Customer Reviews

The Atlas

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4 star:		(3)
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2 star:		(1)
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The prose of this novel is stark, as is the view of the world presented though the eyes of characters who all seem to be lost travellers--in both a physical and a spiritual sense. The observations of the grim and unpleasant aspects of the physical conditions of life as well as the un-human ways that people treat each other risks total alienation of the reader. But if you're willing to step outside of your ordinary expectations as to the representation of emotion in a novel, then these strange tales come alive. The book presents a dark surface and shows much of what is worst in life, but manages to be an affirmation of our attempts to strive for beauty rather than a condemnation of our failures.

Vollmann has almost written the perfect book. He falls short by presenting only singularities and anecdotes regarding his travels. If he had included historical frameworks, or traced the interactions he had, a la Robert Kaplan, to a historical framework that informs the present, the reader would walk away with more. He has balls to travel in some of the places that he has. He allows the reader to step into situations that he or she might find prohibitvely dangerous. He has a sensitive eye to present the hardships of the land of the people in a way that is beautiful and tragic. One of the most disturbing vingettes was a trip in Northern Canada where he saw a hitch hiker being consumed by mosquitoes; she was flailing around going mad. The Bosnia scenes and many of the San Francisco scenes are also memorable. I live in the neighborhood, Mission District, where some of his vingettes take place. I have to say I can certainly see the underside of the city that he is talking about.
Note, this is not a novel. It is more of a travel journal of dissociated experiences and visions. It is a history of the everyday.

Why do I like Vollmann? Because he never judges a person. Whereas everybody and their friggin uncle are judging him all the time. I admire the writer who can say what he has to say and stand by those words. I've seen Vollmann on book tour twice here in Chicago. The first was for Butterfly Stories and the second was for The Atlas. When he asked the small crowd of students at Northwestern University who had read the Atlas, I raised my hand and told him that the Rifles was a better book. Some of the students snickered and Vollmann replied "Well that's a good book to." Honestly it took several readings of the Atlas to finally appreciate it. My favorite stories are the African and Canadian stories. Read this one while you're traveling alone. (Alex Sydorenko, July 1999, Chicago)

Why do I like Vollmann? Because he never judges a person. Whereas everybody and their friggin uncle are judging him all the time. I admire the writer who can say what he has to say and stand by those words. I've seen Vollmann on book tour twice here in Chicago. The first was for Butterfly Stories and the second was for The Atlas. When he asked the small crowd of students at Northwestern University who had read the Atlas, I raised my hand and told him that the Rifles was a better book. Some of the students snickered and Vollmann replied "Well that's a good book to." Honestly it took several readings of the Atlas to finally appreciate it. My favorite stories are the African and Canadian stories. Read this one while you're traveling alone. (Alex Sydorenko, July 1999, Chicago)

William T. Vollmann's The Atlas is a collection of short stories wrapped around themes of search and loneliness. With a rare breadth of life experience and interests, Vollmann writes prose that is protean (which will be found inconsistent by some readers, and charmingly diverse by others), lucid and multi-rhythmic. His young male protagonists seem related, but not identical. Some, like the victim of Chetnik shelling in Bosnia, are auto-biographical, and others seem far removed from him. No other living writer combines the polymath passion of Melville or Pynchon with the sensory decscriptiveness of Iris Murdoch. The results aren't always brilliant, but the overall effect is breathtaking. A very good read.

I have heard for many long months in 1995 that "the book event" of the year was coming my way. I was sent many pretentious postcards. The real event as far as I'm concerned was by a familiar name: The Atlas by William Vollmann may have been the book those people were talking about all along. Let the idiots who never read equate length with importance, as they flounder in their non-experiential innerspace, there is not a writer out there who can write as luscious sentences as Vollmann can! This can not be denied. The Atlas, his tenth book, takes us all over the world. Vollmann concentrates this time on the form of the prose poem. And you know what? He is definitely a master of the genre. I have dipped into this book many times in my red velvet smoking jacket while drinking a bourbon.

