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msaari's review against another edition
3.0
The first part is interesting: a nihilistic, hateful description of the freaks and losers of the Austrian countryside. Then we get to the mad prince and his monologue, and then the book is pretty much a train wreck. Fascinating, but Bernhard has written better books. [b:Alte Meister|11701118|Alte Meister|Thomas Bernhard|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1353941343s/11701118.jpg|41478117], for example.
jimmylorunning's review against another edition
3.0
I'm entering into my second phase of Bernhard. In which I am no longer enamoured simply with Bernhard being Bernhard (though I enjoy it immensely). I know what he does, and I know he does it well, so what more can I say about a Bernhard book? There is no point focussing on the repetition, only that it's there. And no point focussing on the misanthropy or the humor or the very intentional style, only that it's there.
What interested me about this early Bernhard is that those things were not in place yet. You can see them just on the cusp of formation, but while Bernhard was honing his formula, he wrote this book which completely puzzled me. The first half of the book seemed almost like a traditional narrative in which something is very untraditional, something I can't exactly put my finger on.
Father (who is a doctor) and son travel around the countryside to treat a bunch of sick people. Most of these cases involve other stories such as barbarism, murder, cruelty to animals, slow insanity due to isolation, etc. This is all relayed in a calm fashion, as if from the pen of one of his dour country-mates, Peter Handke. It's like Bernhard is trying to show us the varieties of perversion of the outside world. The forms of Gargoyle-ness that we must first gargle before swallowing.
Then, in the last half of the book, we enter the perversion of the inside world. Father and son meet up with a prince who has gone out of his mind. The prince gives a long rant which fills up the last half of the book. At first glance, this is a very Bernhardian rant. On further thought, however, there were quite a few differences. Firstly, I found the humor quite lacking in this rant, whereas I could barely get through a page of most of his books without cracking up.
Secondly, it seems to me one of the most fruitful sources of Bernhard's humor comes from knowing when not to stop. He usually goes on about something, and just when he is winding down, he takes off again on the very same tangent. This dizzying ever-obsessive mind has not quite developed yet. Granted, he still goes on for pages on one topic before moving on, but the way the sentences are formed do not lend themselves to the same kind of maddening myopia. And in parts, he jumps from one topic to another, flirting restlessly with a variety of under-developed generalities within a few sentences. This is the exact opposite strategy of the 'drilling-down' action of most of his prose.
All of this is mere observation. I am not saying it is better or not as good. However, something about it seems odd to me. Mainly: I can't really figure out what he was trying to do, where he was taking us. There's definitely a direction, but without any destination. The book just peters out at the end, and I am left wondering mostly about the narrator and his father. They seemed so plain, so boring, so calm and unmarred by the perversions around them, and also so purposeless in the entire narrative. What little backstory that can be gleaned about them is inessential to the much more entertaining stories about the barkeep or the twisted necks of exotic birds. What's more, they make judgments on those around them, but in a completely detached way.
I'm not sure Bernhard really knew where he was going with this book, maybe it was just a convenient structure into which he could place a few short stories, and experiment with his budding rant-style... but perhaps I'm also missing something.
What interested me about this early Bernhard is that those things were not in place yet. You can see them just on the cusp of formation, but while Bernhard was honing his formula, he wrote this book which completely puzzled me. The first half of the book seemed almost like a traditional narrative in which something is very untraditional, something I can't exactly put my finger on.
Father (who is a doctor) and son travel around the countryside to treat a bunch of sick people. Most of these cases involve other stories such as barbarism, murder, cruelty to animals, slow insanity due to isolation, etc. This is all relayed in a calm fashion, as if from the pen of one of his dour country-mates, Peter Handke. It's like Bernhard is trying to show us the varieties of perversion of the outside world. The forms of Gargoyle-ness that we must first gargle before swallowing.
Then, in the last half of the book, we enter the perversion of the inside world. Father and son meet up with a prince who has gone out of his mind. The prince gives a long rant which fills up the last half of the book. At first glance, this is a very Bernhardian rant. On further thought, however, there were quite a few differences. Firstly, I found the humor quite lacking in this rant, whereas I could barely get through a page of most of his books without cracking up.
Secondly, it seems to me one of the most fruitful sources of Bernhard's humor comes from knowing when not to stop. He usually goes on about something, and just when he is winding down, he takes off again on the very same tangent. This dizzying ever-obsessive mind has not quite developed yet. Granted, he still goes on for pages on one topic before moving on, but the way the sentences are formed do not lend themselves to the same kind of maddening myopia. And in parts, he jumps from one topic to another, flirting restlessly with a variety of under-developed generalities within a few sentences. This is the exact opposite strategy of the 'drilling-down' action of most of his prose.
