Eszembe jutott Füst Milán naplójának egy része. Osvát mondja egy regényéről (Szakadék), hogy ezért és ezért „nem hiszi el”. Meg aztán mond róla ott Kassák meg Illyés meg mások is ezt-azt. Ezek egy része illik erre a regényre, mások meg nem, de abban biztos vagyok, hogy ezt az írást darabokra szedték volna.

A Sophie választ előtt jó tíz évvel írta. Ha úgy esik, ezt olvasom előbb, nem veszem kézbe a Sophie-t – ha mégis, lehet, leteszem, mert – érzésem szerint – ami abban „nem jó”, ami abban zavart, az töményen van meg ebben.

Mégis, ez egy vasokos kötet, 37 ív, és én elolvastam. Pedig könnyen teszek félre könyveket. Tetszik, ahogy Styron ír, és tetszik Bartos fordítása.

És mégis-mégis. Először is, van egy mesélőm, aki egy darabig a központi alak, annyira az, hogy azt hittem, ő a központi alak. De aztán elkezd valaki mesélni egy másik alakról, annyit mesél róla ő is és a mesélő, hogy azt hittem, az a központi alak. Aztán meg már minden a mesélőnek mesélőről szól, úgyhogy talán mégis ő a központi alak – hát, itt mintha szétfolyt volna valami. Ráadásul egyes jelenetekről nem tudtam, ki is meséli, az első számú mesélő nem mesélhette, mert nem tudhatott róla ilyen részletességgel, legfeljebb „irodalmi igényű rekonstrukciót” végezhetett volna, de hát nem jelzi, hogy azt végzett, akkor meg ez valami posztmodern humor vagy egy mindentudó narrátor megjelenése – de ezeket sem jelzi Styron. Aztán meg: a szereplők mániákusan önanalizálnak, amivel magában semmi baj – csakhogy nekem már ez olyan mennyiség, hogy nem egyszerűen szétviszi a történetet, hanem leválik arról, felbillen a mérleg, mintha a történések egy-egy analízishez lennének rendelve. Ebben különösen zavaró egy sokadik alak belépése, aki szintén, mintegy bónuszként elemzi nekünk az életét – és ez azt a gyanút ébreszti bennem, hogy Styron számára a vaskos hatáskeltés volt a lényeges, valami robosztus dramaturgiai, történetbeli vagy pszichológia csattanóhoz jutni. Ez pedig ebben a töménységben: giccs.

(Azt hiszem, Styron egy igazi nagyregényt akart írni. Belegondolva: ha három részre bontja, három központi alakkal trilógiát csinál – szerintem jobban járt volna. Szerintem; sacc.)

De, mondom, elolvastam, és élveztem is mindezek ellenére, és aki ártatlanul fejest ugrik a könyvbe, az, mindvégig megőrizve ártatlanságát, élvezni fogja. A Molyon 3,5 csillagra tenném.

A great deal of philosophical discussion concerning good, evil, and God's Grace set in post-WWII Italy.

This was a time when the country was trying to recover from the ravages of war and people were grappling with the fundamental questions of life.

The prose that emerged during this period was often beautiful, with writers exploring the depths of human nature and the meaning of existence.

However, there was perhaps far too much of it.

Some of the discussions became overly theoretical and abstract, losing touch with the real experiences of the people.

Nevertheless, the philosophical ideas that were debated during this time had a profound impact on Italian culture and continue to be relevant today.

They serve as a reminder of the importance of grappling with the big questions of life and seeking answers in a world that can often seem chaotic and unpredictable.

This is one of those books that brings a great sense of relief once you manage to get it completed.

The author seems to have an inclination towards using an excessive amount of words. What could have been effectively conveyed in approximately half a page is stretched out over three pages.

Every single detail is described in an overly flowery and verbose language, which often leads to numerous rabbit trails.

I usually have a difficult time not seeing a book through to the end, but this particular one very nearly ended up being shelved shortly after I started it.

Thankfully, I pushed myself to continue, and it did have an interesting plot. However, I am truly glad that it is finally over.

It's not that the story was bad per se, but the writing style made it a bit of a struggle to get through.

Perhaps if the author had been more concise and to the point, the reading experience would have been more enjoyable.

Nevertheless, I can now move on to other books with a sense of accomplishment for having finished this one.

Hmmm... sophomore slump? This book, while not as outstanding as Styron's remarkable debut novel, Lie Down in Darkness*, does possess some interesting aspects.

Firstly, it delves into themes such as writers, drunkenness, artistic blockades, and expatriate escapism. If one has an inclination towards these topics (ahem), they might find themselves marking multiple page corners or, in the case of having to obtain the book through a digital e-library due to being in China and unable to locate a hard copy, highlighting numerous passages in their kindle-for-PC. Not that one is particularly proud of having to resort to this method.

