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List Of The Lost Tapa blanda – 24 septiembre 2015
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'Beware the novelist . . . intimate and indiscreet . . . pompous, prophetic airs . . . here is the fact of fiction . . . an American tale where, naturally, evil conquers good, and none live happily ever after, for the complicated pangs of the empty experiences of flesh-and-blood human figures are the reason why nothing can ever be enough. To read a book is to let a root sink down. List of the lost is the reality of what is true battling against what is permitted to be true.' Morrissey
Penguin Books is delighted to announce the forthcoming publication of List of the Lost, Morrissey's extraordinary novel, on 24 September.
- Longitud de impresión128 páginas
- IdiomaInglés
- EditorialPenguin Books
- Fecha de publicación24 septiembre 2015
- Dimensiones12.9 x 0.9 x 19.8 cm
- ISBN-100141982969
- ISBN-13978-0141982960
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In this, his first novel, he delivers superb prose fiction from start to finish. A spellbinding, gnostic tale about the world on a downward spiral -- Uwe Schutte ― Times Higher Education
Nota de la solapa
Read more at http://www.penguin.co.uk/books/list-of-the-lost/9780141982960/#0FEJlywGJgpm654B.99
Contraportada
Read more at http://www.penguin.co.uk/books/list-of-the-lost/9780141982960/#0FEJlywGJgpm654B.99
Biografía del autor
Detalles del producto
- Editorial : Penguin Books; N.º 1 edición (24 septiembre 2015)
- Idioma : Inglés
- Tapa blanda : 128 páginas
- ISBN-10 : 0141982969
- ISBN-13 : 978-0141982960
- Peso del producto : 125 g
- Dimensiones : 12.9 x 0.9 x 19.8 cm
- Clasificación en los más vendidos de Amazon: nº1,861 en Humor negro
- nº2,406 en Ficción gótica
- nº101,773 en Ficción literaria
- Opiniones de los clientes:
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Many reviewers seem to avoid the fact that Morrissey has actually written a couple of short books before having his autobiography published. This, however, is his first non-lyrical, fictional offering to the world.
The start was promising. A gang of men, runners all, are described using various inflections and rhymes, recalling William Faulkner and dadaistic poets, as dialogue is spurted out. Sentences like the following are often found:
"Surrounded by women, some mechanically minded, some badly made-up, and all envious of one another, the boys had heartily gnawed at their iron bars and unwisely allowed alcohol a free dash at their brains because things overall mattered a little less since their track timings were now a bed of roses and their overall fitness boomed good times ahead, and what harm would a little devilment do?"
To me, the first half of the book seemed more like an attempt to use clever wordplay to parlay Morrissey's own views of the world, by generally rephrasing his thoughts on murdering animals, on judges, on women, et cetera, rather than making a book come together.
In my view, the most obvious problem with this book, is that the author has simply not learned to write as a professional, and it shows, both in style and editing. Even though sentences and stanzas are beautiful to read and will be long-lasting, the book does not hold up as a whole, which pains me to say. Where Morrissey single-handedly revived lyrical writing where the whole musical universe is concerned, and made his autobiography light up the literary world some (where musical artists' autobiographies are concerned, especially), this tome is cracked.
I feel that Morrissey has tried hard to write this, while acting complacently and lacklustre with parts that clearly did require fierce editing prior to publication. He introduces the book by thanking his editor, who also edited "Autobiography", but I would like to hold her - and Penguin - to the wall for this.
So, how about that writing?
At the start of the book, Morrissey veers between describing the youthful men and their physical apotheosis, and also poetically describes the inevitable human physical downfall:
"Look at them now in their manful splendor and wonder how it is that they could possibly part this earth in dirt, as creased corpses, falling back as the skeletons that we already are, yet hidden behind musculature that will fall in time at life’s finishing line.
[...]
It is certainly something to dwell excitedly within a body that fully and proudly shows whatever the person is, since we all, for the most part, struggle in haunted fashion, unaware of ourselves as flesh, looking at a future that does not show promise, or back at a past that couldn’t provide any, and permanently petrified at passing through without ever having lived.
[...]
The body is a thing only, of which we all irrationally fear … how to control, how to control … that which controls us."
