Mourning Becomes Electra - Eugene O’Neill
I don’t read many plays, partly because I believe they’re meant to be seen and heard. But I watched a DVD of the 1960 TV production of The Iceman Cometh (all three and a half hours) and was so impressed that I wanted more of O’Neill. His view of the human condition is dark, even oppressive. People do terrible things for which they’re haunted by guilt. It’s a guilt so remorseless that one can’t live with it. O’Neill is an engrossing writer; even when he frames a play as a Greek tragedy, as he does in Electra, his characters and situations are understandable and relevant. The play has melodramatic moments, which make it somewhat dated. Also, there’s too much in the stew pot; people have rapidly shifting emotions and their motivations aren’t always plausible. Still, the passion of the writing prevails. O’Neill had a deeply-held vision of life, and from that vision comes the power of his work.

The Poorhouse Fair - John Updike
This was Updike’s first novel, and I wish an editor had said, Look, John, this could be good if you’d flesh out the characters and situations in your mind more fully – it’s a spindly construction, this book, if you take away the poetry – which you should do. Write your poetry but don’t, please, write poetic prose. I’m talking about this sort of thing: “Near the eclipsed sun a cirrus cloud like a twisted handkerchief was dyed chartreuse; the phenomenon seemed little less eerie for being explicable, as iridescence.” You indulge in precious writing constantly, and you constantly have characters think too deeply. It makes for slow going, John, and I couldn’t read more than half of this. Don’t try to impress the reader with your stylistic skills, your deep insights into the human heart, your sensitivity. Make your writing grounded, solid. You’re talented – I can see that most clearly in your dialogue, where people are allowed to talk naturally. But you’re on the wrong path here. . . . (And so on.) It seems that Updike was never told these things, so off he went on his career, and it wasn’t until the last two Rabbit books that he took my imaginary editor’s advice and produced a pair of great novels.

Three Tales - Gustave Flaubert (French)
“A Simple Heart” is simply wonderful (the parrot at the end is a great touch), but the other two tales are flat and boring (“Herodias” is impenetrably confusing); they’re uninspired and not worth discussing. The story of Felicite, however, seems heartfelt. Flaubert, a complex man, looks at the life of an uneducated servant and sees significance in it. Maybe happiness comes from simplicity: accepting things as they are, finding purpose in a life full of daily tasks, believing in one’s religion. No questioning, no craving. Flaubert tells Felicite’s story without embellishment; we get only her thoughts, feelings and actions. Though I don’t usually quote authors on their work, I’ll make an exception. In a letter Flaubert gave a synopsis of “A Simple Heart” and closed by writing, of this tender story, “I am tender-hearted myself.” Then he added: “Now, surely, no one will accuse me of being inhuman any more. . . .”

The Misalliance - Anita Brookner
As I neared the end of this book I realized that its success depended on whether Brookner could nail the landing. She didn’t come close, and this undermined all the good things that went before. The intriguing issue she explores – the nature of happiness, and how some are unable to grasp it – is tossed aside when Bernie returns. Is the reader to believe that all will be well? The author avoids major problems sure to follow. Also, if Bernie is so integral to Blanche’s happiness, he needed to be more clearly portrayed. He’s sketchy. Still, Blanche’s musings on her unhappiness and her effort to understand those who have the knack for enjoying life are interesting. For a novel so cerebral, this was absorbing. As for that stumble at the end, maybe Brookner cared too much about Blanche to subject her to the truth.

Orlando - Virginia Woolf
An extravagant and sometimes wondrous mess. When Woolf went wandering deep into La-La Land I would promptly get lost. But when she worked from a realistic base – sometimes firmly, sometimes not so – I enjoyed this. Especially the parts about the creative process and, most of all, her hilarious and scathing portrayal of an author replete with all the authorly vices; this six page sequence is worth the price of admission. Still, the book is a mess, full of aimless digressions, boring ruminations, inconsistencies, obscure prose. Yet all that is offset by energy, a joyous pulse, a look at life from a heightened perspective. This is Woolf unleashed.

The Same Door - John Updike
Early stories, and good ones. But the three best – and they’re wonderful – are included in Olinger Stories.

Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter - Simone de Beauvoir (French)
I liked her honesty and intelligence. Also, how literary and intellectual matters were of such importance to her. The book’s appeal dropped off somewhat when she got into her late teens; there was too much soul-searching (which is what goes on at that time of life). But Simone makes the story of her mental and moral development interesting. Being part of the French upper class, she lived in a constrictive world for women. Her ridding herself of constraints, her choosing to enjoy life on her terms, is admirable.

Where Angels Fear to Tread - E. M. Forster
He wrote this at age 26. Precocious, to put it mildly. Forster entertains, and he wants to say something of significance. Commendable! But though he tries for depth, the characters are not quite convincing. The closing episodes don’t jell; they seem patched together. Still, Forster shows all the right instincts.

Out of Africa - Isak Dinesen (Danish)
I loved the first section – about Kamante and Lulu – but after that my interest flagged drastically. This is a portrayal of Africans and Africa (from an aristocratic European’s perspective), but there’s a lack of intimacy. Dinesen is a shadowy, composed figure directing matters from the sidelines. The sense of detachment which permeates this book caused me to stop reading three-quarters of the way through.

Olinger Stories - John Updike
Updike brings together stories about the same person, in the same small town. He wrote them over many years, with no plan to be consistent, so we see this character shift – as does his family and circumstances. Yet there is a consistency. It’s the same boy, growing into manhood (the feel of time passing is effectively evoked). The quality of these stories is very high. Updike’s flaw as a writer was his desire to impress – with his dazzling prose, with the depth of his insights. Some of these stories lean that way, but most stay where he worked best – firmly on the ground (well, maybe floating up a little at times, but pleasingly so). If someone twisted my arm, I’d have to select “The Alligators” as my favorite in this first-rate collection. *

A Piece of My Heart - Richard Ford
His first novel, and impressive in parts. Ford is at his strongest when presenting dark psyches and creating a sense of menace and dislocation. Dialogue, mood can be authentic and fresh, as in the scene where Robard picks up the woman with the broken-down car. Vivid characters appear, like Mr. Lamb. But I stopped reading because I felt I was being manipulated. Ford involves the reader in lowlife doings, such as his setting up an expectancy regarding what’s going to be done with a plastic bag – apparently something very kinky (I never stuck around long enough to find out). As if to compensate for this focus on sordid mattters, he has Robard engage in high-minded (and annoyingly obscure) musings. This deep introspection isn't believable because nobody actually thinks like that. Sometimes the writing was show-offy, especially in the overdone descriptions. Also, why use words not in my dictionary?

Barchester Towers - Anthony Trollope
The author has his feet firmly planted. The world he creates has the weight of reality, though his best creations have a grotesque quality – Slope, the Bishop’s wife, all the Stanhopes. The beautiful, crippled Madame Neroni is fascinating and frightening. I wish that Trollope had leaned more toward comedy (done so well in the Bishop’s party). I felt that Eleanor and Mr. Arabin were not particularly interesting, and their goopy romance took up too many pages. Still, this novel is like one of those grand old buildings that was constructed to last. *

Body and Soul - Frank Conroy
I skipped the last fifty pages because the characters were wooden and unbelievable; I didn’t care about them anymore. And to think that I read the first hundred pages with such pleasure! It started out with an appealing boy in trouble; his situation and the people around him created a dark tangle, and I liked his muted responses. Then Conroy has everything good happen to this boy, which turns him into a privileged prig. The complexity disappears, not only in his character but in everybody’s (the mother has her problems solved with the wave of an authorial wand). It’s as if Conroy lacked the will to sustain his original premise. He winds up writing a high society chronicle, with people called Muffy.

S - John Updike
A mean-spirited concoction, without a person who is real or sympathetic – all are cardboard cutouts meant to be ridiculed. Every relationship, even that between mother and daughter, is destructive and selfish. For the story to be told through letters is illogical – Updike shows the commune as a nest of backbiting hypocrisy, yet the character who presents it this way is supposed to believe in it. Lastly, this is a boring book; it had little substance, and Updike inflates it to full length with filler about Eastern philosophy. He attempts to liven things up at the end by throwing in plot twists, but S is a mess.