative, which is characterized by inflammation of the lymph nodes, lungs, liver, eyes, skin, and other tissues. Physically miserable and obsessively fearful of death, he also is a man paralyzed by his misanthropic, conflicted, exhaustingly relentless thoughts. Trapped in his own mind, Rudolf is a literary creation directly descended from Dostoyevsky, Kafka and Beckett.

Rudolf has been working for ten years on a biography of Mendelssohn, yet has failed to write even the first line of his work. "I had been planning it for ten years and had repeatedly failed to bring it to fruition, but now had resolved to begin writing it on the twenty-seventh of January at precisely four o'clock in the morning, after the departure of my sister." It is an intention to begin writing that recurs again and again throughout Rudolf's narrative, an intention to begin writing at a specific time in a specific location after the completion of specific preparatory tasks. And in each instance, Rudolf fails to begin, a sign of procrastination bred by obsession or of extreme writer's block or of extreme mental imbalance.

When Rudolf's sister leaves the house, he still cannot begin to write. Despite her departure, her aura remains: "Although she had gone, I still felt the presence of my sister in every part of the house. It would be impossible to imagine a person more hostile to anything intellectual than my sister. The very thought of her robs me of my capacity for any intellectual activity, and she has always stifled at birth any intellectual projects I have had . . . There's no defense against a person like my sister, who is at once so strong and so anti-intellectual; she comes and annihilates whatever has taken shape in one's mind as a result of exerting, indeed of over-exerting one's memory for months on end, whatever it is, even the most trifling sketch on the most trifling subject."

This theme, Rudolf's hatred for his older, worldly sister, runs throughout his narrative, the sister becoming one among many reasons (or excuses) for Rudolf's intellectual paralysis, his inability to write, even his inability to function in day-to-day life.

But it is not merely his sister that Rudolf despises. He also despises Vienna, the city where he once lived (and where his sister continues to live). "Vienna has become a proletarian city through and through, for which no decent person can have anything but scorn and contempt."

A complete recluse, his mental world bordering on solipsistic isolation, Rudolf no longer has any interest in social life of any kind. "To think that I once not only loved parties," he reflects, "but actually gave them and was capable of enjoying them!" Now he sees no reason or need for the company of others, for the people Rudolf spent years trying to "put right" but who only regarded him as a "fool" for his efforts. As Rudolf thinks, in a long, discursive interior response to his sister's claim that his desolate, morgue-like house, "is crying out for society":

"There comes a time when we actually think about these people, and then suddenly we hate them, and so we get rid of them, or they get rid of us; because we see them so clearly all at once, we have to withdraw from their company or they from ours. For years I believed that I couldn't be alone, that I needed all these people, but in fact I don't: I've got on perfectly well without them."

Rudolf is isolated in his own mind, a man who cannot accept the imperfections of others and of the world, but also cannot accept his own imperfections. And it is perhaps this, more than anything else, which explains his inability to get along in the world, his inability even to write the first sentence of his Mendelssohn biography. "Once, twenty-five years ago, I managed to complete something on Webern in Vienna, but as soon as I completed it I burned it, because it hadn't turned out properly." As Rudolf says, near the end of his short, but exhausting, narrative:

"I've actually been observing myself for years, if not for decades; my life now consists of self-observation and self-contemplation, which naturally leads to self-condemnation, self-rejection and self-mockery. For years I have lived in this state of self-condemnation, self-abnegation and self-mockery, in which ultimately I always have to take refuge in order to save myself."

"Concrete" leaves the reader exhausted from Rudolf's excessive and relentless narrative, giving truth to the remarkable power of Bernhard's literary imagination and narrative voice. It is a stunning literary achievement, perhaps the best work of one of Austria's greatest twentieth century authors.

A terminally ill writer has spent the last ten years trying to write the FIRST SENTENCE of his masterpiece, and, failing that, spends this book-length monologue venting his outrage at everything and everyone--including himself--he holds responsible for his plight. This is one of the best examples of the stream of consciousness technique I've ever come across; despite the absence of chapters or paragraph breaks, the prose is extremely readable. It's a bitterly funny book (the rant about how domesticated dogs are destroying the world is the most hilarious thing I've read in some time), but it's the genuinely unsettling finale that puts this book into the top tier of modern novels. An absolutely first-rate book; don't let Bernhard's reputation as a difficult "experimental" writer scare you away from it.

This is one of my favorites of the entire S&A series. It is one of the most sailing intensive books providing great details about sailing through tidal river regions. The Norfolk Broads region described is sort of a sailing paradise. Like all of these books, the adventure is very lightweight, and only really suitable for a child with some degree of patience. Part of the appeal is how realistic the books are. I think children enjoy reading stories in which child characters are doing so many fun things on their own with very minimal adult intervention. In my experience these books appeal most to children in the 9-11 age bracket. The book's theme of nature preservation and activism is one that also is fairly relevant even today.