Morrissey inevitably delves into gender, where men are irrevocably hailed and women are looked down upon, lost and not at all interesting, which has drawn a fair amount of criticism where writers feel Morrissey is a misogynist. The Daily Beast's article about this, titelled "Morrissey’s First Novel ‘List of the Lost’ Is a Bizarre, Misogynistic Ramble", makes valid points. Even though many an apologist may excuse Morrissey by saying he has simply painted a portrait where the characters of his book think and say these things, the fact remains, that men are intricately looked into, where women are frowned upon in a variety of disdainful ways. Examples of this:
"Although the publicly confessed lust of the man must always be made to seem ridiculous and prepubescent, the lust of the woman is at first childlike and desperate – as if they know there is something about which they know nothing, and this itch takes on the aggressive – which almost never works.
Women are less of a mystery because their methods and bodies have been over-sold, whereas the male body speaks as the voice calls a halt."
Of Margaret Thatcher:
"I hate womb-men like that…they just can’t wait to be one of the boys…and just watch, if she becomes prime minister she won’t hire any women into her government. Why do I even care? I mean, just look at her face."
There are some beautiful one-liners found throughout the book:
"Justice and the law are two entirely different things."
"Unless I am with you I shall never be where I belong."
"Look at the blue of the sky and tell me why you held back. Did you think there would one day be a bluer sky and a better hour?"
"“I thought you’d said goodbye?” said Nails, nursing his hand. “Nails. To you … someone will always be saying goodbye …” Rims threw his final dart. With that he walked away."
It is impossible for Morrissey to deviate from his own persona. As he is a staunch vegetarian, the matter of animals being slaughtered by humans pops up from time to time:
"In the church of secret service known as the abattoir this is exactly what humans excitedly do to beautiful bodies of animals who were also crafted in care by some divine creationist, yet at the human hand the animals are whacked and hacked into chopped meat whilst gazing up at their protector with disbelief and pleading for a mercy not familiar to the human spirit, ground and round into hash or stew for the Big Mac pleasure of fat-podge children whose candidature for roly-poly vicious porkiness makes their plungingly plump parents laugh loudly, as little junior blubber-guts orders yet another Superburger with tub-of-guts determination to stuff death into round bellies, and such kids come to resemble their parents as ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag."
He even gets in words about people whom he has hailed throughout his existence, e.g. Buffy Sainte-Marie and James Baldwin, paired with his hatred for the monarchy and the justice system. It could have been used better, instead of making me feel as though the book, at times, is another blog platform for Morrissey.
Some sections of the book are plainly confusing, e.g. one about former president Ronald Reagan, gender and the fictive Cartwright family:
"Reagan has no time for black power, women’s rights, gay liberation, animal rights, anti-war rallies or student demonstrations. He contrasts all of the exciting changes that made America new again, and he offers old-fashioned power-politics, the type of which must always keep a profitable war on the go … everything old (including himself ) sold off like fake insurance to the all-powerful conglomerate America of Bonanza, a rich and expertly presented daily television drama where cow-rustling Ben Cartwright lives handsomely with his three sons (none of whom share one single gene, since all three are of different mothers, and, magically, all three mothers are either dead or hidden behind studio curtains).
[...]
and although deity Ben Cartwright had fathered three sons from three women who had usefully dissolved into tumbleweed, his three strapping sons themselves do not reproduce and almost never pair off for passionate romance."
And let's not miss what I think is the most written-about stanza in the whole of the book:
"At this, Eliza and Ezra rolled together into the one giggling snowball of full-figured copulation, screaming and shouting as they playfully bit and pulled at each other in a dangerous and clamorous rollercoaster coil of sexually violent rotation with Eliza’s breasts barrel-rolled across Ezra’s howling mouth and the pained frenzy of his bulbous salutation extenuating his excitement as it whacked and smacked its way into every muscle of Eliza’s body except for the otherwise central zone. Both fell awkwardly off the bed, each tending to their own anguish yet still laughing an impaired discomfort of giggles whilst curving into a hunched disadvantage."
Well, bulbous salutation confronted, I will choose to put the wording out of my mind for now.
All in all, this is a fairly muddled ride through Morrissey's mind, rather than through a slew of sporting men and their lives. Opportunities came knocking, were wasted yet some shimmer like diamonds in the sky.
