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heavenlyspit's review against another edition
challenging
emotional
reflective
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.5
thomasgoddard's review against another edition
5.0
A whirlwind of a novel. A narrative peppered with the chatter of nearby voices. I've never read a novel more evocative of the public space than this. Where at any moment we might meet someone new, but only for an instant as their voice is heard and lost in the crowd. Even television adverts invade the attention in this same haphazard but purposeful way. Sublime writing.
The romantic disease 'originality'. A whole monologue early on is about how new art is foolish for focusing on originality over technical skill. So desperate to be original that the form is lost to artistic theory. To the imagining of art rather than its actual creation. The splash of modern art; over the precision of light controlled by old masters.
I have to say that I agree. I think our world is corrupted by the desire for newness. An appreciation of the old, the vintage, the crafted form... that depends on an education, effort of research and attention. One might love vintage clothing and not apply the same discretion to one's choice of furniture. There's a sense of inconsistency. I'm more of a passionate advocate for true skill and craft over abstractions and posturing. Authenticity is vital to my life.
Whereas a new splash of paint... a new NFT... all has the same potential for arbitrary value placed on it. No foundation. No history to recommend it past its own existence. A shadow of value. A sneeze of value. The moment tastes change, the value is lost. Keep minting them, but you'll just be riding a wave that will drown someone... Even if it isn't you. Which I think is a little shameful. Stock market morality. Pyramid scheming. That's just how I feel about it. My perspective.
But great art... That lingers. It lingers because it is a demonstration of how far we have come. All that has led up to that moment. As much as a precise and soulful creative effort. I think that's bedrock for me. That most people ignore history, family, philosophy... They care only for the new and the now. But to each their own.
'People passed in the wet recommending each other to God, instead of God to each other.'
Always there is this sense of misalignment in the novel. Between what is said and what is carried out. What is promised and what is done. The same as in life.
Characters cling to their idea of authenticity in a world that betrays them. The forgery of self. An anchor caught on a gravestone.
There's religion here. One cult following another and rediscovered again.
The whole thing is just like this handkerchief and this bowling ball falling in this vacuum. The idea of what is heavy completely upended by environment.
I'll read this over and over.
The romantic disease 'originality'. A whole monologue early on is about how new art is foolish for focusing on originality over technical skill. So desperate to be original that the form is lost to artistic theory. To the imagining of art rather than its actual creation. The splash of modern art; over the precision of light controlled by old masters.
I have to say that I agree. I think our world is corrupted by the desire for newness. An appreciation of the old, the vintage, the crafted form... that depends on an education, effort of research and attention. One might love vintage clothing and not apply the same discretion to one's choice of furniture. There's a sense of inconsistency. I'm more of a passionate advocate for true skill and craft over abstractions and posturing. Authenticity is vital to my life.
Whereas a new splash of paint... a new NFT... all has the same potential for arbitrary value placed on it. No foundation. No history to recommend it past its own existence. A shadow of value. A sneeze of value. The moment tastes change, the value is lost. Keep minting them, but you'll just be riding a wave that will drown someone... Even if it isn't you. Which I think is a little shameful. Stock market morality. Pyramid scheming. That's just how I feel about it. My perspective.
But great art... That lingers. It lingers because it is a demonstration of how far we have come. All that has led up to that moment. As much as a precise and soulful creative effort. I think that's bedrock for me. That most people ignore history, family, philosophy... They care only for the new and the now. But to each their own.
'People passed in the wet recommending each other to God, instead of God to each other.'
Always there is this sense of misalignment in the novel. Between what is said and what is carried out. What is promised and what is done. The same as in life.
Characters cling to their idea of authenticity in a world that betrays them. The forgery of self. An anchor caught on a gravestone.
There's religion here. One cult following another and rediscovered again.
The whole thing is just like this handkerchief and this bowling ball falling in this vacuum. The idea of what is heavy completely upended by environment.
I'll read this over and over.
mountainreader's review against another edition
challenging
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
2.0
whogivesabook's review against another edition
5.0
A whirlwind of a novel. A narrative peppered with the chatter of nearby voices. I've never read a novel more evocative of the public space than this. Where at any moment we might meet someone new, but only for an instant as their voice is heard and lost in the crowd. Even television adverts invade the attention in this same haphazard but purposeful way. Sublime writing.