Moreover, the book essentially serves as a free Italian lesson, and some of us (ahem) are quite fond of that sort of thing as well. In fact, I was on the verge of recommending the book solely on this basis as a means to learn a bit of Italian without the effort of attending language classes. However, then I reached the in-defense-of-the-orgy scene and suddenly became hesitant about recommending the book to anyone, fearing what they might assume I was advocating.

Anyway, the book is filled with paragraphs that clearly showcase Styron's rants, deep dark secrets, recollections, and theories. While I have no issue with this, I do think he could have made at least a modicum of effort to ensure that these elements actually functioned as a novel. As it stands, it bears a closer resemblance to, say, Daniel Quinn's Ishmael: it presents a plethora of great ideas to ponder, but one has to constantly remind oneself that a man is conversing with a gorilla. In the latter half of Set This House on Fire, pages upon pages pass by, and one suddenly realizes that this is supposed to be one guy talking to his friend about an experience they shared years ago, yet the other guy hasn't uttered a word for, like, an hour. I mean, I have really engaging friends too, but still: a conversation does require the participation of two people.

And yet, I am in no way deterred, and I know I will read more of Styron's works, despite the fact that this one was rather strange and, in some ways, less of a novel and more of a manifesto.

*Lie Down in Darkness was my top choice in my original A-to-Z literary blog project: Styron, under the letter S, was my favorite among the 26 new-to-me authors I read in that round. Along with 12 others, he advanced to the next round, my A-to-Z top half authors, in which I read one more book from each of the 13 authors whose works I liked the most the first time around.

At times gorgeous but mostly unbearable

It's truly a pity, considering how excellent "Lie Down in Darkness" could have been. The initial third of the novel, before the perspective shifts to Cass, is quite enjoyable. The sequences related to the movie set, Wendy Flagg, Mason's war record and his collections, the sex people, and the week in New York are thrilling, nuanced, and at times, uproariously funny. However, while there are beautiful moments every few pages, there is also a significant amount of casual racism, homophobia, and misogyny. Moreover, if a thought can be expressed in two sentences, it is often stretched to six. This problem worsens when Cass takes over the narrative. Reading about someone being drunk is about as interesting as hearing about someone's dream. They may be revealing, but of the dullest and most mundane aspects that we rightfully keep hidden. Any conversation Cass is involved in drags on endlessly, with his conversation partners constantly having to redirect him or prompt him just to break up the monologue into something more manageable. I found myself skipping paragraphs without feeling like I was missing anything. The narrative tightens up as Mason returns, but by that point, my reading experience was as doomed as his, and I found myself envious of the release he finds through Cass and that convenient rock.

This is a highly melodramatic tale that is set in post-World War II Italy. The writing in certain parts is truly great, with beautiful descriptions and engaging prose. However, as the story progresses, the archetypal love triangle and the incessant descriptions of drunkenness start to become tiresome. It feels as if these elements are being overused and begin to grate on the reader after a while.

For those who are interested in a similar setting and storyline but want something with more real verve and energy, it is recommended to read John Hawkes' The Blood Oranges. This novel offers a fresh take on the same themes and setting, with a more engaging and dynamic narrative.

Overall, while this story has its moments of great writing, the overuse of certain elements detracts from the overall experience. It is a decent read, but not one that will leave a lasting impression.

This book was truly exhausting.

It took me months to plow through it. As a reader, I constantly struggled to gain any momentum or find a consistent rhythm.

I really didn't have the slightest inclination to make time to read it, not until I reached the last quarter of the book.

It was, so to speak, the anti-page-turner. But there was something in me that just couldn't abide starting a book and leaving it unfinished.

Many times I seriously considered moving on and putting it down, but I persevered, and in the end, I'm glad I did.

I'm not one to skim much either, but with this hefty tome, I found myself skimming through pages just to get to the plot points, events, and dialog - especially as I passed the halfway mark.

It's not that the writing is bad; in fact, quite the contrary, it's really quite good.

The problem is that there is just so little happening in this book. Yes, there were several scenes that were gut-wrenching and highly captivating.

Many descriptions of events left me satisfied and hungry for more, but they were far too few and far between the ramblings that should have been edited out.

It was a decent mystery, set against a foreign and historical backdrop, and I did develop some feelings for the characters towards the end.

Slowly but surely, I churned through it, eagerly anticipating the arrival of the last page and the resolution of the story.

It's a fairly depressing read, deep and dark, which I don't mind too much. The main character, Cass Kinsolving, is an alcoholic, and it was tough reading about his life of repeated debauchery and self-destruction.

I don't have a problem with the theme of alcoholism, but in this book, due to the length of the read, the slowness of the plot, and the small cast of characters, it just seemed to be ever-present.