All of this is mere observation. I am not saying it is better or not as good. However, something about it seems odd to me. Mainly: I can't really figure out what he was trying to do, where he was taking us. There's definitely a direction, but without any destination. The book just peters out at the end, and I am left wondering mostly about the narrator and his father. They seemed so plain, so boring, so calm and unmarred by the perversions around them, and also so purposeless in the entire narrative. What little backstory that can be gleaned about them is inessential to the much more entertaining stories about the barkeep or the twisted necks of exotic birds. What's more, they make judgments on those around them, but in a completely detached way.
I'm not sure Bernhard really knew where he was going with this book, maybe it was just a convenient structure into which he could place a few short stories, and experiment with his budding rant-style... but perhaps I'm also missing something.
kingkong's review against another edition
3.0
Bernhard tricks you into thinking this is a normal novel with regular sized paragraphs
adrianasturalvarez's review against another edition
4.0
"And there is something else that is unbearable," he said. "The composers of symphonies always have symphonies on their minds, writers always have writing, builders always building, circus dancers always circus dancing - it's unendurable." (pg. 145)
My first Bernhard. I don't know why I enjoyed this novel as much as I did. I really shouldn't have. On the surface it is boring and exhausting, and yet, I haven't been this inspired by a novel in a long while.
At it's heart this is a novel about ideas trapped within various bodies and the ensuing perversion this causes. The first half of the novel follows a doctor and his son as he makes his rounds in a small Austrian village. Along the way they encounter people who are trapped within class distinctions, trapped within societal laws, trapped within physical bodies, and within power dynamics even as this doctor and his son are also trapped within their own relationship, though they struggle to gain purchase on it.
In the second half of the novel, Bernhard really goes for it with an artistic risk. It consists entirely of one man's monologue and the impression it makes on the doctor's son. There is a lot going on here, too much for a few pithy remarks in a Goodreads review, just know this is rich soil and Bernhard more or less pulls off his daring.
The starting point for this insanely rambling monologue is a demonstration of a man trapped within his own language and sense of identity. One reading of this half of the novel could be that this man desperately attempts to use language as a means to get himself out of himself which, of course, doesn't logically follow and therefore leads him to a kind of internal loop of madness. You know, like Comcast technical support only with yourself.
What makes this rather rigorous artistic project palatable are its generous variety of entry points and the fact that Bernhard is an excellent writer. As a result, this long nearly continuous 100 page monologue isn't a slog but at times hypnotically fascinating.
This is Bernhard's second novel and I understand he refines and matures his style in later works. I will certainly be reading them.
I recommend this novel to the adventurous.
My first Bernhard. I don't know why I enjoyed this novel as much as I did. I really shouldn't have. On the surface it is boring and exhausting, and yet, I haven't been this inspired by a novel in a long while.
At it's heart this is a novel about ideas trapped within various bodies and the ensuing perversion this causes. The first half of the novel follows a doctor and his son as he makes his rounds in a small Austrian village. Along the way they encounter people who are trapped within class distinctions, trapped within societal laws, trapped within physical bodies, and within power dynamics even as this doctor and his son are also trapped within their own relationship, though they struggle to gain purchase on it.
In the second half of the novel, Bernhard really goes for it with an artistic risk. It consists entirely of one man's monologue and the impression it makes on the doctor's son. There is a lot going on here, too much for a few pithy remarks in a Goodreads review, just know this is rich soil and Bernhard more or less pulls off his daring.
The starting point for this insanely rambling monologue is a demonstration of a man trapped within his own language and sense of identity. One reading of this half of the novel could be that this man desperately attempts to use language as a means to get himself out of himself which, of course, doesn't logically follow and therefore leads him to a kind of internal loop of madness. You know, like Comcast technical support only with yourself.
What makes this rather rigorous artistic project palatable are its generous variety of entry points and the fact that Bernhard is an excellent writer. As a result, this long nearly continuous 100 page monologue isn't a slog but at times hypnotically fascinating.
This is Bernhard's second novel and I understand he refines and matures his style in later works. I will certainly be reading them.
I recommend this novel to the adventurous.
jonathangolding_books's review against another edition
dark
funny
reflective
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
5.0
leerazer's review against another edition
3.0
A few days ago the book [b:The Basic Laws of Human Stupidity|49348225|The Basic Laws of Human Stupidity|Carlo M. Cipolla|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1595814345l/49348225._SX50_.jpg|358622] came across my desk. Living as I do in the vaccine-refusing epicenter of the US Delta variant surge of infection and of hospitals that are once again becoming overwhelmed, I couldn’t help feeling a note of sympathy with the book. Opening it up I read the first law: “Always and inevitably everyone underestimates the number of stupid individuals in circulation.” Here’s an author who probably read Thomas Bernhard.
