Too much work for too little reward.

I read somewhere that if you pick up a book, and you're not enjoying it by either: a) your age (if you are under 50); or b) 100 minus your age (if you are over 50), you should abandon it and move on. There is simply an overwhelming amount of reading material out there, and life is far too short to be wasted on reading bad books.

I think this principle applies especially to books in that hazy grey zone. You can sense that the writer is building up to something significant, and the style and story have enough energy and excitement to keep you persevering, perhaps against your better judgment. A.S. Byatt's Possession: A Romance definitely falls into this category.

It's not that Byatt isn't a talented writer; she most certainly is. I'm relishing her scathing critique of the insular and political world of academia, with its self-perpetuating irrelevance. The portrayal of the grad student/teaching assistant/temp couple, living in a damp basement, barred from the garden, and feeding off each other in a passive-aggressive co-dependency, was近乎完美 (and hit a little too close to home!). The satire of feminist scholarship is truly priceless.

However, it's all a bit too much to slog through just for a few morsels of enjoyment. It's overly clever and complicated, to say the least. So far, I've got two main characters, two minor characters, a whole host of tertiary characters, some of whom we only see through the eyes of the two main ones. There are also two poets, who are two more major characters, from each of whom I'm getting internal monologue, dialogue, and painstakingly crafted Victorian-era poems, letters, and academic research papers that reflect all of that. And these are filled with references, allusions, and imagery from the Victorian and classical eras, both fake and probably real, but I just can't untangle it all, and right now, I don't really have the inclination to. Oh, and the story takes place on two continents, one convincingly, and the other not so much.

I've made it to page 108, and I'm still not sure if I won't come back to it. Maybe in a different season, with a different mindset. This novel is likely, for me, like sipping single-malt scotch in the summer: sometimes I do it, but I rarely enjoy it. I need a brisk, cool autumn evening, or a snowy night, with a wood fire crackling, and my faithful companion, Sutcliffe the Beagle, by my side. In other words, I need to enter a rarified connoisseur's frame of mind and let the experience wash over me while I puzzle over it like a crossword.

I will put this one back on the shelf and perhaps give it another try in January.

Stolen snapshots that defy the laws of space and time:

Past. A poet, with a keen eye and a soul attuned to the mystical, observes a creature that is half woman and half mermaid. She scouts the cliffs and creeks, bathes in the unruly seas and the still ponds, and seems to get drenched in the cascade of his flowing words. The ache of losing God is lessened when his intellect meets with incandescent creativity or unrestrained love. His gentle curiosity breathes life into inert things, making them shine with an inner glow. He doesn't aspire to possess what he loves; instead, he cherishes it and allows it to flourish in its natural state.

Present. A self-effacing, underpaid assistant researcher dwells in a dark room that reeks of stale history. He survives in reality, but his mind thrives on the verses penned by the dead Victorian poet, Randolph Henry Ash. Unaware that he himself possesses a unique voice, he searches for the veiled truths of his life in the legacy of the iconic poet.

Past. A petite, pale woman with gleaming green eyes, as crystalline as a dragon's stare, sits in a carriage. She is oblivious to the bearded gentleman opposite her who is memorizing the lines of her features with fascinated absorption. She is reserved, protective of her independence, and shrouded in mystery. Skeptical of romantic love, her passion is dedicated to the life of language. She speaks in tongues of fire, and torrents of poems spring from the briny seas of her feral imagination. She moves like water, eluding possession in her ever-changing shape.

Present. A successful scholar, specialized in the underrated poetess Christabel LeMotte, flushes with emotion as she anxiously leafs through the yellowish pages, wrapped in the familiar odor of mildew, wax, and ash. Unusually blond and displaying a cool and poised detachment, she covets loneliness, guided by the fear of being possessed.

Four characters. Two stories. Parallel plotlines. The present and past dissolve in undelivered letters, secret diaries, and rose-scented poems that act like two-way mirrors. Here, reality becomes a mirage, and generally agreed facts are mere artificial constructs.

Combining cultivated erudition, refined literary taste, and virtuous mastery of several genres, Byatt exposes her characters to psychological vivisection, merging the fictional plot with intricate disquisitions. She creates highly distinctive voices that speak to the different realities of the reader.

