Some Flann O’Brien

 I’ve read three novels by Flann O’Brien, each multiple times. At Swim Two Birds shows an extravagant imagination, as well as the influence of James Joyce. I shall read it once again. It is a power of writing but almost too much so.

The Dalkey Archives nearly seems ordinary compared to its mates. It is fun and silly and surely shows O’Brien’s gift. Maybe he has tempered his wildness for readership’s sake. 

The Third Policeman never met publication in his lifetime. Possibly Dalkey tried to answer that. I find The Third Policeman brims with wonders. It is dark, extravagant, humourous, eerie, strange, folksy, and furtherly described by adjectives, including unsettling, and more. O’Brien presents some wild ideas. One such is the Atomic Theory, which explains how people can become bicycles by the trading of molecules during bumptious rides. I don’t read with scholarly might but I enjoy the breadth and wonder of singular works. Those are the sort that O’Brien wrote. He should be read breathlessly.

The Idiot by F. Dostoevsky

 

I am reading *The Idiot* by Dostoevsky. Doing so on a tablet, I didn’t grasp how long it is. That I remain vague about the book’s length disconcerts me. That the pagination changes according to the orientation of the tablet leaves me a trifle wobbly. That the novel is part of a collection of D’s work leaves me unsure where I am. However, read I do.

I have read and appreciated *Crime and Punishment *. *The Brother Karamazov * is another matter, having thwarted me twice so far. I never caught a sense of its trail so the collection of irritated characters just kind of stand there for me. I feel similarly about the characters in *The Idiot* but at least I perceive plot machination or manifestations. The prince and Natasha will dance somehow, and maybe Aglaya.

I am less than keen about characters as directed forces. I see a molecular way the characters bounce against each that creates the plot. The random acts create intention. Acts and consequences will happen in the next—good lord!—several (I think) thousand of pages left. I wouldn’t bother reading on but that Dostoevsky makes the effort worthy. At least to the degree that he has a keen eye and an unexpected sly humour. You can wish me luck in this endeavor, I may not be equal to the effort needed. I still have a bio of Rasputin to return to.