If you have read any of the Swallows and Amazons books and liked them you will love this one too. In my opinion they are all good, but this is definitely one of his best!

This is the fifth of Arthur Ransome's "Swallows and Amazons" tales, although, in fact, it features not a single member of either the Swallows or the Amazons. Nor, indeed, is it set anywhere near the English Lake District. Instead, it describes the Norfolk Broads boating adventures of the two D's (first introduced to the reader in the previous book, "Winter Holiday").

The tale is set in the children's Easter holidays, just a few months after the events of the preceding book. In it, Dick and Dorothea are anxious to learn the rudiments of sailing so that they can take a more active part in the fun when they next meet up with the Swallows and Amazons. Dick is also keen to do some bird watching. It is almost inevitable, therefore, that soon after arriving in Norfolk, they find therefore themselves tangled in up in (and helping out with) the troubles of the Coot Club - a group of local (boat-mad) children dedicated to the protection of the Broads' unique bird population.

Ransome loved the Norfolk Broads with a passion that possibly even exceeded his love of the Lake District. In this book, he paints a portrait of Norfolk, its waterways and the people who live on or by them, making plain his love for this unique environment and its way of life. The story centres on his concerns over their continuing destruction through ever-increasing tourism (and the increasingly thoughtless actions of its visitors), a major problem even 65 years ago. (It is far worse now, of course!) Unlike his Lake District stories, this one uses the real names of the places that feature in it and revels in describing them. Indeed, the book reads almost like a guidebook at times, although you barely notice this, for it is never anything less that engaging in its content. As always, Ransome combines both narrative and instructive content with consummate ease, tempered here with an excitement to the events that unfold. He weaves a tale that is as enthralling and captivating as ever, that will appeal to lovers of good tales whatever their age. The author's own pen-and-ink drawings are as charming as ever, too.

This is one of the few Swallows and Amazons books that can be read earlier in the sequence than it appears (if you really must) without major detriment to either itself or the earlier stories (except, perhaps "Winter Holiday"). You do need to have read it before most of the ones that follow it, however, as the events described here feature heavily in later ones.

After being introduced in the last book, WINTER HOLIDAY, the D's (aka Dick and Dorothea Callum), have their own adventure.

It's the Easter holiday following their winter adventure, and they're going to the Norfolk Broads to stay with a friend of their mother, Mrs. Barrable, to stay on a boat. The D's are eager to learn some sailing but are desolated to find out that they can't. But soon they're involved with the Coot Club: leader Tom Dudgeon, twins Port and Starboard, and the Death-and-Glories, a trio of youngsters who play at piracy. The Coot Club watches over the waterbirds nesting in the Broads, and after a boatload of crass tourists anchors near an important nest and refuses to move, Tom sets them adrift and ends up being hunted. The D's and Mrs. Barrable come to the rescue, hiding him on their boat and using him to teach sailing.

Ransome's fondness for the Norfolk Broads shines through. I didn't get into it as much as some of the other books, mainly because I miss the Swallows and Amazons as well as the lake setting. But this book is interesting for some of the more serious themes that creep in. This is the first S&A book that takes a strong environmental theme, and it's great to see that in something from the 30s. It also explores the theme of sometimes you have to take a stand for what you believe in, even if it gets you in trouble. We also see the tension between residents of the broads and noisy vacationers who don't respect them or the rules of the area. There are also elegiac glimmers of the passage of time, of how the Broads aren't quite what they used to be, although that might not necessarily be bad. It's also fun to see Mrs. Barrable referred to as "The Admiral" by the crew.

It's a fun book, and easy for me to visualize after visiting places like Chincoteague and the eastern shore of Maryland. It's nice spending time with the D's and seeing some of the new characters, who will make a return appearance later in the series. Next book: PIGEON POST, in which the D's reunite with the S&As and return to the lake.

In this book Ransome focuses on the two most recently introduced members of his juvenile cast, Dick and Dorothea Callum, who are sent to spend part of their Easter holidays with Mrs. Barrable, their mother's old schoolmistress, along the rivers of the Norfolk wetlands. Eager to learn to sail so they can take part in the adventures planned for the lake next summer, their spirits plummet when they learn that Mrs. Barrable "can't sail her boat by herself" and plans to use it only as a houseboat. Unexpected salvation occurs in the form of Tom Dudgeon, son of a local doctor, who finds himself a fugitive after setting a motor-cruiser adrift to protect a coot's nest being observed by himself and his five friends (Port and Starboard, the twin girls who live near the Dudgeons, and the Death and Glories, Joe, Pete, and Bill). Seeking shelter from the outraged motorboaters aboard Mrs. Barrable's rented craft, he meets the trio and finds instant common ground, and quickly agrees to serve as Captain and teach the Callums "the ropes." Though there's less imaginative play in this book than in the rest of the series, it still features Ransome's splendid insight into juvenile minds and character, plus loving description of the countryside and a strong consciousness of the environment that must have been unusual in the 1930's. Though this volume will never be my favorite of the series--somehow things are never so lively without Captain Nancy Blackett on board!--it succeeds on its own terms and will be a pleasant change of pace for families reading aloud in sequence.