Fast-paced dialogues, sprouting from the picturesque secondary characters of the Academia, tinted with sporadic brushtrokes of colorful yet haunting humor, create the perfect palette for a Gothic scenario. Here, raging storms, spooky cemeteries, and ancient legends blend with sumptuous meditation on the concept of possession.

Does love inevitably imply possession? How can the bird fly free in the gilded cage of desire? Can love be restorative rather than demanding? Is selfless love a chimera?

Byatt doesn't offer clear answers. She uses the third-person narrator not as an omniscient actor but as a means to bring her characters closer to the readers and allow them to reach their own conclusions. All their voices speak to me in symphonic cannon, with the unvarying idea that pure love thrives in letting go of the things we want to possess. Only when the object of our desires, be it the beloved person, a professional career, an idealized obsession, or the inspiration to write, is released from selfish need, will it open its locked gateways freely and show us the pathway to fulfillment.

But that is not the only song I hear. For, rising above the melody, I distinctly discern Byatt's contralto singing the only truth that not even rigorous scholarship can claim to possess. That after passion is spent, heartache subdued, and disappointments diluted in the sea of memories, long after the stillborn happiness has burnt out in the arson of irreconcilable pasts, dead words will be rekindled from the ashes with every new reading, Phoenix-like. And bygone lives will be infused with the spark of new beginnings, for their essence will be preserved in the artistic creations that writers send sailing the tides of time to reach shores still to be read and mornings that smell of brine to wake up to. Never to be fully possessed, but forever adored.

\\"In the morning, the whole world had a strange new smell. It was the smell of the aftermath, a green smell, a smell of shredded leaves and oozing resin, of crushed wood and splashed sap, a tart smell, which bore some relation to the smell of bitten apples. It was the smell of death and destruction, and it smelled fresh and lively and hopeful.\\"

I started the addiction knowing that it had won the Booker in 1990 and that Umberto Eco had expressed his admiration for it. I had also seen the movie many years ago, a (very precious) romantic commentary in the academic and philological research fields, with two professors who discover through various well-hidden manuscripts the unknown love of two poets from the previous century. All of this was enough to arouse my curiosity when the book fell into my hands. However, I did not expect that when I finished it, I would be indelibly marked by a masterpiece of contemporary (and any) literature.

There are many reasons to love a book: the emotions it evokes, the beauty of the language, the plot, the form, the originality of the theme, the author's knowledge and the research they have done, the objective references and the dialogue with its era, how it can fit into a genre and serve it faithfully or, on the other hand, how it can remain unclassified, break down and cross genres, composing something truly unique and special. However, few books manage all of the above and something even more. And The Passion is one of them.

And if it is truly a feat to fit so many different and eclectic literary genres into a narrative (epistolary novel, campus novel, diary entries, mystery, romance, epic poetry, lyric poetry, critical essay), Byatt not only did it, but from the beginning she crafted two romantic poets and composed their love letters and their works, epic and lyric poems, through which the two doomed lovers left indelible traces of their secret relationship and their mutual influences. In the face of such a semiotic wealth, how could the filtered Umberto not be impressed?

Byatt is not the first to double two love stories and let them run counter to each other in two parallel times, drawing conclusions about the concepts of passion, sexuality and love then and now. However, the way she composes her material and stands critically against it within the same narrative is unparalleled. With a mastery that leaves not the tiniest detail unresonant later, she leads the plot to a stunning (double) crescendo and to a climax that, beyond any intellectual or philological orgasm, leaves one speechless in the way that only great literature can.

I have not read other books by Byatt (I hope other works of hers will be published in our country), but if they all hover at this level, I consider it somewhat criminal that this woman has not yet received the Nobel.

Poets Possessed by Passion Puissante pour les Mots et la Romance

[A]ll great poetry asks us to be possessed by it. Harold Bloom's words from The Best Poems of the English Language in 2003 truly capture the essence of great poetry. It has the power to draw us in and make us feel deeply. John Donne's line, “I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so,” further emphasizes the folly and passion that often accompany love and poetry.

The image of the book cover adds a visual element to this exploration. My initial reaction to this work was a resounding 5 stars for its ability to construct a complex structure around the romantic stories of two pairs of poets. However, prior to the last 10 or so pages, I might have rated it 4 stars. The last 5 pages, in particular, have the potential to pop the pluvial plug, perhaps suggesting a shift or a powerful conclusion.
As Pablo Neruda said, “Love is so short, forgetting is so long.” This simple yet profound statement encapsulates the fleeting nature of love and the lasting impact it can have. It makes us wonder about the power of poetry to capture and preserve those moments of love and passion.

