Customer Reviews

Glass

5 star:		(1)
4 star:		(1)
3 star:		(0)
2 star:		(0)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

Well, I sat in front of the computer staring at the question, "How do you rate this item?" for quite a while before settling on four stars. I need to confess that it is impossible for me to accurately rate this book because I did not finish it. In fact, I didn't even get half way through. I only rated the book as highly as I did because I think the author is a good writer...emphasis on the words "I think".

This book was the most annoying book I've ever read, but maybe that was the point? The main character, who tells her story through a typewriter in her apartment, is the most tedious, type A, possibly mental person I've ever encountered in a book. So in that regard, the author was successful in his creation of such a grating, and genuinely irritating person. But my question is...why? I wouldn't want to spend 30 minutes next to this lady on a bus, so why would I want to devote more than a week reading about her every thought? And, yes, I do mean more than a week. I am a very fast reader, but I literally couldn't digest more than 15-20 pages of this book at a time. If you're into plot driven books, don't even bother. In the 90 pages I read, almost nothing happens. The book is driven by the daily stream-of-conscious thoughts of a lady who's husband has died, has left her job (without actually quitting), and who's big events of the day include going to the coffee shop or getting a knock on the door by the only other occupant of her apartment building.

My next paragraph will be an attempt to write in the style of this book:

"I am sitting at my keyboard for many minutes before continuing. By many minutes, I mean three minutes. I know because I looked at the clock as I was waiting. Which I suppose isn't "many" minutes, but really just a few. Because after all people say "a couple" for two, "a few" for three and "many" for anything over three, but not always. That's odd, I am thinking to myself, that sometimes "a few" means more than three, but there's no way to know for sure without asking. So if someone asks me to pick up a few oranges at the store, do they mean three or five? Not that anyone would ask me to pick up anything at the store at this point in my life, as I am living alone. I suppose it is possible that my neighbor could ask me to pick up oranges, though it is highly unlikely, as she does her own shopping and may not even like oranges."

If you think you could tolerate this type of writing for over 200 pages without having an aneurysm, then this book might be for you! I may try to finish this book in the future, since I still haven't decided if the author is a literary genius or if he has a complete disregard of the desires(and sanity) of the reader!

Reaction to "Glass"

A

-The past and how you resurrect it is darkness; the place where my mouth swallows the fist of your shadow.

B

Flicker, the strange electric light

Was it blue? It was warm I think and bubbling?

Humming more like a gentle vibrating motor.

A fish tank. A personal humidifier?

She stayed awake for me, my mum, out of necessity.

My mum gently humming, warm, enabling, strong and tired.

Cold, moist smoke from a kitchen step stool;

Her nose began to bleed so she went to bed.

I was alone again.

I managed through, slowly through the discomfort,

Pain, hurt, confusion, but the bubbling helped the pain,

It was blue. It was warm. It was mine.

The fish tank.

The humidifier was shared by all, but mostly it was my brother's.

Chris was often sick, ear problems, penicillin which led to bad teeth,

Yellow teeth for the rest of his life.

There was always yelling, which escalated to a pitch of nearly physical proportions,

Then soft sobs, hope, small gestures, more failing but at least I could begin to sleep.

I slept, finally, hard, damp and without dreams.

A

She who asked:

What happened to the umbrella?

Where did it go? I know every inch. Scratching at the door, but it was more of a push.

She was in there, dying and I did not know.

I knew something. It was cold. The whole thing, every inch was cold.

She heard me and managed to get up, but did she get up?

By the bathroom sink I waited.

With her I waited by the white, gas stove. There were spent matches in a small, clear Depression glass bowl.

How do I know it was Depression glass? It was glass with small, half round bumps on the underside. It fit in the palm of my hand. I think I played with it, until she put it back on the stove.

She made us tea. Warm, soft, light-brown and sweet. I might have eaten something?

I have the tea, but what else?

What happened to the umbrella?

She never hesitated to purchase more than one of anything.

One was never enough and things were forgotten. Is this as important as a dying relative?

What of a flat tire? Just call Triple A.

A busy highway, the umbrella? I think it was broke.

Now that I am gone, I know every inch.

Now that I am gone.

I am gone. I own every inch of it, the gone.

~ J.D. Szalla