Customer Reviews

Wittgenstein's Mistress (Reissue)

5 star:		(12)
4 star:		(10)
3 star:		(2)
2 star:		(2)
1 star:		(9)

 

 

"Wittgenstein's Mistress" is a complex novel of simple sentences in short paragraphs describing thoughts that are all over the maps of history, the arts and the world itself. Presumably, the novel's structure is inspired by Wittgenstein's "Tractatus," a series of short propositions, sub-propositions, sub-sub etc. presented in a logical sequence culminating in the final proposition, "What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence." Similarly, the narrator of "Wittgenstein's Mistress," a one-time artist who has come to believe she is completely alone in the world, presents a series of short descriptions of whatever pops into her head as she's typing. Places, people, works of art, episodes of history give rise to anecdotes, apocrypha and tid-bits about other places, people, etc -often inaccurate but always illuminating both our world and hers.

The narrator forms this jumble of information into innumerable weirdly wonderful, laugh-out-loud syntheses. For example, a story that Rembrandt's students painted on his studio's floor images of gold coins, which Rembrandt would stoop to pick up no matter how often the trick was repeated, leads to the recollection that Rembrandt eventually had to declare financial bankruptcy. The narrator then combines these two anecdotes with the fact that Rembrandt lived in Amsterdam as a contemporary of the philosopher Spinoza to produce an imagined conversation between the two famous men in a corner shop. " `Oh, hi, Rembrandt. How's the bankruptcy?' `Fine, Spinoza. How's the excommunication?' "

Sprinkled among these fractured observations are obscure hints as to how and why the narrator has reached the point of what can only be madness. As the insights into her personal history increase in the final pages of the book, a repetitious list of seemingly haphazard commentaries on largely external matters becomes ever more personal. By the time it concludes with its four beautifully poetic lines, the book has created a deep, disquieting pathos made all the more poignant by the narrator's immersion in a world that is a kind of embodiment of Wittgenstein's final proposition.

Like the narrators of "Flaubert's Parrot" (by Julian Barnes) and "Waterland" (by Graham Swift), the narrator of "Wittgenstein's Mistress" takes refuge in a world of facts--in her case cultural scattershot versus the meticulous biographical fact of "Flaubert's Parrot" and local historical fact of "Waterland"--to avoid confronting a terrible personal tragedy. That this novel addresses such a theme with even more originality and craft than those two excellent books makes this a truly magnificent piece of literature.

When I found myself describing to my friends the beguiling concept behind this book, I had to grin in spite of myself. The last person on earth sits down and starts to write, in a very particular style, whatever is on her mind. The inevitable questions flooded me: "how did everybody die?" "What about animals?" "What does she do for food?" And while these questions are certainly at the back of one's mind as one pores over her mental effluvia, it is much more entrancing to follow her trains of thought about philosophical questions, historical puzzles (not puzzles so much as head-cocking queries), and anecdotal information about great western artists, from Homer to Rembrandt to Martin Heidegger. Certainly the idea of being the last person on earth for years and years is appealing and frightening in and of itself; but what makes this such a fascinating book is that the narrator "was" an artist, and, without any real audience left, challenges the whole idea of the inherent value of knowledge, or for that matter beauty. Anybody who had fun with epistomology in philosophy class will like this one; also a treat for art majors, as a healthy literacy with art history is helpful in following those trains. A great read, slow in the middle, but utterly digestible on the whole.

My, my, what a book. Such a difficult journey, for me: the endless art, historical and literary references were daunting. And the one-sentence-paragraph style and internal dialogue subject matter so jarring, especially after having just finished reading Infinite Jest (Wittgenstein's Mistress was a DFW recommendation). But I read on, aided by episodes of hilarity (such as the scene in which various painters and cats convene in the narrator's brain, or the speculation about whether Penelope really would have waited around for Odysseus' return) and moments of harrowing poignancy (the gravestone promised by a husband on a son's grave existing in the mind but not in reality). Well, it's hard to describe. But the last twenty or so pages were so intimate and frightening in their sadness as to make you want to reach into the book and hold her head to somehow stop the lonliness. Don't give up on this book.

I found Markson's novel extremely engaging. Though comparisons to Joyce are inflated (comparing anyone to Joyce would be a mistake) I've never read anything quite like this book. An achingly sad exploration of loneliness and isolation - as well as art and literature - it is also (in places) quite hilarious. I highly recommend it - and not only to people with Art History or English degrees.

Original and inspiring, I find myself thinking about this book more and more since reading it.