I take it that all of Bernhard’s work is essentially variants of a theme, of which stupidity plays a large role. Stupidity is the spike protein of Bernhard’s worldview, always present as the details of the larger work change a bit. I have no idea if that claim works, by the way, but I’m leaving it. How does Bernhard put it across in Gargoyles?
Naturally this makes for an unhappy outlook. “As I go about, there is hardly a man I see who isn’t repulsive.” “He was used to sacrificing himself to a sick populace given to violence as well as insanity.” “It would be wrong to refuse to face the fact that everything is fundamentally sick and sad.”
Sometimes this is funny. Nothing is above the novel’s complaints: “If I send it now, at noon, I thought, it won’t reach Kobernausserwald until tomorrow morning. The postal system, the hopeless, ruined Austrian postal system.” Now there’s some pettiness. And here it reads like a parody of Grumpy Old Man: “We paid and left. In the restaurant a band of schoolchildren were being fed. They were given hot soup and admonishments not to make noise. What gruesome people these innocent creatures will inevitably become, I thought as we left the restaurant.”
Bernhard’s apparent horror of sex appears: “I once saw him naked by the river, together with his equally naked wife; I remember that infantile penis. There they were, indulging their pitiable Sunday connubiality behind the bushes, away from the clear water, where they thought they were alone and could indulge themselves in their revolting intimacies, succumbing to their stupor in the sunset.” That’s some pretty good and funny anti-eroticism, I have to admit.
If Bernhard’s debut novel [b:Frost|12203|Frost|Thomas Bernhard|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1537115859l/12203._SY75_.jpg|1244054] had one solitary note of optimism and grace, embodied by nuns caring for the ill, Gargoyles has its one note of optimism and grace located in nature:
I liked this novel more than I did Frost, perhaps because it has more variety and hints of an actual plot to its largely one note hammering away. Bernhard’s third novel, I read, marks the start of his major work, so having served somewhat of a gruesome apprenticeship I look forward to the gruesome main event. After all, “We always want to hear something even worse than what we have inside of us,” as the prince said. Perceptive.
I take it that all of Bernhard’s work is essentially variants of a theme, of which stupidity plays a large role. Stupidity is the spike protein of Bernhard’s worldview, always present as the details of the larger work change a bit. I have no idea if that claim works, by the way, but I’m leaving it. How does Bernhard put it across in Gargoyles?
I say to Huber: The republican death-throes are probably the most repulsive, the ugliest of all. Aren’t they, Doctor? I say: The common people are stupid, they stink, and that has always been so.
I have been reflecting, Doctor, on the stupidity of all phrases, on stupidity, on the stupidity in which man lives and thinks, thinks and lives, on the stupidity…
… has never come into conflict with the law and never will because the world is too stupid.
The prince said he was forever compelled to make a stupid society realize it was stupid, and that he was always doing everything in his power to prove to this stupid society how stupid it was.
The shattering thing,” he said, “is not the ugliness of people but their lack of judgment.”
Naturally this makes for an unhappy outlook. “As I go about, there is hardly a man I see who isn’t repulsive.” “He was used to sacrificing himself to a sick populace given to violence as well as insanity.” “It would be wrong to refuse to face the fact that everything is fundamentally sick and sad.”
Sometimes this is funny. Nothing is above the novel’s complaints: “If I send it now, at noon, I thought, it won’t reach Kobernausserwald until tomorrow morning. The postal system, the hopeless, ruined Austrian postal system.” Now there’s some pettiness. And here it reads like a parody of Grumpy Old Man: “We paid and left. In the restaurant a band of schoolchildren were being fed. They were given hot soup and admonishments not to make noise. What gruesome people these innocent creatures will inevitably become, I thought as we left the restaurant.”
Bernhard’s apparent horror of sex appears: “I once saw him naked by the river, together with his equally naked wife; I remember that infantile penis. There they were, indulging their pitiable Sunday connubiality behind the bushes, away from the clear water, where they thought they were alone and could indulge themselves in their revolting intimacies, succumbing to their stupor in the sunset.” That’s some pretty good and funny anti-eroticism, I have to admit.
If Bernhard’s debut novel [b:Frost|12203|Frost|Thomas Bernhard|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1537115859l/12203._SY75_.jpg|1244054] had one solitary note of optimism and grace, embodied by nuns caring for the ill, Gargoyles has its one note of optimism and grace located in nature:
I would climb the northern hills and let myself dream while contemplating the outward aspects of nature. Whenever I looked at it, I said, and from any perspective, the surface of the earth struck me as new and I was refreshed by it.
I liked this novel more than I did Frost, perhaps because it has more variety and hints of an actual plot to its largely one note hammering away. Bernhard’s third novel, I read, marks the start of his major work, so having served somewhat of a gruesome apprenticeship I look forward to the gruesome main event. After all, “We always want to hear something even worse than what we have inside of us,” as the prince said. Perceptive.
chris09cfe's review
challenging
dark
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.0