The romantic disease 'originality'. A whole monologue early on is about how new art is foolish for focusing on originality over technical skill. So desperate to be original that the form is lost to artistic theory. To the imagining of art rather than its actual creation. The splash of modern art; over the precision of light controlled by old masters.
I have to say that I agree. I think our world is corrupted by the desire for newness. An appreciation of the old, the vintage, the crafted form... that depends on an education, effort of research and attention. One might love vintage clothing and not apply the same discretion to one's choice of furniture. There's a sense of inconsistency. I'm more of a passionate advocate for true skill and craft over abstractions and posturing. Authenticity is vital to my life.
Whereas a new splash of paint... a new NFT... all has the same potential for arbitrary value placed on it. No foundation. No history to recommend it past its own existence. A shadow of value. A sneeze of value. The moment tastes change, the value is lost. Keep minting them, but you'll just be riding a wave that will drown someone... Even if it isn't you. Which I think is a little shameful. Stock market morality. Pyramid scheming. That's just how I feel about it. My perspective.
But great art... That lingers. It lingers because it is a demonstration of how far we have come. All that has led up to that moment. As much as a precise and soulful creative effort. I think that's bedrock for me. That most people ignore history, family, philosophy... They care only for the new and the now. But to each their own.
'People passed in the wet recommending each other to God, instead of God to each other.'
Always there is this sense of misalignment in the novel. Between what is said and what is carried out. What is promised and what is done. The same as in life.
Characters cling to their idea of authenticity in a world that betrays them. The forgery of self. An anchor caught on a gravestone.
There's religion here. One cult following another and rediscovered again.
The whole thing is just like this handkerchief and this bowling ball falling in this vacuum. The idea of what is heavy completely upended by environment.
I'll read this over and over.
The romantic disease 'originality'. A whole monologue early on is about how new art is foolish for focusing on originality over technical skill. So desperate to be original that the form is lost to artistic theory. To the imagining of art rather than its actual creation. The splash of modern art; over the precision of light controlled by old masters.
I have to say that I agree. I think our world is corrupted by the desire for newness. An appreciation of the old, the vintage, the crafted form... that depends on an education, effort of research and attention. One might love vintage clothing and not apply the same discretion to one's choice of furniture. There's a sense of inconsistency. I'm more of a passionate advocate for true skill and craft over abstractions and posturing. Authenticity is vital to my life.
Whereas a new splash of paint... a new NFT... all has the same potential for arbitrary value placed on it. No foundation. No history to recommend it past its own existence. A shadow of value. A sneeze of value. The moment tastes change, the value is lost. Keep minting them, but you'll just be riding a wave that will drown someone... Even if it isn't you. Which I think is a little shameful. Stock market morality. Pyramid scheming. That's just how I feel about it. My perspective.
But great art... That lingers. It lingers because it is a demonstration of how far we have come. All that has led up to that moment. As much as a precise and soulful creative effort. I think that's bedrock for me. That most people ignore history, family, philosophy... They care only for the new and the now. But to each their own.
'People passed in the wet recommending each other to God, instead of God to each other.'
Always there is this sense of misalignment in the novel. Between what is said and what is carried out. What is promised and what is done. The same as in life.
Characters cling to their idea of authenticity in a world that betrays them. The forgery of self. An anchor caught on a gravestone.
There's religion here. One cult following another and rediscovered again.
The whole thing is just like this handkerchief and this bowling ball falling in this vacuum. The idea of what is heavy completely upended by environment.
