thinking about books #1

  So I've recently finished The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson, and it was a bit of a weird experience for me. I'm not really sure why, but it took me until maybe 5 minutes after I'd already finished the book to realise I actually liked it. I think that maybe I was approaching this book wrong, to be completely honest. Like, I was looking for a plot with a twist (because I've already read We Have Always Lived in the Castle and a bunch of Jackson's short stories before) but that's not really what this book is about. It's basically about the interiority of our protagonist, Eleanor. Very literally, the book is set in a house that also mirrors the deteriorating mental state of the character's whose mind we also inhabit.

I've been reading reddit analysis threads on this book (as one does), and I find it interesting that the two big interpretations of the story are 1) it's all in Eleanor's head or 2) that the house made Eleanor become worse. I kind of disagree with both (especially the first one, I don't actually understand how people believe that), and instead think that Eleanor and the house are simultaneous mirrors of each other. In the same way that Hill House clings to Eleanor, Eleanor clings to other people. At first she fancies Luke for some kind of broad, non-existent reason. Then she moves on to Theo after she realises the emptiness of her interactions with Luke (ironically not realising that both her and Theo lie to each other constantly, and also know nothing about each other lol). It makes a lot of sense that Eleanor's rapid deterioration is after Theo rejects her request to live together.

Anyways, I guess it's just a book that I (clearly) have a lot to think about with, I just kind of wish that the actual reading experience had been more enjoyable. But, really, it seems broken expectations are impossible to avoid.

Speaking of expectations, I have finally made it to that point in my gap year where I feel like I need to read War and Peace. This is something I've literally been thinking about doing for years, and I bought a copy back in September as a birthday gift for myself. Part one is literally sitting on my night table as I write this, staring at me- utterly unopened.

war and peace, 1967 copy. thrifted from some shop in spain

It feels like the paralysing fear I experienced right before I read Frankenstein, but worse. This fear that I won't "get it" and therefore be a bad lit studies major. There was nothing to fear with Frankenstein, of course, I love that book to bits, but War and Peace...

I avoid reading Russian literature as a sort of marching order. I think long ago I promised I would read Lolita (technically an american novel) and War and Peace, then not a single one else. I've tried several times to read other Russian literature, but something in me couldn't do it- the Russians are just too dry and boring. (my secret hidden fear is that W&P will have as much random French dialogue as Villette did, and I will spend far too much of my life flipping to the back of the book for translations)

In my ventures to procrastinate War and Peace, I've been doing research to remind myself of Russian naming conventions, looking over arguments about translators (pointless since I bought my copy not even thinking about that aspect, Rosemary Edmonds btw), and for some reason taking a grand detour to reading The Wasteland by T.S. Elliot. This wasn't actually related to any War and Peace research, but my friend wants help with her English class so I thought I would brush up on it so I can help out when she learns it next week.

The Wasteland, I think, is not really my thing. I really like the feeling of fundamentally getting a work, understanding every part of it. And I understand the basic gist of the poem in some broad, overarching sort of way, and that it is about war and the aftermath of that. But, like, when I was reading Burial of the Dead I was like "ah yes, the narrator is a soldier coming back from war, suffering with the trauma of death and war along with the city- the continent- itself", but then goddamn A Game of Chess hits, and suddenly I realise that I know and understand nothing actually.

I think I just need to know more things to understand The Wasteland. I think that's kind of just how imagist poems work to be honest. You either get it or you don't. I love a lot of Elliot's stuff, so I think in this case it really is me that is the problem. It's like the opposite of my problem with The Haunting of Hill House- it's the "getting" part that trips me up the most.

So much art really just relies on if you "get it" doesn't it?