Після хорошого фільму, знятого по книжці, завше виникає питання, чи точно варто читати книжку, бо можна мати до неї завищені очікування. А я відаю мало речей, що гірші за завищені очікування. Тому добре робити якісь такі маніпуляції фільм-книжка і зворотно - книжка-фільм лиш з позиції часу, коли пам'ять вже не тримає добре, що там в книжці чи фільмі діялося (звісно, якщо у вас така ж дірява пам'ять, як моя чи ви не єврей, якщо вірити Фоеру, що каже в "Все ясно", що пам'ять - це шосте відчуття у євреїв). Я слухав цю книжку двома мовами. Спершу польською, потім трохи українську, потім туди-сюди, як виходило. Першого разу перемкнувся на українську, бо здалося, що я чогось не розумію. Чи точно автор говорить саме це, коли пішла мова про Трохима, котрий заїхав в Брід. Колись я вже мав таку практику, коли перечитував книжку Стасюка українською, аби впевнитися, що все правильно розумію. Деколи такі стрибки дуже цікаві, бо мови стрибаєш між перекладами, а в цьому конкретному випадку - ще й між двома різними типами начиток. І манера оповіді в польського диктора перетворювала мені манеру письма, ведення оповіді Фоера подібною на тексти Андруховича. А коли я слухав українською, то здавалося, що це місцями ближче до Винничука, коли йшлося про оті минулі часи, про історію становлення Трохимброду. І отак я собі стрибав між мовами (і чому я не пошукав оригіналу, аби загнатися остатошно?) і ще між кимось третім, либонь, оповідачем із фільму, Алєксом (бо коли описувалася сучасність, то в польській версії бракувало тієї мовної мішанки, котра є в перекладі Семківа), то ніби ще більше розгортав оті тексти, котрі співтворили Фоер і Алєкс, і котрі твори творці фільму. І замість того, аби прояснюватися, аби в кінці міг сказати, що ну нарешті "Все ясно!", бо я ж це прослухав і продумав на стількох рівнях, що може й Фоеру таке не світило, то зрозумів, що ніц до холєри не ясно. And I think it's beatiful, бо яке до грома ясно в епоху blackouts?

If I haven't laid out my good-book-philosophy yet, then I'll do it here. It needs to be done some time, or else any reviews I write would be somewhat out of context. So, here goes:

To me, there are two main parts, or aspects, of a book. One is the story, and the other is the way it is written. When I say "story", I mean everything that happens in the book, as it would happen in real life (or some other life, in sci-fi), while the "way it is written" is, of course, the words that are chosen to describe these things and happenings, and their particular relationship with each other.

It is my [strong] opinion that any really good book not be lacking at all in the writing category, because a story by itself is just a campfire tale or a Jerry Bruckheimer production. I have a collection of old Irish short stories, and the early ones are all like this; they were made to be told, by a trained storyteller, to groups of people on cold winter evenings. Yeah, you hear about some interesting people and interesting things happen to them, but they're stuck in some sort of one-dimensional, ambiguity-free world. So, if the writing's no good, even the best story in the world will only earn three stars (case in point: Da Vinci Code, not even to imply it has the best story in the world, but it does have a good one.

Tilting the scales the other way, all I remember from the first time I
read Catcher in the Rye was that Holden got kicked out of school [again] and subsequently went home to New York and wandered around for a while. That's hardly a story, in the classical sense. Can you imagine telling the story of Holden Caulfied to a cabinful of people on a chilly January night? I can, and all the people would be asleep, or maybe they'd be gone, having a nip or vodka at someone else's house before tucking in. What I'm trying to say is that, even though there is a story in Catcher in the Rye, it's not an incredibly strong one. And yet it's the greatest book ever written (that I've read). Not once in J.D. Salinger's masterpiece do I find myself wanting to know what happens next, contrary to Dan Brown's perpetual "where's the GRAIL?!?" and any of the generally despicable "crime" genre, "who done it?". Salinger always lives in the moment, telling you what is happening without building it up into some sort of Rocky vs. Drago scene. That's good writing; I want to read it, not skip ahead to know the ending. That brings me to another point: if knowing the ending "ruins" a book, the book has bad writing. Salinger dedicates CITR to the "casual reader", if he exists (in 1955, presumably), because he reads when he has time, for enjoyment, and not to get to the end of the book. I was disappointed the second time I read CITR, last year, because it didn't just keep going. Salinger is perfect for casual readers, because nearly every page can be seen as a contextless example of good writing.

