Tag Archives: ReadHard Book

“I never thought this labyrinth would be a pleasant thing to return to.” — My own quest for answers within House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski, and some remaining questions

That up there are some of my notes on House of Leaves, the novel-creature by Mark Z. Danielewski. I skipped Little Red Moley with this one, and used Giant Fat Red Moley Journal — and even then I used at least five different kinds of Post-its, haha. I could not scribble on the margins of […]

“A goddamn spatial rape.” — An examination of the uncanny and the house on Ash Lane Tree in House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielweski

[More rambling and squealing over House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. The first two posts: initial impressions and encounters with the book, then the style and structure of the book. Methinks this post will be the penultimate. If you have not read the book, or wish to read the book without my inanity in […]

Style, structure, and the “endless snarls of words” of House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski

[More on House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski -- because I’m resigned that I need more than one post to process this creature. The first part of this ongoing series talks about initial impressions and first encounters with the book.] In his introduction, Johnny Truant describes The Navidson Record, the manuscript of his friend’s […]

First encounter[s] with House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski — “And then the nightmares will begin.”

I have been both relentlessly interested and [innately] skeptical of House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. Since April, I’ve been drawn to this book in the bookstore, picking it up, testing its weight. I’d hug it to my chest as I wandered the store. And then I’d set it back down, telling myself it was […]

Coming to terms, at long last, with The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood

I recently read Barthes’ The Pleasure of the Text, where I picked up this awesome little nugget about “[diluted] tmesis”: . . . we do not read everything with the same intensity of reading; a rhythm is established, casual, unconcerned with the integrity of the text; our very avidity for knowledge impels us to skim […]

I am not having fun with Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin

Why is it we want so badly to memorialize ourselves? Even while we’re still alive. We wish to assert our existence, like dogs peeing on fire hydrants. We put on display our framed photographs, our parchment diplomas, our silver-plated cups; we monogram our linen, we carve our names on trees, we scrawl them on bathroom […]

marginalia || The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald

The farther I get from the moment I closed this book, the more it resonates. I could go back and leaf through the pages, look at the pages and passages that I’ve marked, and I am immediately brought back. And scenes change the more I read them. And, oddly, the scenes are more vivid in […]