recent readings: a booklog.

She stood in the shelf for several years. I noticed her every time I was shopping for books. It almost seemed like she was staring right at me, in heavy make-up and trashy hair. No, I didn’t feel like bringing her home. But I did, eventually. Her name was Maddy and, unlike me, she was a teenager gone wild. She embodied my fury, my fears and my fantasies. She was a figment of Joyce Carol Oates’ dito, of course. But that didn't stop me from loving her.

Ever since Maddy and »Foxfire«, Joyce Carol Oates is the author of my choice. There is a rich and haunting darkness to her narrative, a darkness that will never sieze to amaze me. The pains of growing up, the pains of being a woman and the pains of pure existence are all there for me to recognize, relate to, ponder upon. Now, most novels tend to affect me emotionally. Some of them tears me apart, and leaves me feeling depressed and deprived of substance and meaning. It's quite the opposite with Oates’ novels. Dark as they may be, they're still strengthening. Energizing. Exilirating. Equivalent to a tar-black cup of coffee in the morning, if you will. »We Were the Mulvaneys« is no exception.

As an urban tale of a deeply dysfunctional family, »We Were the Mulvaneys« is a marvel. As a tale of »the modern man« and the breakdown of his role in society and family, »We Were the Mulvaneys« is a marvel. The novel is overall very oatesesque. The sudden changes of perspective in time and narration, the tragedy lurking beneath a seemingly calm surface, the metaphorical language and all those intersections of beautifully embroidered and deeply significant accounts of trivialities. With Oates, nothing is mundane.

Having read »We Were the Mulvaneys«, I am looking forward to digging deep into the gold-coated bibliography of Joyce Carol Oates. She is a highly productive writer, so I suspect it will take me a lifetime. That suits me just fine. She will never sieze to amaze me.