But enough talking up of Salinger [, who's a genius]. My next example
is Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Very good writing. But the story gets in the way. It's a shame, because I'd like to hear more about what the kid (I have forgotten his name) has to say about a lot more stuff. JSF keeps hanging that "to what lock does this key belong" question in front of us. And some of the interstitial/backstory chapters are slightly off the mark and distracting, sometimes because those stories were too complicated and I couldn't keep all of the characters straight.

But what he did wrong in Extremely Loud, his second novel, he somehow managed to get, spot on, in his first, Everything is Illuminated. This book changed my entire perspective of novels, because I was starting to believe that a "good" (i.e. exciting, mysterious, goal-oriented) story cannot be paired with good writing without overshadowing it. Nope, JSF existed in some parallel dimension where this pairing is possible when he wrote Everything is Illuminated. The most powerful character by far is the Ukrainian guide (I forgot his name, too), and somewhere between his interactions with the "hero" (named Jonathan Safran Foer; I remembered that one), the letters he writes later, and the observations he makes on every aspect of the story, are nothing short of amazing. And then JSF includes, in between "main plot" chapters and the guide's letters, a wonderfully surreal (and surreality is perhaps the best quality of JSF's writing, that I have seen so far) historical recount dating back some 200+ years, of which I never tired of reading.

Two observations that earn this book five stars: I enjoyed reading the book immensely without wanting to skip ahead, and at the end of the book my jaw was hanging open and I wanted to cry [just a bit]. Writing: check. Story: check. Do the writing and story play nicely with each other?: check.

Five stars.

As a final note, and not to take away from the unbelieveable
awesomeness of Everything is Illuminated, but I don't feel like
reading it again. I'm not surprised, because Catcher in the Rye is the
only book I've ever read more than once, but I have to think about why
I don't want to read Everything is Illuminated again, other than
simply wanting to read other books instead. I want to read Salinger
(any of them) over and over again. Let's just say that in a
Salinger-less world, JSF would be on top, but here in this world, this
is not the case.

Everything is Illuminated is awesome. Read it.

Brod "would never be happy and honest at the same time".

Dear Mr. Foer,
Your novel was so beautiful that it's hard to express my true feelings for it. Thank you. I was really moved by this book in so many ways. I feel much less alone in the world.

I am so conflicted by this book. There is at its core an interesting and moving story - actually two such stories. But it's hard not to feel that it's all so contrived - the whimsical structure, wavy heading text, constantly switching style and viewpoint, excessive use of italics and uppercase, endearing little side stories, fableist story-telling, larger than life characters (with sometimes grating idiosyncrasies), lucky coincidences - all of this trickery was laid on just a little too thick for my liking, and left me feeling a little wary of the thing the whole way through. But to leave it at that would be a little unfair: there is quite a good book in here. I imagine it could have been a lot more powerful if distilled to something told a little more simply, but then perhaps it would have lost some of its youthful flamboyant charm. To my surprise I'm giving it four stars, but only barely.

why can't you give a book ZERO or even NEGATIVE stars?

I don't care if I don't garner a lot of "helpful" reviews here... I just need to vent. JSF is nobody. I HATE his writing style and he doesn't get extra points for only being 25 when we published this. The story of Bume is lifted STRAIGHT out of the story of Remedious the Beauty from 100 Years of Solitude, and he even uses the same literary trick by naming everyone the same name (fortunately, they all have stupid nicknames). Man, what an awful book and I also hated the other one about 911, so it this brat makes you swoon, go for it... but I don't think he writes well, I don't think he is some sort of prodigy, i just think that he has a big thesaurus next to him and uses it too much! What a GAWD-awful book! Oh! And the rip off the the "Wild and Crazy Guys" that Steve Martin and Dan Ackroyd did 30 years ago ... they called... they want their characters back! Horrible, horrible horrible dreck, drivel, pabulum and horse-sh*t. I just cannot remember when a book made me SO angry and unhappy. And if you are a student and get assigned this book in school, I did find a groovy site called something like..."Everything is Illuminated for the student who has to write a paper on it" Don't waste your time reading this god awful piece of ripped off trash.

