Difficult Books: Dhalgren by Samuel R. Delany

Of the half-dozen or so fellow readers I know who have attempted to scale the 800-page Matterhorn that is Dhalgren, none have succeeded. Still, when I tackled it myself last month, I kept encountering people in parks and coffee shops and on the subway who would glance down at the jacket, blurt, "Great book," and then vanish into the urban landscape. It is the kind of oddity to which Dhalgren attunes us: the protagonist whose name we may or may not learn; the abandoned city as densely populated as a Victorian novel; the story-within-the-story that is at the same time the story-outside-the-story. Dislocations, discontinuties, and ontological entanglements are clearly central to Samuel R. Delany's design. The novel's setting (and, arguably, main character) is a bombed-out Midwestern metropolis called Bellona - a spatial, temporal, and psychosexual labyrinth in which our Theseus, an amnesiac poet-adventurer known as Kid, will or won't find himself. And as it embodies the instabilities of institutions, identities, and power relations, Bellona may be the metaphor par excellence for the 1960s. Indeed, though the book sold a million copies as science-fiction, it seems at many points no more distant from our own reality than that other trippy whopper from the mid-'70s, Gravity's Rainbow. For Bellona, read Detroit. The comparison to Pynchon is not made lightly. On the surface, Kid's wanderings in Bellona look as loosely strung together as that other Kid's wanderings in Purple Rain. His poetics tend toward the Beatnik, his observations toward the dreamy and spontaneous: the flashbulb-red that keeps appearing in the eyes of certain characters; the holographic exoskeletons in which the book's street gangs armor themselves... But in the monologues by various Bellonians that punctuate and comment on the action, we can feel Delany synthesizing history, mythology, aesthetics, epistemology, systems theory, and the philosophy of language into a singular vision of the human condition on the cusp of postmodernism. It should also be said that Delany's sinuous prose, by turns fragmentary and efflorescent, is a major attraction. Elements of his conception, however, will prove difficult for the casual reader. First, there is the purposeful, high-modernist obscurity of the stream-of-consciousness voice that periodically recurs. The book opens with a half-dozen pages written in the mind-voice of an amnesiac, possibly schizophrenic Kid; the thought of eight hundred more pages of this may lead some readers to jump ship. The novel quickly modulates, however, into the more straightforward third-person that is its main register. A more persistent difficulty is the book's pointed pointlessness. My favorite of Dhalgren's seven sections, "House of the Ax," has an actual plot, as does, broadly speaking, the first half of the novel. But in the back half, as the context Kid has constructed for himself begins to crumble, the narrative devolves into sketchy, repetitive vignettes of kinky sex and random violence. Delany may be posing important questions about mimesis and perception, but "Palimpsest" and "Creatures of Light and Darkness" tried my bourgeois patience. Finally, after so much work, the novel doesn't resolve, but folds back into itself. It is famously a circular text, in the manner of Finnegans Wake. And yet, unlike that book, Dhalgren generates a fair amount of suspense out of questions of "what really happened." That answering those questions would compromise the book may not excuse the omission - at least, in the eyes of my friends who never finished. For those Dhalgrenites in the cafes and subways, however, the novel's radical open-endedness seems to have been a virtue. The best analogue I can offer for the singular experience of reading this novel is a video game where any teleology, any notion of progress or levels to be mastered, has been stripped away. Dhalgren is pure world, and as such, it represents an enormous disruption on the generally orderly map of postwar literature, as Bellona does to the orderly map of the 20th Century U.S. The scale of the disruption alone will not justify it to everyone. Then again, it's not a novel that cares to justify itself. I can think of no better way to honor its ambitions than to invoke that koan-like and recursive New Yorkism, "It is what it is," and to encourage you to give it a try. More Difficult Books

