*Pygmalion

Pygmalion -Bernard Shaw
Conceited. Witty in concept and tepid in text. Decent to have have read for its slight social significance, but a passing of time in all other aspects. When he about-faced in the last scene to his half-hearted dithyramb on love, the spine went droopy. He wrote an epilogue in short story form for the public who he supposed to not “get” his message. The epilogue opens with this sentence:
“The rest of the story need not be shewn in action, and indeed, would hardly need telling if our imaginations were not so enfeebled by their lazy dependence on the ready-mades and reach-me-downs of the ragshop in which Romance keeps its stock of ‘happy endings’ to misfit all stories.”

…yet, again, if I only had the eye… if I only was able to recognize the beauty in front of me, then I wouldn’t start my review with one word judgmentals like, “Conceited.” Ghastly of me.

*The Fugitive

The Fugitive -Marcel Proust
Parallel, in the soft beauty of its impossible concept, strikes me as a fit arithmetical description of the maundering, sinuous, laughable perusings of Proust. Never faltering. Ever equidistant. Strange. Perhaps another apt macaronic would be recherché. Not that she were to be expiated by philology, or, rather, shackled hand and foot, like the purposeful victimization of a housepet, by said, candlelit, effeminate author’s brutish ukase.
What?
Well, suddenly Remembrance of Things Past jumped into a new realm, or shall I say, returned to an old one, of sheer, happening, spirited, gut-twisting, gorgeous and unparalleled philosophic narrative. Absolutely book throwing. He made me want to hug myself. Which I did. And I felt almost as silly and self-moralizing, as lonely and dear, as sweet, wet, whimpering Marcel.
“I knew that one can never read a novel without giving its heroine the form and features of the woman one loves.”
“for the force that circles the earth most times in a second is not electricity but pain.”
“…there is not a woman in the world the possession of whom is as precious as that of the truths which she reveals to us by causing us to suffer.”
“The creation of the world did not occur at the beginning of time, it occurs every day.”

*Thoughts on the East

Thoughts on the East -Thomas Merton
Perfunctory and uninspired. The only insight came from his quotations.

…But if I only had the faith and the perceptiveness then Merton and Shaw would no longer, if I only had the love, would no longer be passed off, would be treasured, if I only had the patience… it is not Merton nor me that is boring, but my hackneyed, spiritless way of reading that turns out pathetic reviews like, “Perfunctory and uninspired.”

*The Captive

The Captive -Marcel Proust
There is breadth, care, and beauty to every word of this book. Though atimes rather a sob-sister, Proust nevertheless has me drooling over Fortuny gowns, the fluency of M. de Charlus, dreams of Venice, the neckline of Albertine, and the ubiquitous “little phrase” of Vinteiul’s sonata. His best work comes in flashes of complete, airy plotlessness. When he ramps onto the he-said-she-said circuit, I only long for the return to the prismatic, oleaginous, philosophizing eyes of our dear Marcel, the protagonist. The end of this novel brought back a simplicity that I haven’t seen since Marcel was a little boy, yawning and fretting for his mother to come kiss him goodnight.

*Yaqui Way of Knowledge

The Teachings of Don Juan, a Yaqui Way of Knowledge. –Carlos Casteneda
Incredible that such a treasure of wisdom is officially brought to the world by such a dunce. Never have I believed so adamantly that man doesn’t luster herself, but only acts the conduit to a glow that cannot be suppressed even by our ponderous, thickheaded dross. Reading of Casteneda pester and pester to set a method to Don Juan’s spirit is both enervating and a little sad. Even Don Juan relapses now and again into ennui and ego. However, the moments when Casteneda wrestles with a dog, claps his shin and stomps his foot in war dance, unleashes a war cry and throws a rock at Don Juan’s impersonator, rubs lizards on his temples, or spends days curled on the sand as a violent, peyote button victim in the striking, boulder, rainbow desert of the southwest, all of these graces of altermind unlock the gates to an ancient truth and a momentous beauty that we are all thankful to witness.
Don Juan’s four enemies are, in order, Fear, Clarity, Power, and Old Age.
“… and we ran together toward a sort of yellow warmth that came from some indefinite place. And there we played. We played and wrestled until I knew his wishes and he knew mine. We took turns manipulating each other in the fashion of a puppet show. I could make him move his legs by twisting my toes, and every time he nodded his head I felt an irresistible impulse to jump.”
“I was everywhere.”