i'm a very very complex person

I finished The Sea, the Sea this morning, and I'm not entirely sure what to make of it. In general, I enjoyed the book, although I found it to be something of a strange read. As I said earlier, I loved the beginning for its wonderful characterization and thoughtful, introspective quality. I was very interested in the questions about identity and memory and recording your own life that were raised by the first part of the book. I couldn't help but be disappointed when those questions were entirely abandoned for a plot that pushed the farthest limits of credibility. The end of the book returned somewhat to the style and tone of the beginning, but everything in between had been so absurd that none of those initial questions were ever successfully addressed. I still think, as I said before, that it would have been a better book if Murdoch had chosen to forgo the ridiculous plot and focus on Charles as a character and his fundamentally flawed understanding of his own life.

Despite my disappointment, I genuinely enjoyed reading the book. Murdoch's writing is excellent, and Charles is such an intense, believeable character that I was able to put aside my disappointment and enjoy the book for what it was. I'm surprised that I was able to do this, it's not very typical of me and it makes me think that Murdoch must really be a good writer. I'd be interested in checking out a few more of her books, if only so that I might be able to put The Sea, the Sea in perspective and perhaps make some more sense of it.

I don't really know what I'll read next. I have Vladimir Nabokov's Speak, Memory at home, and I tend to be a big fan of his, so maybe I'll read that. It would also be fun to go to the library and pick something totally new and different, or to find something on my lengthy list of books to read, but I don't know how soon I'll be able to get over to the library so I may just have to start Speak, Memory in the meantime.

I'm still reading The Sea, the Sea, and I'm enjoying it very much. It's a good, long, sink-your-teeth-in kind of book. It's been quite a while since I've read something like that, and I'm realizing how much I missed it.

By far the most interesting aspect of the book is the narrator, Charles Arrowby. He's as egocentric, self-dramatizing, and snobbish as they come, and I suspect that I wouldn't be able to stand him in real life. In the book, however, I just can't help it--the more I read, the more I like him. Also, he absolutely embodies the concept of the unreliable narrator. In this respect, the book reminds me of The Book of Evidence by John Banville, although it is otherwise totally different in tone and effect. I've always been a sucker for books with unreliable narrators, and Murdoch has done a such a wonderful job of completely inhabiting her character that you hardly even notice as you're being coerced into taking his distinctly questionable point of view as the gospel truth.

I particularly enjoyed the first section of the book, because it provided a fascinating look at the process of Charles deciding to begin recording his life. Murdoch created what is, in my opinion, a very accurate depiction of the self-consciousness and tentativeness that come with beginning a journal. This was of particular interest to me because of my recent obsession with my own journal.