In conclusion, this work on poets and their passionate romances offers a fascinating look into the world of literature and love.

I just completed reading A.S. Byatt’s novel, Possession, for approximately the fourth time. It has been several years since my last encounter with it, and I must admit that I now view it in an entirely new perspective. It is truly a literary gem, boasting an exquisitely crafted plot and masterful writing.

This time around, I meticulously examined the epigraphs that precede most of the chapters, as well as all the beautiful poetry incorporated within the text. I'm not sure if I gave more than a fleeting glance to the poetry during previous readings. However, this time, I zeroed in on Byatt’s poetry and uncovered just how significantly it enriches and shapes the novel’s dual plots.

Regarding the epigraphs, I highly recommend that the reader closely study each one before delving into the chapter. Then, upon completing the chapter, return and read it once more to see if you accurately deciphered its true meaning. There are numerous little puzzles and clues scattered throughout the entire novel, with the majority of them residing within the poetry sections.

This is a captivating love story that attains a level of romantic passion, emotion, and anguish similar to that of Jane Austen’s Persuasion, yet with the Byronic or Gothic undertones characteristic of the Bronte sisters. It is evident to me why Byatt was honored with the Booker Prize for Possession in 1990, and it is clear that this novel is indisputably destined to become a classic work of literature.

Winner of the Man Booker Prize in 1990,

giving this book 5 stars was not ever in doubt for me. This is one of the most remarkable books I've ever read. I'm a romantic, I admit. I love art and art history. I love good historical fiction. But all that combined still does not make a good book. A.S. Byatt pulls all this together with the most important aspect of any book, great writing. She crafts the story with such precision and beauty that it simply takes your breath away.

But she adds something else also, something that's hard to put your finger on, a uniqueness, an edge, if you will, that puts this work in a class of its own. It's not just a story; it's a work of art. The characters are so vividly drawn that you feel as if you know them personally. The plot is engaging and full of surprises.

It's a modern classic, without doubt, and it's worthy of all its awards and praise. It's a book that will stay with you long after you've turned the last page. It makes you think, it makes you feel, and it makes you appreciate the power of great literature.

There have been an abundance of reviews penned about this book, by numerous individuals far more eloquent than I could ever hope to be. As a result, I truly don't believe I have anything novel and/or remarkable to contribute. Nevertheless, I will simply jot down my thoughts regarding it.

I found it to be truly lovely. The language ebbs and flows beautifully, not only in the prose but also in the poetry sections. The story itself is captivating, with the blossoming illicit romance between the poet and his poetess, and the more subdued one between the scholars who are obsessed with them. Byatt does a remarkable job of guiding us into the ever-deepening waters of the mystery. It commences as a mild curiosity, and she skillfully fans the flames until it becomes a raging inferno, and you simply must know what transpires! I adore how the letters disclose so much about both the characters and their deepening connection. However, I did find certain parts of them tiresome - especially the sections concerning Ash's collection of marine samples and some of the more exhaustive descriptions of the countryside. I daresay my eagerness to discover what happens played a role in this. I thought she wrapped everything up splendidly at the end - especially the very last section, which alleviated the anguished heartburnings I felt on behalf of Ash.

I have to surmise that she was satirizing the realm of literary criticism and the academic fixation on authors. It's a peculiar profession, when one ponders upon it. Your entire life is dedicated to studying every minutiae of someone else's life. Your sole accomplishment lies in the depth of your knowledge about someone else's achievements. It seems rather absurd when you truly think about it. Every one of the professors whose area of study was Ash or Christabel (with the exception of Roland and Maud) was rather obnoxious and unlikable in some regard. They are most definitely consumed by their callings, to the extent that lying, cheating, and stealing become justifiable. The title of the book was scrutinized in a myriad of ways within the book: by the scholars, by the relationship between the poet and poetess, by the relationship between Roland and Maud, and various others.

I did indeed enjoy this book, but I think I might appreciate it even more upon a second reading. I was also consumed while reading this time - by the desire to know how the mystery concludes. Perhaps another reading can be a bit less frenzied.