I'll read this over and over.
chronoguard's review
4.0
By no means an easy read, but well worth the effort. It's fair to say the novel is filled with characters who would be hated by Holden Caulfield; characters who pretend to be more interesting than they really are. Otto, wrapping his arm in a sling, feigning an injury never suffered, hoping only to be asked what happened. People judging art not on its own merits, but rather recycling overheard opinions, so as not to look foolish. This is a novel about fraud and forgery not just in the world of art, but in ourselves. Our protagonist, Wyatt, struggles to find authenticity in a world full of copies. Though written in 1955, this is as relevant today as it was then.
freewaygods's review against another edition
challenging
dark
funny
reflective
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
5.0
Not to sound hyperbolic, but this may well be the greatest American novel. And it’s fitting that so many that have come after it are imitations, variations, plagiary— this gets at the heart of what Gaddis was trying to say about us and the art we make, and especially how we interpret and consume art.
Actually sitting down to read this novel will have you discovering it’s not as scary or difficult as it may be hyped to be; just sit with it, and allow it to wash over you.
It is well worth it.
Actually sitting down to read this novel will have you discovering it’s not as scary or difficult as it may be hyped to be; just sit with it, and allow it to wash over you.
It is well worth it.
extragravy's review against another edition
2.0
Started off pretty good, then slowly unraveled. None of the characters were satisfyingly developed. Lots of references to falseness and shallowness of the world... obvious, not eye opening or surprising, repetitive focus on this from different angles and different situations, etc... all obvious. I got the impression some of this was probably edgy when it was written, but now doesn't feel edgy at all, just clearly toxic people being toxic. Really, rather disappointing... Oh yeah and all the stammered sentences, unfinished thoughts... ug.
Rating and Recommendations
Not a 5 because I would never read this a second time. Not a 4 because I wouldn't recommend this to anyone. Not a 3 because it was so dissatisfying. A 2 because I would actively discourage others from reading this, and maybe a 1 because it was almost a waste of my time. 1.5 rounded up to a 2.
Rating and Recommendations
Not a 5 because I would never read this a second time. Not a 4 because I wouldn't recommend this to anyone. Not a 3 because it was so dissatisfying. A 2 because I would actively discourage others from reading this, and maybe a 1 because it was almost a waste of my time. 1.5 rounded up to a 2.
sathek's review
challenging
funny
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
5.0
Does art/creation has a separate entity apart from the very existence based on a higher abstract ideological dimension?
george_salis's review against another edition
“The romantic disease, originality, all around we see originality of incompetent idiots, they could draw nothing, paint nothing, just so the mess they make is original…Even two hundred years ago who wanted to be original, to be original was to admit that you could not do a thing the right way, so you could only do it your own way.”
The first few chapters in this bogged-down book were medievally dark and delectably eldritch, as stimulating as the electricity within the Frankenstein monster’s grave brain, but then the chryselephantine allusions and celestial diction descend in New York. Here we eavesdrop on the Eve’s droppings of Wyatt and Esther’s quotidian conversations, and it’s true, Gaddis does know how to mimic the subtleties of realistic dialogue, the veritas of tête-à-têtes, and I was still on board the HMS Recognitions, appreciating the talent and acknowledging that a book of this magnitude must alternate between various registers to be a successful reading experience, to be an accomplished novel no less.
As Gaddis himself writes: “Images surround us; cavorting broadcast in the minds of others, we wear the motley tailored by their bad digestions, the shame and failure, plague pandemics and private indecencies, unpaid bills, and animal ecstasies remembered in hospital beds, our worst deeds and best intentions will not stay still, scolding, mocking, or merely chattering they assail each other, shocked at recognition.”
There's a masterpiece wanting to come out of this chunk of marble, but it's strangle-entangled by veins of puddle-deep chitchat that fluctuates between interesting and dull, indeed, we are more than “merely” assailed by only “chattering” until the prose is as Ann as the nose on Plain's face, if you’ll allow me, sometimes showing distant and divided glimmers of the unfulfilled promise of the opening chapters (see Laura Warholic for examples of chattering that is digressive yet wholly entertaining). So what we have here is a book both bloated and choked by its own blather (we’re talking hundreds of pages here), yet more than this, because seemingly engaging and stimulating scenes are rendered with yawning ennui, infected disinterest, almost bunglingly biblical in their lack of a climax and understanding of literary execution, such as the ‘scene’, if you can call it that, when Anselm performs autocastration or when there’s a freeloader who clings to the wing of an airplane. Even the ending, which I had heard about ahead of time (then forgotten with time), sounds amazing when described but is symphony-deaf when read. In a word, bathetic with a ‘b’.
