the writing style of the author is both riveting and realistic - like talking to an old friend, who you feel no sense of shame around. the main character is a poet who can’t shake thinking about death and martyrdom as he grapples with his own life “baggage“ and unpacking. im only 25% into it though it’s so good.
Oct 2, 2024
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i genuinely struggle to verbalise just how good this book is. after the semester ended for me in mid-december, i was grappling with some major reading burnout and legitimately felt like i could not read more than three pages of any one book at a time. a few days into the break, my sister sat me down to straighten my 3c hair just for some shits and gigs (it took three hours), told myself just to sit with a book and turn my phone off, and i damn near finished it, cover to cover. i wanna avoid spoilers but. oh my god it is So Good. two days later i was driving to the nearest barnes and noble to pick up another copy to gift my friend. i actually cannot sing its praises enough, though i would recommend reading the sympathiser by the same author first. it's one hell of an inspired historical fiction novel and has got to be among my top.. singular book of all time. like my fave book ever. a man of two faces is the author's memoir, and if you're into politics, history, human rights, or just being educated and also down for a laugh with some dark humour and some really emotional prose, i can't recommend this book or author enough. 100% adore
Jan 6, 2025
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I felt like I was on trial watching Anatomy of a Fall -- for my failures as a writer and the ensuing resentments misdirected at my partner. Seeing my private torments litigated in a riveting courtroom drama, spoken in clinical French, was titillating. The writing was so sharp I could’ve just listened like the blind son Daniel and been engaged. But I loved watching Daniel practice piano, the baby blue glaze over his eyes and his surprise testimony in a redrum turtleneck.
The story wastes no time. Within five minutes, the husband is found dead, bleeding out in the snow. An autopsy cannot rule out foul play and his wife, a writer, becomes the sole suspect. What unravels in court is not only the events that precipitated the death of her husband, but an ultimate tea concoction of their strained relationship, competing literary ambitions and the blame and guilt surrounding the accident that blinded their son.
Entering a foreign court is a bit jarring. The rules, procedures and dress are notably different from America and seem silly when defamiliarized. The prosecutor, a bald little gremlin robed in red, was probably my favorite character. Arched, dry and eloquent, he bludgeoned the accused writer with an avalanche of incriminating evidence and was quick to undercut any counter/argument from the defense. Court rules in France appear to allow more cross-talk, making the arguments more conversational than U.S. court dramas, which glorify long-winded monologues.
Impressively, the writer/director thread the needle so well that one is never quite convinced one way or the other. I am easily persuaded and in this lawyerly tug of war, I felt myself suspended over a chasm with demons of jealousy, envy and pride snapping at my feet.
For all the talk of literary failure, this was a written masterpiece. I am drawn to such stories, like a moth to flame, for so many deep and cutting reasons. Like the husband, I deflect and blame others for my shortcomings: If only X, Y and Z were different, then I could write! The wife’s gaslighting voice lives within me too: Make the time and do it, coward! And I disdain my father for giving up sports journalism, and for withholding those ambitions from me (Had I known earlier, maybe then I’d be a staff writer!) and on himself in general.
Funny enough, when I was biking home after seeing Fallen Leaves last week, I had the high thought that my senior thesis anticipated my current condition with regards to writing. My argument was garbled -- something about the author subverting masculine forms/expectations of writing (adventure, heroism) using feminine forms (diary, domesticity) through an act of ventriloquy -- but the book I chose to write about was a book about a wannabe writer’s failure.
Called El Libro Vacio and written by Josefina Vicens, it was a novel about the shortcomings of a middle class man working in middle management and his literary shortcomings. He wanted to be a great writer, but he was tormented and uninspired by the banality of his day-to-day life as a family man. If only he didn’t have a kid and wife, he could hit the road and sail the high seas and finally have something to say! He studiously documents his failures and torments in a diary that amounts to the novel by Vicens.
In my early 20s, I was interested in what makes a good leader. I studied the polar explorer Ernest Shackleton, the most winningest basketball coach Gregg Popovich and read more than a dozen presidential biographies. But now I find myself fixated on failure, my own and my fathers, and I want to learn the art of letting go.
Jan 22, 2024
recommended by a friend who loves to ride his bike, a quick & enjoyable read on my burgeoning quest to understand the mindset of endurance activity lovers. what is life if not an endurance sport? bonus points for the insights about his writing practice.
ps this is the first murakami book i’ve ever read, i truly have no idea what any of his other books are like
Apr 7, 2024
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Shameless plug!! Here is an excerpt for a taste of what’s inside:
NIGHT CAP • PG. 8-10
“my eyes opened,
rubbed raw and gritty as I
wiped the night’s tears from
their crusted crib.
these drunkard days are
the worst.
watery and red-eyed, I rose
slowly from my bed - all too
sensitive to light.
I shuttered at the slightest gust of
wind and winced, as
memories from last night
flood my focus. - I laid barren
on the bedsheets, beige all over -
allowing it to bleed into my mind
as I hugged a hollow memory
of a girl that would have been.
I swayed slowly to the rhythm of
sweet sensibility, as it steered me towards sleep's doorstep.
sorrow seeped into my pores, then, consuming every inch of my being. overflown, I spilled out.
like a stream set free, the rushing water became me.
I melted into my billet as refuge from the war inside my brain. until the bugle bellows, 0600 - to
summon me from my sleep sack - to
fight to live another day.
A. Pacheco
Oct 9, 2024
Truly laid back podcast where creatives discuss their craft, their hardships and their successes. Nothings off limits and there’s no judgment to be haddd - check it out if you’re into podcasts.
the pod is co-hosted by super dope peeps Jason Matteson & Amber Gray.
Oct 3, 2024