While I didn't find this book difficult, as others wrote, I think there's a dichotomy within it that contributes to that response.

I think this:

Markson wrote one book, a "philosophical novel," if there were such a genre--the novel demonstrates, rather than describes, a philosophy--and in so doing, he utilized more information than just the plot, the style, and the philosophy itself; this information becomes a sort of second book.

And I think the latter, the information that the narrator repeatedly discuses, are the "difficult" or perhaps simply "different" elements than the essence of the novel itself.

A woman is alone. She tells us, in the first sentence, she is alone on the earth ("At the beginning I left notes.") For me, there was a driving force to the plot - is this woman really alone, and to what extent? Is she alone in her house, holed up from trauma, or alone in her mind, "mad," as she phrases it - though she claims she has had periods of madness, not that she *is* mad. I found this plot elemnt a mystery, and I was driven, as such, to find out the ending or "truth."

The other element of the book is the substance itself, what she writes--thinks about--and the way she writes it. This, I think, is where a reader can become tired (I saw reviews say it should have been shorter, though this is quite a short book) or wander from the material.

The narrator talks a lot about ancient Greece, mythology, classical music, and limited-in-scope literature and art. Her focus is on "high art," or certain pieces of, but not all readers will be interested enough in Helen of Troy or in Brahms to find her musings compelling. They can be at odds with the other compelling part, the plot.

So, I think Markson has, in some way, two books. One is his plot/philosophical-novel and the other is the monologue of Kate, the narrator. I, too, perked up at times she did things near the beach house she lives - go for water, explore a neighboring house - and though I was/am interested in Helen, mythology, and literature, her musings were both limited in scope and each topic disproportionately covered. This would happen if any person's inner thoughts were put to paper - I may find Helen interesting, but classical music not so interesting.

Where I think the novel fails to keep the interest of readers is in the disparity between her life (Markson's philosophical demonstration) and her personal interests.

That said, for all my lack of interest in Brahms, et. al., there was an inevitable connection to her world - were there one or two copies of the book about Brahms? Did she burn one in a fire? Did she read it? Was it a children's book?

I was riveted. I too skimmed parts, as others said, as there was just so much about topics not of interest to me. But, no sooner did I begin to skim, than I was reeled back in. The book is fascinating. Its execution nearly brilliant. If I may nit-pick, Markson's excessive use of the word "doubtless" drove me nuts. In character or not, it was too much, to the point of distraction and detraction.

Last, I'll repeat what others have, the structure of each page, paragraph and sentence was wonderful. One-, two-sentence paragraphs, tangents of thought and reversal of thought, and her unreliable narration - contradiction of earlier things said, etc.

I found the end heartbreaking, and reread the last line a few times to be sure of my interpretation what I'd read. It was fully unexpected; it didn't read as the jolt I'd expected but, upon thought, it was one.

Riveting. Now, to figure out which Markson book to try next.

I have given this book only 2 stars to reflect my enjoyment and understanding of a novel I partially understood and thus partially enjoyed. My review is perhaps less a review of the novel than a short "diary entry" of my relation to this novel and to Markson's writng style. I have read 3 of David Markson's novels and greatly enjoyed Reader's Block and to a lesser degree The Last Novel. This one seemed by far the most impenetrable. A previous reviewer has said it was based on Wittgenstein's Tractatus. The reader seemed to enjoy the novel greatly probably due to his greater philosophical understanding. I guess I represent someone in between clued in and clueless. I read a book on Wittgenstein about 10 years ago so I as able to pick up on some of the subtlety but apparently one must really do some substantial homework to enjoy this book. This is less true of the previously mentioned Markson novels which do engage and reward the reader providing s/he has a broad awareness of diverse cultural references.
On a literal level, the title is oxymoronic since Wittgenstein was gay and hence would not have a mistress but there is a sense in which those who are susceptible to to his philosophical probings are in a sense his mistress. In all 3 novels I have read, Markson's approach is to throw out statements that seem unrelated or linked in random ways, grouped in small clusters of "facts". Depending on the interests of the reader these ideas can be engaging in their own right. The more perceptive reader begins to see that what is actually being depicted are the mental processes and emotional attitudes of the narrator. Changes in the types of facts, their unique juxtapositions, repetitions of previous statements put in new contexts, and other strategies for arranging statements all point to the evolving changes in the narrator or the narrator's attempt to understand her place in the world. It is this underlying subtext that constitutes the "plot" of the novel. The effect can be quite moving, especially as the true significance of "random" facts come into focus. Occasionally, because of repetitions of various statements or obsessions, readers who are not maintaining focus, getting sleepy, or just returning to the book may incorrectly conclude they already read a particular page or passage.
In this book, unlike the other 2 novels I read, the repetitions began to seem tedious. Some clarifications point to the limits of language,its contradictions and ambiguities, a classic Wittgensteinian concern. For example, the narrator notices that we say we "fight with someone" which can mean someone is fighting on our side as an ally or it can mean fighting against that person. Initially fascinating, this observation seems to become tiresome with repetition but this probably means I have missed some other subtlety in the novel. I suppose I was fighting with the text in both senses of the phrase. Another thing I found tedious was the long sections about a cat which may be non existent--again, I probably missed something.
So, I conclude with a warning, don't come to this book unprepared. Be ready for an entertaining time but come armed. Read some of the other reviews and perhaps Tractatus.