This was advertised by readers and critics as a maximalist novel but it didn't have everything I love in such a genre, only two modes: poetic prose, which is a lost love that never returns except for emotionless and condom-constrained flings afterward, and the party banter, which I was interested in then tolerated then was fully dulled by, and but there was a brief couple of fun moments of radio advertisements that I wish had been, well, maximized (I’m told by a friend that I’ll get my wish in Gaddis’ second novel). And what it did have in the way of maximalist tics it didn't have enough of for such a long book: vast vocabulary, epiphanic allusions, topsy turns of phrase, etc. One more thing: Gaddis, through one of his characters, does excoriate the expectations of m(ass) readers, yet his praise of “long sentences” is nearly the service of lips considering the absence of sentences approaching, say, the breathless likes of Joseph McElroy. Fine, another thing: the comparisons to Joyce’s Ulysses aren’t nearly as Polyphemus-blind as comparisons of other books to that Irish masterpiece, but The Recognitions is still lightyears behind it even though there’s the age of Christ between their release dates (1922 – 1955), “a whole Odyssey without Ulysses” indeed.
“…this passion for wanting to meet the latest poet, shake hands with the latest novelist, get hold of the latest painter, devour…what is it? What is it they want from a man that they didn’t get from his work? What do they expect? What is there left of him when he’s done his work? What’s any artist, but the dregs of his work? the human shambles that follows it around.”
As it stands, this debut novel is certainly more ambitious than most of the literary debutantes that have shown their skirts since this one was published (and remaindered) over half a century ago, yet ambition alone can’t save a novel, especially when the ambition is abandoned for the bland and never redeemed (despite the claim that “a work of art redeems time”), neither linguistically nor structurally. Of course, the themes of this novel, such as whether any piece of art is truly original, the artistry or lack thereof behind forgeries, the unfulfillment of fulfillment, the mental darkness of religion, all these are worthy and important themes, but they are not explored in a satisfying way (even if they were done Gaddis’ way), only hinted at when compared to what takes up most of the page count. And but so the first several instances of the word ‘recognition’ appearing were sufficient, yet it gets repeated ad nauseam, as heavy-handed as the book in the reader’s hand. According to Douglas Lannark, there are over 80 instances of the word in one form or another (though nowhere near as sinful as the 19,396 instances of "the fact that" which appear in the hyper-bloated piece of non-literature titled Ducks, Newburyport).
I can recognize (pun not intended; I’ve heard enough of that word) the fact that (and that phrase!) this novel influenced and anticipated great fiction written by Pynchon, DeLillo, and even DFW, but in comparison, this novel is dated and failed to amaze and stimulate this 21st-century reader beyond the promise of its opening chapters, resulting in diminishing and diminishing returns, unfortunately....
“There is always an immense congregation of people unable to create anything themselves, who look for comfort to the critics to disparage, belittle, and explain away those who do.”
I take no pleasure in writing negative reviews, which is often why I would prefer not to review books I don’t love, and sometimes I opt out of Goodreads star ratings too. As for creating anything, be on the lookout for my second, maximammoth novel, Morphological Echoes.
The first few chapters in this bogged-down book were medievally dark and delectably eldritch, as stimulating as the electricity within the Frankenstein monster’s grave brain, but then the chryselephantine allusions and celestial diction descend in New York. Here we eavesdrop on the Eve’s droppings of Wyatt and Esther’s quotidian conversations, and it’s true, Gaddis does know how to mimic the subtleties of realistic dialogue, the veritas of tête-à-têtes, and I was still on board the HMS Recognitions, appreciating the talent and acknowledging that a book of this magnitude must alternate between various registers to be a successful reading experience, to be an accomplished novel no less.
As Gaddis himself writes: “Images surround us; cavorting broadcast in the minds of others, we wear the motley tailored by their bad digestions, the shame and failure, plague pandemics and private indecencies, unpaid bills, and animal ecstasies remembered in hospital beds, our worst deeds and best intentions will not stay still, scolding, mocking, or merely chattering they assail each other, shocked at recognition.”