Essentially we’ve got two narratives here and three narrators. We’ve got two narrators telling the same story and another narrator writing a history. We’ve got magical realism, we’ve got the author himself writing a fictitious novel while also taking a backseat role in his own novel, we’ve got an unreliable narrator who doubles as a literary critic, we’ve got a novel within a novel within a novel, we’ve got a detective story and we’ve got a road novel. So, an ambitious venture.
The plot: a young American called Jonathan Safran Foer travels to the Ukraine with the photograph of the woman believed to have saved his grandfather from the Nazis and who he wants to find. He employs as guides and translators a supposedly blind ancient chauffeur with his guide-dog, and the driver's grandson, Alex, the translator. The village of Trachimbrod is their destination. So what we get is a magic realism history of Trachimbrod in the form of a novel Foer is writing, dating from 1791 to the arrival of the Nazis in 1941; an account of the road trip and letters from Alex to Jonathan about Foer’s novel and his own tribulations.

The Alex sections are brilliant. His second language English is high trapeze crazy and often laugh-out-loud funny thanks to his relentless use of a thesaurus to poeticise his vocabulary. (“"I fatigued the thesaurus you presented me, as you counseled me to, when my words appeared petite, or not befitting.") But it isn’t just a cheap comic trick and Alex soon becomes not only the most compelling character in the novel but also the most admirable. The history of Trachimbrond unfortunately is hit and miss. Foer letting his imaginative vitality and perhaps his vanity get the better of him. Because sometimes Foer just isn’t as funny as he so obviously finds himself. And because sometimes Foer’s relentless wackiness plummets into whimsy. And because sometimes his determination to create adorable characters waters down into the sentimentality he struggles so hard to avoid.

My first Foer.

Not sure if he's a genius or overrated or both. There are literary devices in here that made me roll my eyes on multiple occasions, for instance: 1) inserting the author, Jonathan Safran Foer, into the novel (and not like Alfred Hitchcock and Stan Lee have cameos in their movies; Jonathan is present in this book), 2) abandoning all grammar and sentence structure to stress that something horrifying and tragic is happening ( ...or that Foer is ready to end his novel), and 3) relying heavily on magical realism (I'm normally not a fan).

The above devices can reek of pretension in lesser hands, so until I decided which camp Foer's hands fell in, my hands were on the "abort" button multiple times while reading this.

But.

Some of the razzle dazzles used by Foer (the author of Everything is Illuminated, not the Foer in the novel) were way more successful. And the story is intriguing. One that definitely creeps up on you:

Jonathan travels to the Ukraine in search of a woman named Augustine who saved his grandfather from the Nazis during World War II. He enlists the help of Alex, the translator of a Ukrainian touring company. Accompanying the two are Alex's grandfather (the driver) and the grandfather's "seeing-eye bitch" Sammy Davis Junior, Junior. (A comedy, you most likely will presume? Ha!)

Shit goes down instead. And, as the title promises, everything is illuminated. (Except, everything actually wasn't for me. This book left me with a lot of unanswered questions. ...But in a good way; stay with me.)

Jonathan and Alex trade manuscripts after their journey. The novel is structured in the form of 1) letters (while we read Alex's letters to Jonathan, we never read any letters by Jonathan, only his manuscripts), and 2) the actual manuscripts. Alex's manuscript is more straightforward, and about their travels. Early on, it serves as the humor in the book. Jonathan's manuscript starts out very grandiose, covering the birth of his great, great, great, great, great (forget how many "greats," but there were a lot) grandmother Brod in the Jewish shtetl Trachimbrod, and is full of mysticism and symbolism.

Over the course of the novel, truths are revealed about both Jonathan and Alex's grandfathers. To say more verges on spoiler-territory.

I've covered both the plot and my frustrations above. Below are the strengths:

1: I like nonlinear stories, especially those centered around a life-altering event. This story has that going for it in spades. It feels like a mystery, and the author rewards you for paying attention, like you are solving a puzzle.

2. There are sections that read like John Irving (never a bad thing): tangents that show absurdity, but also humanity, thus making the tragic seem ridiculous. (Brod and the Kolker's love story, for instance, and lame-armed Safran--the grandfather, not Jonathan Safran Foer (...Jesus)--becoming a town gigolo of sorts.)

3) The character of Alex. Alex starts out a bit like Borat: funny, bad at English (hot damn does he love that thesaurus!), and hard to take seriously. However, the transformation of his writing and some of his insights to Jonathan were what made me keep reading.

Sometimes Alex's letters weren't as successful--like Foer was using them as a Cliff Notes of sorts, telling the reader what the author may or may not have been trying to accomplish, or even admitting when it was ok to be confused because Alex was confused, too--but ultimately, these letters were my favorite parts of the book. You got great insight into Jonathan, too, a most "premium person" and his unusual habits: his fear of dogs, his vegetarianism, and his anxiety.