Why This Should Not Have Won the Booker


1. Firstly, the characters in this book are extremely underdeveloped. Roland, the protagonist, is completely featureless and shows no growth or development throughout the 550-page-long novel. He simply succeeds at a paper near the end, but we never know the content, so we can't judge his intelligence. The other characters are also one-note and redundant, and they don't develop either. This is very annoying, especially considering the length of the book.


2. The description in the book is also a major problem. It is often excessively long and purple-prosed, focusing on things that don't really matter. The dialogue is engaging enough, but the description takes up too much space and detracts from the story. The author should have killed her darlings and used that space to give the main character a personality.


3. The plot of the book is also very predictable. I was able to figure out the entire reveal in the first 100 pages, and it was so blatantly obvious that I don't even feel like it's a spoiler to say what it is. The storyline is a cliched mystery that has been done before, and there is nothing really new or interesting about it.


4. The lawyer subplot is another example of how the book is full of absurdly convenient connections. Roland's ex-girlfriend gets together with a lawyer who conveniently owns a horse with another lawyer who is representing the guy with the important letters. They all come up with a wacky scheme to get the letters, but it only works because of these convenient connections. This is just one of many examples in the book.


5. Finally, I was really disappointed with how homosexuality was treated in the book. It was brushed off, often made fun of, and generally subservient to the power of heterosexual love. This may not have been the author's intent, but it was still a problem for me.


Overall, I think this book should not have won the Booker Prize. It has many flaws, including underdeveloped characters, excessive description, a predictable plot, and a problematic treatment of homosexuality. While there are some moments of interest, they are not enough to make up for the many problems with the book.

I picked up this book because I had seen it in a recommended reading site and then a friend said that it was really good. But, as it turns out, there was a significant hurdle right from the start.

Yes, there's a but... it took me 3 tries to get past page 10. I should have known then that this might not be an easy read for me, but (again with the 'but') I persevered, stubbornly thinking that I would eventually get into it, that I would get to the meat of the story.

By page 300, I felt like I was trapped. I had already invested this much time into it and felt, at that point, that I had to finish it. I'm not saying that it probably isn't a great book. I'm sure it won awards and I'm sure that the writing is considered fair.

But when I pick up a book called 'Possession - A Romance', I don't know... I guess I was expecting something with a bit more passion. Maybe the fact that it had to include 'A Romance' in the title should have tipped me off.

The story centers around the discovery that two fictitious 'famous' poets had an affair and thus altered the meaning of their work to the scholars that study said poets. Okay. My problem is that I never really cared about either the poets or the scholars. There were times that I thought 'Yes, here we go'. But, it fizzled.

Maybe the writing is too 'proper' for me. I have no doubt that this book is beloved by many, just not me. It's possible that my expectations were too high, or perhaps I'm just not the right audience for this particular style of writing.

Nevertheless, I can see that there are aspects of the book that are well-crafted and值得欣赏. It's just that for me, it didn't quite hit the mark.

"Literary critics make natural detectives."

I truly adored this novel. I'm well aware that there are numerous arguments against it. However, for me, it encapsulated my life in that grey area existing between the reality we live and the one we consume within fiction.

Whoever has been seized by the passion of reading - a love story that is boundless, lifelong, and passionate, and thus distinct from most human love stories - will identify with the thoughts that accompany lovers on the trails of fictional past. Whoever regards their library as their most precious POSSESSION will understand the excitement of adding just a single poem's flawless rhythm to a collection already known "by heart", similar to a component in our blood circulation, as Byatt astutely points out.

Whoever has experienced a novel taking complete POSSESSION of their heart and mind for hours on end knows that reading is both a curse and a blessing simultaneously. It makes one feel frustrated about being controlled by schedules and the mundane affairs of everyday life when all one desires is to curl up alone and take POSSESSION of the story patiently waiting between two covers.

Writers pen their works alone, and readers peruse alone, Byatt remarks, but they are alone together. And that couldn't be truer! Sometimes I feel a deeper sense of loneliness in the company of others than when I'm alone with my books. I've never had a real-life individual who wished to share my possessive passion for books. So, sharing in these fictional characters' possession is as close as I'll ever come to a communal literary experience.

I almost feel like some kind of traitor to the culture of extremely well-written books to only rate this novel a three.

