In the lengthy process of reading this book, I contemplated the question of when one reads their longest book? I always envisioned it in my head that it would be before 25, forced at university or in the lost years thereafter. Not me man. I wait until you decide to include a four-part Egyptian epic as one of your favourite books written between 1939-1984. I decided about halfway through that I might need to just put this book as the best because I was so proud of my achievement in completing it, kind of like many contemporary film critics still insist that Birth of a Nation is a must-see simply because they managed to stay awake during its tedious 3 hour duration.
Then I realised the problematic technicality that, while you may be to count it as one novel, the title seems to clearly indicate that it is actually 4 books. 4 books with wussy 200 page lengths. Waaahhh. Damn you, Burgess!
By the time I got to Cleo, the fourth book in the quartet, my keenness to embrace the series of books had faded significantly. If Justine was fun, and Balthazar the best and most innovative of the books, playing like a 200 page twist on what Justine revolved around, Mountolive and Cleo were slightly ridiculous soap operas where characters died or did irrational things that felt slightly out of character. I stopped caring and did not really feel that Cleo provided any more of a conclusion than any of the other books.
It has some neat concepts of what truth and reality are and I don't mean to be dismissive of how this might be significant among literature circles, but again Mr. Burgess, I'm too much of a dummy to be able to appreciate this enough that I just keep thinking he might have been able to do the same in about half the time. I just wonder whether by spinning the truth so many times over 4 books it kind of overdoes it- this may have been impressive in your time, but I understood it and eventually got bored with the concept that the narrator gets stuff wrong.
One of my fascinations creeping in has been the idea of how few of these books have been turned into films, and so far it's pretty clear it's because you seem to favour books with a unique literature sensibility, things that cannot be translated onto the screen. An even bigger fascination is seeing the dreadful attempts to try to make films of these books. And when I say seeing, I mean ignoring. Look at this heap of garbage:
While I'm sorry to report that, despite my pride in reading such a long book, I was a little disappointed- I will say that this film is not indicative of the book at all. I can't even imagine any of the characters in the book fitting into a film.
Anyways Mr. Burgess, I might write a sequel to this review where everything I have said turns out to be untrue maaaaaaaannnnnn. Melt your brains with my uber-sophistication.
Until then though, I'm putting a second-rate Huxley novel above it. Controversial, I know. Am sure the Lawrence Durrell society will come round and beat me soon.
Regards,
A faithful reader
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