At the risk of hyperbole, I'm going to say it: this is a work of genius. It's a shame that it occupies such a weird literary purgatory (by virtue of being a memeber of that platypus-like form, the novel in verse) because it deserves to be read and taught in schools, made part of the cannon, and above all to sell a million copies. But who would want to read a really long poem about an entomologist? Answer: everyone--if that poem is as moving, as transcendant, as good a story, and as unobtrusive in its pyrotechnics as this one. yes, there are fireworks, but most of the time you forget it's the fourth of july. read it if you like novels. read it if you're a student of poetry. as an amateur writer of both myself, I can only describe it as a humbling expereince. leithauser deserves your money. Darlington's Fall

I bought this book for $1 at a drug store, initially for the intriguing illustrations that captured my attention. I enjoy creating collages and was about to rip the book to shreds for the pictures when I realized the entire story was a poem, and not only that but a very structured poem that rhymed well... so I began to read it, wondering how the author could make the entire story rhyme throughout.
It was the most beautiful biography of a fictional character I think I have ever encountered. The poetry flowed so convincingly and naturally that unless I began to read out loud, I forgot I was reading a poem. There was none of the awkward sentence structure that poets sometimes need to employ in order to combine sense and rhyme. It was a wonderful story, beautifully written. This book has everything; science, poetry, art, romance, discovery, plot, strong character development and is told in a truly amazing way; content and execution being both worthwhile.
My favorite part is how, chapter by chapter, the significance of the title takes on the most remarkable series of metamorphous. What an exceptional find- I can't imagine I would have dared tear it up for the pictures... the very least in hierarchy of the attributes it contained.
Why on earth would someone sell such an extraordinary book for a mere dollar? It is worth far more in my opinion.

What a wonderful combination of left brain and right brain this book is. It communicates in ways that no novel or poem ever could. No poem could have the emotional drive of this story with these characters - and yet the verse does much to heighten that drive in the most dramatic sequences. No novel could match the satisfying, complexly intelligent structure of this verse - but the sweep of this novel allows for intellectual explorations which - for me at least - no poem could ever support. Actually, I've never been a fan of long poems before, but I found the verse here very accessible - it supports the characters and the story, rather than simply calling attention to itself. I really enjoyed this book.

Novels in verse are fairly rare: Pushkin's 'Eugene Onegin', Vikram Seth's 'The Golden Gate', and Nobelist Derek Walcott's 'Omeros', come to mind. This novel is composed of ten-line stanzas with a rhyme scheme that mandates each line-end have a rhyme-mate somewhere in the stanza, but these ryhmes occur in irregular places, e.g. ABCCADDEEB, as in this sample verse, chosen at random from page 161:

(Nothing on earth, surely there's nothing on earth,
So hopeful, so suggestive of some gilt, goaled kindness
Or mercy at the heart of Nature than the notion
Of convergent evolution--
This thought that the ranged obstacles to any birth
Are immaterial and can be sidestepped . . .
The eye, for instance--look how Nature kept
Contriving it anew, freshly seeing its way
Out of the darkness--as if, at the end of the day,
The mind were _destined_ to escape from blindness.)

The language used tends to be only slightly elevated in tone, and conversational American English creeps in comfortably. Other reviewers have summarized the plot about the life of a boy prodigy who becomes a lepidopterist, has a terrible fall on a remote Pacific Island that cripples him. The protagonist is a gentle, lovable man whose training in Darwinian concepts leads him to accept the randomness and cruelty of life, but whose Wordsworthian love of Nature is never dimmed. I found the plot to be quite involving (as well as involved) and I had trouble slowing down my reading to savor the poetry.

A book to be treasured and re-read.

I was initially attracted to this book because I HAVE been to Ponape (now known as Pohnpei) and was surprised to find the obscure island a location for a novel. I was further intrigued by the idea of a novel in verse form (although I must admit that this aspect alone might have led me to avoid it). I'm glad I didn't. The verse is musical without being obvious, distracting (or obtuse), and the story is an interesting one--a love story on many levels and one that makes insightful observations about human nature, natural selection, adaption and evolution. Despite the joy it brought me, I did find myself at times wanting more--more detail, more exploration, more connection between the "writer" and his "subject." But that is a minor complaint, for a book that surprised me in so many ways.