However, any book that takes me almost two months to get through and makes me read it in only short spurts is not one I would rate a five.

Yes, the writing, the theme, the characters are all superb. But the very writing and characters are what bogged down this novel for me. I have never been nor will ever be a fan of poetry in any shape or form. I will even readily admit that I do not like Shakespeare, possibly because of the same aversion I have harbored since forever against prose. I will be the first to admit that I just don't get it the way I am supposed to get it. Since this book is about poets researched by literature experts who love poetry, you can see the dilemma I was in.

Yet, I did finish it and did like the storyline which was romantic, sad, and so very Victorian, which by the way is a time period I love. How could one not fall for the doomed love affair between Randolph Ash and Christabel LaMotte and the eventual love found by their researchers? It has the stuff for making one a tear-stained reader as hearts are broken and secrets are hidden. Truly this is a story of star-crossed lovers so beloved by the reading public, especially those who love the society and propriety of Victorian tales.

Perhaps someday, I will return to this novel with a better view on the merits of poetry and even more so a better understanding. I do so admire those who revel in this medium and find so much that speaks to their souls, minds, and hearts. For me, I do envy them, but know I get so very little from the reading. It is just words, but unfortunately these words mean little to me and for that I feel I have missed the greatness of this novel.

It is easy to quietly read her articulated prose, which is so well wrought that it seems to shine in a glossed reflection if the reader looks away.

Her poeticized scheme is perfectly planted. It is simple for this reader to enjoy its simple tune, the easy flow of curved notes.

The story is about scholars who dedicate themselves and their lives to the study of Ash, a Victorian poet. They are immersed in the world of academics, departments, collectors, the profiteers, and the dense competitiveness.

Some form of tenderness may arise from a joint pursuit. Do they see in themselves what and who they are researching? Is there a wisp of a thread separating life from fiction?

This is where I or the text begin the slight heady swirl of a spin away, off from the silken prose. Even from the lives of these characters. Byatt mentions that words make an object.

What?

Sorry A.S. I know, it's a typo. It is the other way around. Why wake me from the trance of your prose though. I was enjoying lavishing in the heady atmosphere.

Ha! Words are one step removed from the object; nothing but letters, and their only connection is that most of us have agreed upon that arbitrary arrangement for survival's sake.

However, let's take the dresser here in my room. I can look at it at different times and see it differently according to the shifts in lighting, due to the angle no matter how small a change I am viewing it from. It is made of ever-changing atoms, molecules, etc., and is in the minutely, gradual process of fading.

I mean come on, is there anyone who can say what this dresser is apart from their experiences and associations? We are bound by these, right?

You say that with words it isn't reality you are trying to reach? But then what? Is it the breath of the world that the words create? Not the words themselves? This... what was it you said... parallel reality?

So, this mixture of words - you say - is what separates literature from fiction, art from the accuracy of sheer representation? I know, don't get angry A.S. I mean Miss Byatt. I'm putting it, some of it in my own words so that I remember.

The way not only what is between the words but how they are woven, threaded, that can only be accomplished by a master of the craft of magic's remembrance. I didn't know you knew about GR, how this is the world we live in or try to live in through our books, our reading, our world transformed.

Okay. Now especially that I have been humbled, I should mention more about the writing, the story, the thematic progressions.

The story takes us immediately into the world of the beauty of Victorian poetry, academics, book collectors, and the pure love of books.

What I find extraordinary is how you make it understandable that these very same people delve into the infernal realms of everyday life.

The competitiveness, the backstabbing, betrayals, hoarding, and crime, and the dry and unloved lives living through and off of other lives.

This parasitic gnawing to snatch a self, latching onto the identities of another. These others may in themselves be an equal amalgam of false identifications. What most of us are? To some degree(s)?

Therefore the endless search for completion. You take it further and with suspense also. The desperation.

These are not just collections of words, pages, books, letters, trinkets of possessions that are sought to be owned but the imperative to have a self, even if false. Something to fill the void. Anything better than nothing.

I thank you A.S. You have included so much in such an exquisite way. I will tell all that your book is to be read, even more than once, and is so highly recommended.

* Psst. Come closer. I don't feel right about this and don't want her to hear. Don't read the Postscript. It has no place being there. The story ended just before it.