The History of Love by Nicole Krauss

The History of The History of Love

In the beginning everyone started out with a perfect world. Each person’s world was as beautiful as them, the sky of their world reflected their eyes and their footsteps were already marked in the sand. But they were alone in their perfection and people started venturing out of their worlds into other worlds seeking companionship. At first these expeditions were awkward and short, people rarely liked each other’s worlds as much as their own. As time went on people stayed in each other’s worlds longer and on their way back they inadvertently dragged something back into their world. A clump of dirt would latch on to the sole of a shoe, a flower petal would journey between worlds on an unsuspecting shoulder, a smell would hide inside a woolen jacket. Pretty soon people’s worlds began to merge, the boundaries between worlds started disappearing and no one knew if they were in their own world or someone else’s anymore. After a while only small patches of perfection marked the territories people once knew as their own, and not long after that they forgot they were theirs to begin with all together. Inside this new conjoined world teeming with people there remained an island world of two people who needed no one else’s world but each other’s. His name was Jonathan Safran Foer, her name was Nicole Krauss. Through the leaves of the thick hedges that marked the boundaries of their perfection they watched the people in the big flawed world around them go about their lives. They thought they were beautiful. They thought they were sad. They wrote wonderful books about what they imagined their lives would be like. Books about love and loss, books about memories and words, books about keys and locks, books about children and fathers. In these books love justified loss, memories went beyond words, keys opened locks and children loved their fathers. When a book would be finished they would throw the book over the hedge and into the big world. The people read their books and wept because they still had a distant memory of the perfection they used to have. One of those books was The History of Love.

Abby Berates Celebrated Classics No. 1

I’ve now started my last year studying English literature at Tel Aviv university. The coveted degree is so close and yet so far. Meanwhile as part of my studies I am required to read a whole bunch of classics, and what better way to relieve the strain and frustration of it all than by bitching about them to the devout followers of my illustrious blog (which by now I expect must count millions).

For the first installment of “Abby berates celebrated classics” I bring you William Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. What can be said about good old Shakes that hasn’t been said before? Is it too bold to say that while his tragedies are all that and then some, and Hamlet is one of the most genius pieces of literature I’ve ever come across, I find a lot of his comedies ridiculous and not humorous at all? Of course I realize that the humor of yesteryear doesn’t translate well to a modern audience most of the time, but it’s not too much to ask that they occasionally raise a chuckle. Modern theatre renditions of Shakespeare really have to ham it up to make them funny, but on the page it’s basically just a whole bunch of punning on rude words. So when Petrucchio says “undertake” it’s a double entendre for the horizontal macarena. Hysterical. I don’t think it’s necessary to condescend to saying “well, those things were hilarious once”; Shakespeare knew that the audience to his comedies would be vulgar and crude and that this kind of hijinx would get it going, like Elizabethan American Pie if you will. And just like I will never in any way agree that that movie is at all watchable without embarrassment for everyone involved, I do not agree that just because it’s Shakespeare everyone should wet their panties and give a royal salute. He did have to sell tickets you know. The Taming of the Shrew in particular is quite offensive to read and maybe that’s why it’s actually one of the more enjoyable ones. It’s just outrageously chauvinistic and actively engages in the torturing of poor Katherina until, not only is she not a shrew, she barely passes for more than a living puppet. Really gets them feminist juices going. The play pretty much makes a mockery of love, marriage and everything in between, and it is pretty funny to see Petrucchio starve Katherina almost to death, since she really is quite bitchy. Though I sincerely doubt that Shakespeare meant that part to be the funny one. But join me for the next edition of this newly added segment when I will discuss one my most hated plays ever, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which is next on the reading list for that particular course. T’shall be full mirthful my good friends, as we shall ponder Shakespeare’s verse, if ‘tis a blessing or a curse.

Kornwolf by Tristan Egolf

Kornwolf? You mean werewolf? Or is it The Blue Ball Devil? And where in hell (pun intended) is this surreal God forsaken landscape Egolf refers to as Pennsyltucky? Asking questions such as these only led me to wondering in circles trying to locate a straight line of reasoning anywhere within the pages of Tristan Egolf’s third, and sadly last, novel. Yes, it is a novel about small rural town life, journalism, boxing, the Amish community, the crazed depravity inherent in American Puritanism and of course, werewolves. A heady and potent concoction that is bound to result in some gut punching, head spinning, eye gouging and nostril blocking fun, as Egolf draws a picture so vivid it makes one wish they digested their lunch before assuming reading positions. After a bout of googling some of mentioned locations I can in fact confirm that there is an area in rural Pennsylvania referred to as Pennsyltucky by them smug city folk. To my enormous disappointment the map of Pennsyltucky does not contain little stars with names such as “Intercourse”, “Blue Ball”, “Bird-In-Hand” or “Philth Town”. However, Egolf’s portrayal of human baseness, mischief and carnal animalism is more present, immediate and physical than any map that denies knowledge of such. As fan of dischordia, reporter Owen Brynmor, sows seeds of panic and anxiety throughout the Basin with tales of “The Blue Ball Devil”, backed by a scanner photograph that not even he can explain, a hellish secret buried deep within the heart of the Amish community begins to rear its ugly, pungent, snarling head. Under the light of the blue moon all forces will come to a head and the Kornwolf will reveal its deadly fangs. Egolf’s writing is at once surprising and natural, drawing pictures with corn and excrement blended together masterfully. It’s rare to find writers today that still use language with visual imagination, that aren’t afraid to mix metaphors or invent a word. Egolf uses language like a playground, where one can always construct new creations out of the existing building blocks, and the result is extremely refreshing. The one thing that a reader may find fault with here, is that upon many occasions Egolf will engage in a story line that will not lead anywhere except to maybe drawing parallels with other more conductive storylines, which leads to queries such as “Well what about that Roddy guy?” But in the end it’s all part of the fun, and fun in literature is dangerously underrated. As for me, I’m with Tristan all the way. This book made me want to set haystacks on fire and spray paint dirty words on community centers. Screw continuity and flow, LONG LIVE DISCHORDIA!