4) When you view the novel as a whole, it's easier to tolerate--and even appreciate--some of Foer's devices. In my mind, the book is an homage to Foer's grandfather. When Alex and Jonathan learn truths about their respective grandfathers and then bicker about which version of the truth to tell (yep, there's some real Life of Pi shit going on in here), I saw the devices and structure as Foer--at the time, a first-time author--exploring the best way to write about his grandfather, and making those struggles a part of the novel. (Kind of like Charlie Kaufman trying to figure out how to adapt The Orchid Thief, and writing Adaptation instead.)

...did Foer even go to the Ukraine? I didn't look it up (yet). Was he inspired by real events experienced by his grandfather? I'm not sure, but it's what I'd like to think after reading this novel, and one of the reasons I was won over in the end. It's a story that will stay with me. A challenging read, both in subject matter and in structure... a bit of a mindfuck if I'm laying it all out there, but still very worthwhile.

614-ე ნაღველი ამ წიგნის დასრულებაა.

Reduce dalla mia seconda rilettura di ogni cosa è illuminata che ho terminato ieri notte alle 3 circa reduce da una bella serata , ma faceva decisamente troppo caldo e dormire era praticamente impossibile indi ho deciso di restare ancora un po in compagnia di Safran , Sammy Davis Junior junior , del nonno, ma sopratutto di Alex. Questo è un libro capitale per quante volte tu possa rileggerlo troverai sempre qualcosa di nuovo , puoi rileggerlo seguendo ogni volta un fil rouge diverso , e avrà sempre qualcosa di nuovo e di bello da dirti, potrei dire lo stesso di "Molto forte, incredibilmente vicino" Ma questo ha qualcosa di speciale che quello non ha per me , pur essendo superlativo. Foer sa usare le parole in maniera strabiliante, è in grado di farti "sentire" qualsiasi cosa solo usando un pezzo di carta imbrattato di inchiostro , ma ogni cosa è illuminata va oltre... La storia non è poi tutto questo granché un ricco ebreo decide di partire alla volta dell' Ucraina per cercare di trovare la donna che salvò suo nonno dai nazisti e viene accompagnato in questo viaggio da Alex (il suo traduttore ) da suo nonno e dalla sua cagnetta Sammy Davis junior junior , e i quattro vanno allegramente gironzolando per l' Ucraina (beh mica tanto allegramente poi ) niente di così particolare quindi , ma attenti avete sottovalutato il potere della penna di Foer... Mano a mano che la ricerca va avanti le acque da torbide che sono ( come quelle del Brod all' inizio ) si fanno sempre più chiare , e scopri che tali sono sempre state , e tutto era esattamente davanti ai tuoi occhi , ogni cosa è illuminata appunto, e sono state confuse proprio perché alla fine tu te ne rendessi conto quando leggi questo libro , il viaggio non è solo di Safran , ma è anche il tuo , perché alla fine c' è sempre infinitamente tanto da scoprire su se stessi ...
Inutile che io continui a sproloquiare, indi inforcate il libro e dimenticatevi di avere braccia e mani che lo reggono , fatevi sommergere. GO READ!!!

Mixed feelings about this novel. Overall, I liked it and would recommend it to any fan of literary fiction, Jewish history, history in general, and genealogy. It's very different from the film, which slices out at least one-half of the novel: the backstory. The film is a well-done "road movie" set in the Ukraine and following the three main characters, Alex, Alex's grandfather Sasha, and Jonathan, as they search for the elusive town of Trachimbrod. The novel, however, is less focused on the interaction among these three characters and their actual voyage. It jumps back and forth between the present day (post-search), told in letters between Alex and Jonathan, and the 1700s, leading up to the early 1940s, when the town's people were destroyed by Nazis.

The most captivating character, in my opinion, was Alex. The letters he writes to Jonathan in his just-learning-English style are hilarious, insightful, heartbreaking. I adored him. Unfortunately, he is only present in about one-third of the novel. There were times when I was incredibly annoyed to have to leave the present day and continue with the 1700s backstory, which was just not as interesting. Much of the backstory seemed to rely on characters who were outlandishly quirky, but not in genuine or endearing ways, and Safran's endless sex scenes began to bore me and trivialize the rest of the story. I wanted the novel to focus on the three main characters, their enlightenment/illumination, and their relationship.

But still, it's a great book and it deserves its accolades.

