N: For this week’s blog post, Wina and I talked about discussing a novel that we were currently fond off. But instead of doing the usual book review and all that jazz, I wanted to discuss this novel using the unique style that David Markson used while writing it. So if you like non-linear, discontinuous fiction with unconventional themes or you just want a good philosophical romp, feel free to check this one out.
Musings on Wittgenstein’s Mistress
It is quite late in the novel when Kate, the narrator of David Markson’s novel decides that she could possibly write a novel too.
Although Kate hesitates because, as she ponders, any novel that she possibly could write would only have one character – and who would want to read a novel such as that?
There is only one character in the novel Wittgenstein’s Mistress.
It makes me wonder: what if the narrator of Kate’s novel also decides to write a novel and it occurs ad infinitum? Wouldn’t that be an invitation to infinite regress?
This reminds me of Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace, who called this novel “pretty much the high point of experimental fiction in this country.”
This country meaning the United States, of course—although Wittgenstein was a British philosopher.
Well, not really, since he was born in Austria but he did most of his philosophical work in the British Isles.
And Kate couldn’t be his mistress, since she probably never met Ludwig Wittgenstein.
Why is this book called Wittgenstein’s Mistress in the first place? In case you were wondering:
Kate’s writing style closely resembles Wittgenstein’s seminal philosophical work, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, a headache-inducing work which is broken down in lengthy series of declarative statements, all isolated from one another. The reader has to do the heavy lifting in order to connect those sporadic ideas into something meaningful.
Wittgenstein’s mistress is a novel fully composed of declarative statements as well, all isolated from one another. The reader has to do the heavy lifting in order to connect those sporadic ideas into something meaningful.
This means you have to do the heavy lifting, as it seems.
Did I mention Kate is isolated as well?
She is the last living person in the whole world.
All this makes Wittgenstein’s Mistress seem like an apocalyptic science fiction novel, much like The Road or I am Legend, I suppose.
But that’s not really fair; it strikes me as more of a postmodern experimental novel.
In retrospect, I’m not certain that Kate is the last living person in the world, despite what I just said.
She is an unreliable narrator, who writes in declarative statements, and often contradicts herself.
In fact people do that a lot.
Contradict themselves, that is. Not write about themselves.
Assuming there really are other people.
Which this novel might make you doubt.
This book is somewhat solipsistic, when you think about it—only the philosopher exists and no one else.
This is sort of like being the last person in the world.
Or being really lonely, which is what David Foster Wallace thought this novel was about, I suppose.
David Foster Wallace committed suicide and might have been a lonely individual himself.
Ludwig Wittgenstein had three brothers who committed suicide, as I recall. He considered doing it himself.
Which is quite a coincidence.
Or maybe not, when you think about it.
Which makes it all the sadder.
But a sad story doesn’t always make the reader feel bad.
Sometimes a sad story can make you feel better
In fact, Aristotle might have said something about that.
But perhaps that’s just Kate showing off. She always mentions famous people that she has met.
Which is quite strange given that Kate is a solipsist.
Well, she shouldn’t even write a novel.
Who would read it?
Well I read it.
And I wasn’t sad after I read it, even if it is a sad novel.
You probably won’t be sad either.
I mean to say you won’t be sad about reading the novel. You might be sad about other things, though.
But that won’t have anything to do with Wittgenstein’s Mistress.
W: When Nico and I talked about doing a blog post on books we’d read, one of the things that he asked me was whether or not it would be in the review format. While I like hearing what people have to say about a book, I always feel averse to the thought of someone reviewing something. I feel like people try so hard to be objective—you almost can’t ever tell whether they liked it or not or what about it hurt them the most. So, I guess this is as close to a review as I’m going to get.
I’ve been reading a lot of books but I feel like I haven’t spent enough time with them to write something thorough about them. Instead of writing about something I’ve been reading, I decided to write about a book that I’ve loved deeply, and painfully (I’ll show you my copy, one time): Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami.
A Short History
I first encountered Haruki Murakami when I was fourteen and Powerbooks still had plush seating where you could read for hours. I think that he was my initiation into a kind of fiction that I aspired to: his work was affective and solemn and slightly psychotic without being sentimental in a way that pandered to your fantasies. Also, I really loved that he would write about fantastic things in the most understated manner. I mean–I (like everyone in our generation) loved Harry Potter but I didn’t want to write like J.K. Rowling (not that I would complain if I did).
I read A Wild Sheep Chase when I was fourteen and extremely awkward (chubby, pimple-faced with braces), loitering around Powerbooks and sitting cross-legged in the Young Adult section, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World at seventeen and Dance, Dance, Dance at nineteen in the abandoned room of my ex-boyfriend’s old house. All those three books contain stories that were slightly deranged, slipping in and out of the real world without any real transition.
Norwegian Wood found me when I was twenty, the year they’d decided to remove those comfy chairs and install school supplies in Powerbooks—the beginning of the end. This is the last Murakami book that I read—I haven’t started on 19Q4 yet—and as it turns out, this was his first novel. The thing that really caught me off-guard here is that even if it operates with the same hazy tone and includes a lot of Murakami’s usual details (e.g. the detail of ears, the mention of hair), the story happens completely within the real, tangible, painful world. There’s also something about the use of first person (whereas say, Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World was in third person) that can be so intimate it’s disturbing. I also find that Jay Rubin’s translations are great because he pays a lot of attention to the emotion and specificity of language and I think that’s extremely important when delivering a narrative like this—most especially when it changes hands.
The Beatles Reference
I’m a sucker for a good reference, especially when it has to do with The Beatles. I feel like they were as big a force of nature as anything—they transcended genre, geography and (what with digital audio editing + the fact that Paul McCartney is still alive and being photographed with Rihanna and Dave Grohl) even time. This is mostly a Lennon song, helped along by McCartney. John’s songs are often in the minor chord and extremely haunting—less so lyrically but in terms of melody. It just gets stuck in your head, even if it literally doesn’t make any sense—which is kind of like everything that haunts you (us), I guess.
I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me
She showed me her room, isn’t it good, Norwegian wood?
She asked me to stay and she told me to sit anywhere
So I looked around and I noticed there wasn’t a chair
I sat on the rug, biding my time, drinking her wine
We talked until two and then she said, “It’s time for bed”
She told me she worked in the morning and started to laugh
I told her I didn’t and crawled off to sleep in the bath
And when I awoke I was alone, this bird had flown
So I lit a fire, isn’t it good, Norwegian wood?
What I Loved
The thing that I enjoyed the most about this story is that it took its time—something that I feel a lot of stories these days don’t do. It was really able to flesh out every character and every encounter that Watanabe talks about without diluting the narrative impact. Instead of watering things down, the thickness of the encounters coupled with the restraint in language made it viscous to the point of being almost solid. I think that Murakami’s talent is embodied in the compromise that this work takes between lushness and sparseness, the intoxication of nostalgia and the matter-of-factness of the present.
The Typewriter Dailies 