This book has been recommended to me for years, mostly by websites who try to sell me books based on my high ratings of other books that might be relevant.

Not that every other book I have read is relevant to this one of course.

The websites, mostly selling stuff, lump certain books into certain piles.

Like "Infinate Jest" and "You Bright and Rising Angels" and "Under the Volcano" for example.

When someone has read and highly reviewed these books, per se, "Wittgenstein's Mistress" comes up as a must read.

Not that any website can tell me what I must read, incidentely.

Maybe nobody told me to read this at all.

After having finished it, I feel like I've missed the points.

Like history being written when there is only one person left to write it so it is flexible.

Like being depressed and lonely can be traits while being alone or while being surround be people, also.

Like history being depressed and lonely when there is only one person left to write it.

Having said this, which I swear is the truth, I feel like I need to read this again until I understand every nuance that I am meant to understand.

Maybe I am wrong about all of this.

I might have read a different book now that I think about it.

If language has ever or stolen your dignity in Paris, or slapped a large strip of duck tape over your lips; or if you've ever learned anything from a 4 year-old...I highy recommend this novel. The allusions get a bit tedious, but what a wonderful transcendence above where language and literal description leave you scratching your head trying to figure out how to communicate an idea. It's fun.

The "I" who left messages in the street, the writer-narrator, is a woman of about 50, a painter, who presents herself as the sole surviving human on Earth. After years of searching for others, two decades perhaps, traveling the length and breadth of Eurasia and North America chiefly by commandeering abandoned automobiles and driving until their gas tanks are empty, she has cast off her her baggage and appurtenances and has settled in a house at a beach. She's now certain that there is no one else. All animals, from seagulls to scorpions and especially cats, are extinct. The woman has "occupied' several of the former world's great museums during her years of madness and searching -- she was a painter, remember -- and has traveled to the site of Troy, being somewhat obsessed with thoughts of Helen. And Penelope. And Brahms. And Heidegger. She has, obviously, all the time in the world to obsess. At present she is occupying her time by typing her thoughts. The typewriter must be pre-electric, one supposes, and must have an endlessly self-renewing ribbon; that's one of the most minor technical improbabilities of this story. In format, this typescript of hers might be called Stream of Consciousness, if only she could type that fast. Her thoughts, however, invariably get ahead of or behind her fingers on the keyboard, so digression and redundancy reign.

That's how "we" the Unreal Readers of a non-existent future are supposed to conceive of this fugal, centrifugal narrative. Most real-time readers, myself included, will persist through most of the book in expecting some sort of back-fill, some explanation of what happened and/or what the actual state of the woman's mind might be. That's a bit of literary legerdemain by author David Markson, to keep us ploughing ahead despite the fact that the book is page after page of inconsequential dithering, excruciatingly boring and insufferably pretentious. Yes, I did keep ploughing. It's hypnotic, all that dithering, and besides, our clever Mr. Markson is not above tossing in sly allusions and witticisms, like those in a book for children that only the adults can appreciate.

Honestly, I didn't like this book at all ... until I finished it. It's a midden of language, the half-buried trash heap of some perished tribe -- us -- but naturally no Indian ever foresaw archaeologist excavating the midden where he casually tossed a gnawed bone or a broken tool. The woman's trash includes some memories of her personal life but many more shards of her intellectual life, of paintings recalled, of books read and/or not read, of famous and infamous personages both once-real and once-unreal. Her memories are unreliable. Markson takes sly liberties with that unreliability, mind you, since this is after a "fiction" for sale. Stan Musial becomes Stan Usual in her tumbling consciousness, and Fyodor Brahms christens the boy Wittgenstein's cat.