These characters are so real and Vollmann's sentences vibrate with a sort of uncanny brilliance, that I am changed every time I read these lines. Some of the characters appear in previous books: Brandi the whore still lurks in the Mission, the journalist and the photographer from Butterfly Stories, while other stories take place in Canada, Sarajevo, and Burma. These stories are sad and funny, and continue to provoke and disturb. In "No Reason To Cry" Vollmann offers this jewel: "A case can be made that if a girl is going to get AIDS there is no reason to cry while she is getting it."

Vollmann is a major American writer.

I'd been looking forward to reading Vollman since I have enjoyed writers he's often compared with, like Thomas Pynchon, David Foster Wallace, and Richard Powers. I still think the early American cycle sounds interesting and challenging, and I won't give up on him.

But there is nothing in this book to justify the praise being heaped on him. The stories cover a territory which few of us, even the very well-travelled, ever see. Likewise the characters are people few of us will meet and most of us would prefer not to meet. Even the narrator of the stories often seems hopelessly lost and debased. It begins with a forward clearly intended to be self-deprecating but ludicrously pretentious nonetheless. This is an appropriate introduction to the book since the prose throughout is some of the most self-consciously avant-garde clumsy prose this side of an undergraduate creative writing class.

Some reviewers seem to have the impression that all 51 pieces were carefully crafted and arranged for maximum effect--I hope if that were true he would have done a better job. ... This book shows none of the amazing control of language demonstrated by the authors Vollman is compared to. It's just a bunch of adjectives, mostly primary colors, strung together in long stream-of-consciousness sentences.

Pynchon and Powers and Wallace often seem to be saying "Look how much smarter I am than you" and while reading them I often think "OK Already, I get it, you're smarter...". With Vollman you just want to say "OK, I get it, you're better travelled than I am.

Reading the Atlas is like reading a book-length series of Granta travel articles, with the fascinating subject matter buried under frequently ham-handed self-consciously arty prose. Vollman may be a genius, but the evidence isn't here. If this is a smart and rigorous writer, he hasn't demonstrated it in this book.

"The Atlas" is very unique in the way it is written. It strikes me as being a combination of diary, prose, and an empathetic statement about a seedy side of life all over the world.

I never read anything like it before, and it was very interesting, and the elaborate descriptions Vollman made brought me into a very dark world. Most of the characters had many rough edges to them, but still projected compassion. The series of stories tied together by the seedy environments,consistent writing style, and compassion .

I picked up this book when I was feeling down, and it picked up my mood.Other than that, it was damn good writing.

William Vollmann is not only a living master of the English language canon, he is one of my very favourite authors, personally. When I try to put into words my feelings on this trim, palindromic thing of beauty, I always initially feel as though I were plastered against a sheer rock face. With a crayon, I imagine I have to scribble down my tiny thoughts, judge a collection of stories more honed and polished and moving and perfect than anything I write will ever be. I never feel worthy of the task, but the other beauty of Vollmann is that his work seems to suffer under no pretense... -he- doesn't make me feel ignorant and unwashed and unworthy. I just prostrate myself before any writer skilled enough to make great literature slide into the reading mind like silk.

Yes, his stories are sometimes bleak, and they are not for everyone. Anyone unsettled by an author who pulls no punches and shirks no vital detail, no matter how disturbing, need not look here. But if you can stand up and look out at Vollmann's snapshots of this incredible world, I can promise you that it will never look exactly the same to you again.

Well, now that I've gotten all the big adjectives out of the way (my reply to that 80's scourge, minimalism), I should say that right after starting this book I felt that Vollmann was my brother. His word choices, prose rhythms, and searing honesty make you connect with him instantly. Despite his modern ambivalence toward the people and even experiences in his life, he is more deeply and immediately expressive than any 90's writer I know. His stories, vignettes, sketches and dispatches encircle you like a rich, sometimes suffocating, always exhilarating corona.

Gradually, by yearning, loving, striving, hating, losing and discovering along with Vollmann and his characters, you begin the see the world through his eyes. And, perhaps, more clearly than ever before.