I admit bafflement at one or two moments when he seems to parody Henry James at his opaque, scarcely penetrable worst, but really my only regret is that this was not longer. More prose poem than novel, this mini-opus has as its subject a four man athletics team at a prestigious American college training for a major event. The ideal of physical perfection and combative one-upmanship motivates them but it is an ideal compromised and ultimately destroyed by, we imagine, some bleak existential malaise that is their lot. The moral boundaries of their world are seen to be fragile when they murder a tramp. One team member, Harri, commits suicide after his mother dies then Ezra, the ringleader, later comes face to face with the ghost, not of the tramp or Harri, but of a woman whose son was murdered after being sexually abused by the college dean. At her request the child's body is dug up by the remaining three plus Ezra's partner Eliza and given a proper burial. The intention finally is to give Dean Isaac his come-uppance but suffice it to say that things do not go according to plan and the cherished dream of panther-like perfection on the running track expires tragically.
There is some attempt to sketch the different characters of the runners which could have been more successful had there been fewer verbal pyrotechnics and a more detailed portrayal of the four in a longer book. We also see Mr Rims, the boys' unsympathetic training coach, the hapless Dibs who replaces the team's dead Harri, Ezra's girlfriend and very briefly his younger brother Sammy, the tramp, the ghost and the dean, and when the characters interact I see a pronounced fluency in the dialogue although the general consensus seems to be otherwise. A facetious verbal rally between Ezra and his lover is 'stilted' in a way that the same criticism might be made of the characters in a Harold Pinter play. People don't talk that way, but there is such a thing as dramatic licence and I think a definite cut-and-thrust is achieved in the heated exchanges with Rims and the seemingly unconquerable Mr Isaacs. There are also a few monologues that fill several pages, my personal favourite being the tramp's lengthy Beckett-esque dissertation before his murder.
Prose-poetry is a suspect medium in the opinion of some because image can all too easily trump precise detail and leisurely narrative flow. Stylistically the author delights in subtle and complex turns of phrase which can be taxing but I find it an enjoyable, if occasionally bumpy, surf-ride on his wordy afflatus. He is accused by many of writing nonsense and in this he has his predecessors. Throughout its seventy-something year history James Joyce's 'Finnegan's Wake' has been roundly derided as gibberish and is read by only a very few, not that I am placing the ex-Smith in his league. I have no problem either with the interludes of tangential polemics, whether they be against the meat trade, pampered royalty, Churchill's comfortable war, legal eagles or whatever - all delivered with characteristic piquancy and always interesting.
All in all I find Morrissey's novel greater than its flawed parts and I for one hope he writes another. It may well be that had this been the work of a complete unknown it would not have seen the light of day unless self-published online. In fact I can't help but compare it with a youthful, unpublished screed of my own completed some three decades ago and put into cold storage when I decided that it was not, as a whole, presentable. The less said about that the better. I just mention it to put a personal slant on the hard truth that writing fiction is no easy undertaking and I feel in no position to disparage anyone else's first effort. Universally mauled by the critics it seems that 'List of the Lost' is now at least managing to garner a few compliments on Amazon. A review in one Sunday national condemns the 'spineless mandarins'of Penguin Books for taking it on board instead of making a stand for the 'traditional fiction market'. I'd agree with the latter part of that, given that Penguin Random House is guilty of airing the ludicrous 'Shades of Grey' offal, but while the likes of E L James are polluting the literary landscape I personally think that anything a bit different and challenging, however minor, deserves more than a flat-out, curt dismissal. But then again I'm just an ageing, untutored English literature graduate who never trained as a professional hatchet-job reviewer on a national newspaper, so what do I know.
Morrissey could do with not trying to be too clever and look at how simple prose can be both effective and beautiful; I'm thinking about Hemingway's 'The Old Man & The Sea' or Carson McCullers 'The Heart is a Lonely Hunter'. If you want a more sophisticated style of writing then Umberto Eco is the author for you.
Final verdict: It turned out to be not a bad effort for Morrissey's debut novel but it required a good editor. Despite its flaws, I would recommend that people give it a read. I expect his second novel will be an improvement and better than the "difficult second album".
Goodreads
http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1403857767?book_show_action=false
Voice Recording Extended Review
https://m.facebook.com/simon.zohadi/posts/10205383632659264
I’m really not sure what their problem is. It seems they are either determined to dislike Morrissey’s work, are unable to approach it with an open mind, or are simply too stupid to appreciate it.
I really enjoyed this book. It is beautifully written – a sort of poetic prose, in a unique style. It’s not an easy reader – often I had to read a paragraph more than once to fully absorb its meaning – but that’s part of its beauty.
Don’t listen to the critics, and don’t miss out on this opportunity to enjoy Morrissey’s unique talent with words, presented here in a form other than songs.