Wait! Is the woman actually dead herself? Or in a vegetative state? Is her stream of consciousness a simulation of Mind without Body? Is "Life After Death" just a perpetual flow of babble, an endless artist's cocktail reception that awaits us in Hell, where the names of every single painter -- or in my case, composer -- in history will be "dropped" over and over for eternity?

No no no, I'm NOT going to tell you what happened! Would it matter if you knew? Suppose the woman is merely lying... Suppose she's typing away in solitude and pretending to herself and to us that "we" no longer exist? Solitude is an abnormal state for humans, isn't it? One does talk to oneself in solitude, though not necessarily aloud. One does still think in words, of words, even when there's nobody around to exchange words with. The fantasy of solitude isn't new. Robinson Crusoe talked to himself and scribbled notes. What if, what if you were the sole survivor of an extinction -- imagine yourself as the last ivory-billed woodpecker in a Mississippi bayou -- might you not keep thinking words, words, words? Or, if you had an internet connection after the Rapture or the Apocalypse, might you keep posting reviews on amazon even though there would never be a reader for them?

So ... how does "consciousness" work? And how much does anyone keep straight? This book has smacked me in the gob with those questions. Although in the end, the only true Existential question is .... WHY? ... as every five-year-old human already knows.

Clever, philosophical, solipsistic, gimmicky, sophisticated, entertaining, maddening, playful, bewildering, funny, exasperating, poignant. WITTGENSTEIN'S MISTRESS is all of those and more.

The novel consists entirely of a monologue - a selective stream of consciousness - produced at the typewriter over the course of many days, stretching from August to November, by Kate, an about-50-year-old woman, apparently living in a beach house, apparently on the shores of Long Island. Perhaps she is depressed, or mad, or grieving over personal tragedies from the past, or perhaps she is the last person on earth - or maybe all those explanations are operative.

While her existential being is very lonely, the typed monologue must be a message she is leaving for someone else. And the 240 pages of that message are constructed by means of short sentences, sometimes sentence fragments, usually only one or two sentences per paragraph. The longest paragraph in the book is eight lines of print, but most paragraphs are three or less lines of print. That style made unusual demands on me as a reader, and although I adapted to it readily enough it still required a degree of concentration that I could not maintain for more than about 25 pages at a time.

The novel actually is much more interesting and engaging than the previous two paragraphs probably make it sound, although I acknowledge that it is not for everyone (as reflected in the number of one-star reviews). As a general rule, I do not take to "post-modern" or "experimental" fiction - labels frequently attached to the novel - but ultimately I found WITTGENSTEIN'S MISTRESS very worthwhile.

Part of the attraction for me are the wealth and diversity of the cultural references -- cultural baggage, if you will - with which Kate is plagued and obsessed: the Ancient Greeks (Troy, Helen, Clytemnestra, Electra, Cassandra, Achilles, Aristotle, Zeno, et al.); famous artists (Rembrandt, Leonardo, Willem de Kooning, et al.); composers (Brahms, Schubert, Schumann, Bach, et al.); authors (Samuel Butler, William Gaddis, Guy de Maupassant, et al.); and even baseball players (including "Stan Usual"). Frequently, as do we all, Kate confuses and confounds her cultural heritage, at times in amusing and even enlightening ways. And sometimes the synapses simply won't work - as evidenced by her persistent inability to remember who T. E. Shaw was, despite numerous references elsewhere in her monologue to Lawrence of Arabia.

The other major attraction of WITTGENSTEIN'S MISTRESS, for me, is signaled by its title. Despite her disavowal that "philosophy is not my trade", Kate's meditations often take a philosophical turn, especially in wrestling with the intellectual puzzles of solipsism and, a la Wittgenstein, the bewitchment of language. Some readers/reviewers opine that the novel is some sort of fictional "Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus". To be sure, one of Kate's sentences (in the middle of the novel) is "The world is everything that is the case" (the first sentence of Wittgenstein's "Tractatus"), but the novel does not develop logically or rigorously; it loops and spirals and interrupts and repeats itself. The philosopher evoked more by the novel is Martin Heidegger, and the philosophical epigram most apt is what Kate borrows from Heidegger: "Anxiety being the fundamental mood of existence."

Towards the middle of the novel, I became somewhat bored with it. I thought I understood the gimmick and, without much plot or character development, the novel was becoming threadbare. But the feeling passed - or perhaps Markson salvaged the situation - and by the end I was entranced. I hesitate to call it a great novel, but I reserve the right to settle on that assessment upon re-reading it, which I hope to be able to do in another few years.