Опитвам се да отсея какво точно ми хареса в книгата, но онова, което не ми хареса, изглежда е доста повече. Измъчих се през първите стотина страници, докато свикна с разваления английски на единия от героите, после се увлякох със завръзката на историята и тотално се отегчих в последните стотина страници. Този роман би могъл да бъде и нещо много по-добро. А може би не... Защото се базира на истинския опит на автора да открие спасителите, помогнали на дядо му да оцелее в Холокоста, заради което посещава и Украйна, но на практика там не открива нищо. И си измисля фикция, изпъстрена с толкова много опити за оригиналничене, с толкова излишни порнографски сцени (повечето с участието на хора в смущаваща възраст), които не носят никаква добавена стойност към историята, с толкова зарязани и изоставени сюжетни нишки, че финалът (той пък е един финал...) носи истинско облекчение.

Everything Is Illuminated is one of the most focused books I’ve read. It doesn’t meander inappropriately, and there’s almost no excess. Seriously, this book’s got less fat than Christian Bale in The Machinist. It's either in full-on comedy mode, full-on fanciful mode, full-on drama mode, or some well-balanced combination of the three. Foer spent years editing the novel from his initial college thesis draft, and it shows—in a good way. There's no lag, and given some of the other books I was reading at the time (e.g. The Recognitions), this leanness and pacing were very welcome.

Moreover, I don’t think I’ve ever been so off-base with my preconceptions of a book. I’d somehow come to the conclusion that the controversy surrounding Foer was due to his pretentiousness, and I was prepared for something in-your-face erudite, clever, showy, and snarky (since I’d heard it was funny) with his first effort. This probably sounds idiotic for those of you familiar with Foer’s work, but that’s what I was expecting. The only question for me was: would he be able to use his pretentiousness in a way that I’d find enjoyable? But as I got into the book, what I found was one of the least pretentious literary novels I’ve ever read. And perhaps this puts the backlash that this guy’s received into a whole new light, although I don’t want to get into that right now. I’d rather talk about what Foer does (and does very well) in Everything Is Illuminated.

First, the humor. This book is funny, but not in the way I was expecting (Foer’s basically anti-snarky). And it’s with his comedy style that he probably makes most of his enemies. Instead of taking one of the modern American approaches to humor*, Foer utilizes the type of slapstick that ruled comedic cinema over 60 years ago and has more or less disappeared from popular culture. Bold, bold move. And one that I, as a long-time Abbot and Costello fan, happen to love. I’ve watched each Abbot and Costello movie between 3 and 25 times, and while I think their routines are brilliant, I’m also aware that the majority of Americans under 40 would likely yawn or cringe through many of them. It’s just a different style, full of classic gags sans sarcasm or irony, and one where any constraints of realism are given the boot while the routine is in progress—just like in Everything Is Illuminated. From Alex’s ludicrously over-the-top English, where Foer nabs Wallace’s gag of incorrectly substituting difficult words for easy ones, to the hero’s inconvenient vegetarianism; from the absurd dog behavior to the classic mistranslation humor reminiscent of the Pequod’s encounter with the French Rose-Bud, Foer never wastes an opportunity to inject an episode of hilarity. And to be honest, he’s not always successful. But when it works, and if you’re susceptible to this style of humor, you will laugh out loud.

I can’t think of another book that blends this kind of extreme comedy with fanciful melancholy so well (or even at all). The initially hidden sadness builds (in both the present-day storyline and the 18th-century through WWII storyline) to a dramatic moment that didn’t quite have the impact on me that Foer reaches for and that others have experienced. I’m not especially disappointed about this, although I am stuck knowing that I didn’t experience the emotional tidal wave that this book is capable of unleashing. But you might.



*Here I must rely on an excerpt from David Foster Wallace’s essay on Kafka’s humor: There's no recursive word-play or verbal stunt-pilotry, little in the way of wisecracks or mordant lampoon. There is no body-function humor in Kafka, nor sexual entendre, nor stylized attempts to rebel by offending convention. No Pynchonian slapstick with banana peels or rapacious adenoids. No Rothish satyriasis or Barthish metaparody or arch Woody-Allenish kvetching. There are none of the ba-bing ba-bang reversals of modern sit-coms; nor are there precocious children or profane grandparents or cynically insurgent co-workers. Ok, so there’s some word-play and maybe ‘Pynchonian slapstick’ could describe a few scenes in Everything is Illuminated, but since when was Thomas Pynchon’s sense-of-humor considered part of ‘contemporary U.S. amusement’?