It became more of a burden to the reader than an important character attribute seamlessly woven into the plot. And in the end, there isn't much redemption; just a stark climax of human corruption and brokenness - pretty much everyone loses in this one.

I won't be reading this beast again, and I wouldn't recommend it to most people. I'm just glad it's over. However, I will read another Styron, strange as that may sound, and hope that his other works received more attention from the editors.

Even with all the criticism, I am always grateful for the introduction to a new author.

\\\\\\\\MikeSpike

William Styron has masterfully created an electrifying and profoundly unsettling novel that delves into the themes of rape, murder, and suicide. It is a work that showcases a Dostoevskian level of insight into the terrifying allure and persuasiveness of evil, as noted by The New York Times Book Review.

The initial part of the novel is truly brilliant writing. Styron's prose is engaging, and he manages to draw the reader in with his vivid descriptions and complex characters.

However, as the novel progresses, it unfortunately descends into an incredibly dull and monotonous monologue. The pacing slows to a crawl, and the story loses its momentum. It becomes absolutely unreadable, to the point where I simply couldn't force myself to finish the book. It's a shame, as the beginning held so much promise.

Overall, while the first part of the novel is outstanding, the latter part fails to deliver and leaves the reader feeling disappointed.

I didn't finish it. I got to 70% (Kindle edition) and although it really annoys me to give up on books almost at the end, I gave in. The book was pleasant until the narration of the key episode of the book, then the writer decides to take a leap into the past life of one of the two characters involved in the episode. It becomes an autobiography of a drunken painter, alternated with time jumps. A crazy bore.

This book started off quite well, with an engaging storyline and interesting characters. However, as I got further into it, the narrative took a strange turn. The introduction of the past events of one of the characters seemed out of place and disrupted the flow of the story. Instead of continuing to build on the momentum of the key episode, the author chose to focus on this character's personal history, which felt like a detour.

The alternating time jumps also made it difficult to follow the story at times. I found myself losing interest and getting bored with the constant shifts in time and perspective. While I appreciate the author's attempt to add depth and complexity to the characters, this particular approach just didn't work for me. In the end, I decided to stop reading and move on to something else.

I did not have any affinity for this book.

As a modern reader, the sexism and racism within its pages are truly difficult to stomach and assimilate. It feels like a real uphill battle to get through it. I was on the verge of giving up, but my curiosity about what would unfold next kept me going. Also, I didn't have any other book queued up to read at that moment.

I guess Cass's alcoholism seems somewhat believable, with his blackouts, dream world, and mental illness. But it gets a bit repetitive after a while. I understood it the first time - he drinks, blacks out, and becomes awful. And yes, he does it so frequently and severely that one can believe he could carry out the terrible deeds he does. But seriously, is this supposed to be some kind of Crime and Punishment-esque scenario?

Every single character in this book is just abysmal. Perhaps Peters' father is the only one who shows any integrity. So, is this book really just about the hopeless and unending suffering of being alive?

I'll give it 3 stars solely for the fact that the sentences are strung together in a somewhat coherent manner.

This is a story that is told in a very good way. It is interesting and engaging, which can attract the readers' attention. However, it doesn't have the kind of impact that can cut to your core like Nat Turner and perhaps Sophie's Choice.

Nat Turner is a powerful and thought-provoking work that explores deep themes and emotions. Sophie's Choice is also a classic that touches on the most difficult and heart-wrenching decisions.

Compared to these masterpieces, the story we are discussing here seems a bit lacking. The writer clearly has talent, but they deserve a more ambitious story to truly showcase their abilities.

A more ambitious story would allow the writer to delve deeper into the characters, explore more complex themes, and create a more lasting impact on the readers. It would give the writer the opportunity to take risks and push the boundaries of their creativity.

Overall, while the current story is enjoyable, it has the potential to be so much more if the writer were to take on a more ambitious project.

What can I truly say about William Styron's work? Well, it's undeniable that he had an incredibly remarkable command of the language. His ability to string words together was truly something to behold.

However, his writing style, in my opinion, could be described as purple prose and rather meandering. It felt as if I really had to wade my way through this particular piece with great effort.

I found myself getting rather tired of continuously reading about Cass's dts. I had this urge to just reach into the pages and shake him, telling him to dry out and stop being such a drunken jerk.

Forgive me for my perhaps harsh words. But you see, I've lived with alcoholics throughout all of my adult life. And having witnessed their downward spiral and self-destruction up close, I just don't see anything captivating or glamorous about their so-called roads to ruin. It's a painful and often tragic reality that I've become all too familiar with.

Styron's work, while having its merits in terms of language, just didn't quite resonate with me on a deeper level due to these aspects.