There's a masterpiece wanting to come out of this chunk of marble, but it's strangle-entangled by veins of puddle-deep chitchat that fluctuates between interesting and dull, indeed, we are more than “merely” assailed by only “chattering” until the prose is as Ann as the nose on Plain's face, if you’ll allow me, sometimes showing distant and divided glimmers of the unfulfilled promise of the opening chapters (see Laura Warholic for examples of chattering that is digressive yet wholly entertaining). So what we have here is a book both bloated and choked by its own blather (we’re talking hundreds of pages here), yet more than this, because seemingly engaging and stimulating scenes are rendered with yawning ennui, infected disinterest, almost bunglingly biblical in their lack of a climax and understanding of literary execution, such as the ‘scene’, if you can call it that, when Anselm performs autocastration or when there’s a freeloader who clings to the wing of an airplane. Even the ending, which I had heard about ahead of time (then forgotten with time), sounds amazing when described but is symphony-deaf when read. In a word, bathetic with a ‘b’.
This was advertised by readers and critics as a maximalist novel but it didn't have everything I love in such a genre, only two modes: poetic prose, which is a lost love that never returns except for emotionless and condom-constrained flings afterward, and the party banter, which I was interested in then tolerated then was fully dulled by, and but there was a brief couple of fun moments of radio advertisements that I wish had been, well, maximized (I’m told by a friend that I’ll get my wish in Gaddis’ second novel). And what it did have in the way of maximalist tics it didn't have enough of for such a long book: vast vocabulary, epiphanic allusions, topsy turns of phrase, etc. One more thing: Gaddis, through one of his characters, does excoriate the expectations of m(ass) readers, yet his praise of “long sentences” is nearly the service of lips considering the absence of sentences approaching, say, the breathless likes of Joseph McElroy. Fine, another thing: the comparisons to Joyce’s Ulysses aren’t nearly as Polyphemus-blind as comparisons of other books to that Irish masterpiece, but The Recognitions is still lightyears behind it even though there’s the age of Christ between their release dates (1922 – 1955), “a whole Odyssey without Ulysses” indeed.
“…this passion for wanting to meet the latest poet, shake hands with the latest novelist, get hold of the latest painter, devour…what is it? What is it they want from a man that they didn’t get from his work? What do they expect? What is there left of him when he’s done his work? What’s any artist, but the dregs of his work? the human shambles that follows it around.”
As it stands, this debut novel is certainly more ambitious than most of the literary debutantes that have shown their skirts since this one was published (and remaindered) over half a century ago, yet ambition alone can’t save a novel, especially when the ambition is abandoned for the bland and never redeemed (despite the claim that “a work of art redeems time”), neither linguistically nor structurally. Of course, the themes of this novel, such as whether any piece of art is truly original, the artistry or lack thereof behind forgeries, the unfulfillment of fulfillment, the mental darkness of religion, all these are worthy and important themes, but they are not explored in a satisfying way (even if they were done Gaddis’ way), only hinted at when compared to what takes up most of the page count. And but so the first several instances of the word ‘recognition’ appearing were sufficient, yet it gets repeated ad nauseam, as heavy-handed as the book in the reader’s hand. According to Douglas Lannark, there are over 80 instances of the word in one form or another (though nowhere near as sinful as the 19,396 instances of "the fact that" which appear in the hyper-bloated piece of non-literature titled Ducks, Newburyport).
I can recognize (pun not intended; I’ve heard enough of that word) the fact that (and that phrase!) this novel influenced and anticipated great fiction written by Pynchon, DeLillo, and even DFW, but in comparison, this novel is dated and failed to amaze and stimulate this 21st-century reader beyond the promise of its opening chapters, resulting in diminishing and diminishing returns, unfortunately....
“There is always an immense congregation of people unable to create anything themselves, who look for comfort to the critics to disparage, belittle, and explain away those who do.”
I take no pleasure in writing negative reviews, which is often why I would prefer not to review books I don’t love, and sometimes I opt out of Goodreads star ratings too. As for creating anything, be on the lookout for my second, maximammoth novel, Morphological Echoes.