Difficult Books: Ada, or Ardor by Vladimir Nabokov

Lawrence Weschler has observed, astutely, that writers tend to move from Romanesque to Gothic. The early work will be thick, solid, even heavy; only with decades of experience does the writer learn to chisel away excess, as the builders of Notre Dame did: to let in the light. In the case of Vladimir Nabokov, however, the converse seems to obtain. Of the major edifices he erected in English, his last, Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle (1969), is his most excessive, both in its difficulty and in the pleasures it affords the (re)reader. That excess begins with sheer length. At 589 pages (plus endnotes!), Ada is twice the size of your average Nabokov paperback. Nor would it be fair to call Ada a page-turner; even as it hews to the plot of the "family chronicle," it elaborates on the textual gamesmanship of its immediate predecessor, Pale Fire (1962). Riddles, anagrams, and puns abound. This is not to mention the density of intertextual allusion, which makes Humbert Humbert look like Duran Duran. What I've come to think of (somewhat unfairly) as the grad-school response to such allusiveness - treating each sentence like a puzzle to be solved - isn't always the best way to approach to a tough text. With Finnegans Wake, for example, a willingness to let things wash over you can be the difference between sublimity and seasickness. With Ada, however, if you aren't playing along at home with your Nabokov decoder ring, you're probably missing something. And the anagrammatic annotator "Vivian Darkbloom" has left us a set of valuable hints in the end matter. (A brilliant, if half-complete, online annotation offers further assistance. Would that one of these sites existed for each of our Difficult Books!) Ada's greatest puzzle, in all senses, is its setting. The opening line - a misquotation from "Anna Arkadievitch Karenina" - signals that the world of this novel will be a somewhat garbled translation of our own: an "anti-Terra." In place of Borges, Anti-Terra has Osberg. In place of French Canadians, it has Russian Estotians. It is sometimes called Demonia. "Our demons," we are told, "are noble iridescent creatures with translucent talons and mightily beating wings; but in the eighteen-sixties the New Believers urged one to imagine a sphere where our splendid friends had been utterly degraded, had become nothing but vicious monsters, disgusting devils." In short, Nabokov has thrown us into the deep end, and expects us to stitch our own life preservers. Doing so means reconstructing the history and geography not only of anti-Terra, but also of "Terra" - the mythical "sphere" alluded to above. This mirror-world turns out to be, from our standpoint, nearer to reality, but from the perspective of of anti-Terra, as far-out as Zembla. Who but those wacky New Believers could possibly credit the existence of Athaulf the Future, "a fair-haired giant in a natty uniform...in the act of transforming a gingerbread Germany into a great country?" The novel's other key dyad is Van and Ada Veen - the first cousins-cum-siblings (long story) whose love lies at the heart of the book. The incestuous nature of their affair would seem to present readers with yet another difficulty. But Ada is "about" incest only in the way that Lolita is "about" pedophilia, or Moby-Dick is "about" fishing. Which is to say, it isn't. In his wonderful book The Magician's Doubts (which prodded me to pick up Ada in the first place), the critic Michael Wood proposes that the novel's subject is in fact "happiness" - generally felt to be the hardest thing to write about. And in the face of Nabokov's superheated imagination, even Wood's generous reading feels a little reductive. Ada is also about freedom, writing, desire, passion, and what time and distance do to all of the above. Ultimately, Nabokov manages a kind of Proustian magic trick: he recovers, through evocation, the very things whose losses he depicts. His exquisite, synesthetic sentences render the past present, the time-bound timeless. And they bring this author, not noted for his sympathetic disposition, so close to his hero that the difference disappears. Van Veen's peculiar ardor becomes universal; to read the description is to share in the experience:The males of the firefly, a small luminous beetle, more like a wandering star than a winged insect, appeared on the first warm black nights of Ardis, one by one, here and there, then in a ghostly multitude, dwindling again to a few individuals as their quest came to its natural end.And:After the first contact, so light, so mute, between his soft lips and her softer skin had been established - high up in that dappled tree, with only that stray ardilla daintily leavesdropping - nothing seemed changed in one sense, all was lost in another. Such contacts evolve their own texture; a tactile sensation is a blind spot; we touch in silhouette.Aesthetically, intellectually, and even morally, this is a Difficult Book par excellence. It demands a lover's patience. But sentences like these are our steadfast consolation for submitting to the wiles of Ada. More Difficult Books

Difficult Books: To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf

Reading Virginia Woolf—whether you can, whether the reading is excruciating or transporting—is about finding your sea legs. Woolf’s prose sets you adrift in other minds, their unfamiliar eddies of fear, desire, and despair, their private emotional rhythms and associations. You have to surrender yourself to Woolf, let yourself be swept along—sometimes bemused, sometimes moved, sometimes uncomprehending—in the tides of other consciousnesses. All this is true in Mrs. Dalloway as well, but To the Lighthouse intensifies these effects: it spans a decade instead of a day; it permeates so many minds and moves between them so fluidly, so swiftly. It’s easy to lose track of whose mind you’re listening to, whose words you’re hearing, who’s being spoken about. But in this is also something ghostly and god-like: you drift, as if disembodied, into the minds of others, through the rooms of the Ramsay family’s summer house on the Isle of Skye; you hear snatches of conversation from the drawing room, wisps of another conversation on the lawn. The plot of the novel, such as it is, is diffuse and amorphous; By the standards of most 18th and 19th century novels, it’s not really a plot at all. In the novel’s famous second section, “Time Passes,” you are quite literally watching weeds and rabbits overtake the garden. Woolf’s writing can feel disconcerting, confusing, and frustrating; It can also seem numinous, exquisite, utterly absorbing. For myself, I have found that Woolf is not an author I can will my way though. There are times when I find her stream-of-consciousness techniques coy, contrived, pointlessly difficult and comprehension-thwarting—when I find the lack of a substantial plot unbearable. Then, I find myself of Cyril Connolly’s opinion that Woolf, “seemed to have the worst defect of the Mandarin style, the ability to spin cocoons of language out of nothing.” At other times, the drifting, liquid rhythms of Woolf’s prose, her approximation of the currents of the psychic seascape, feel intuitively right, more natural and true than anything else I’ve read, and I find myself of Connolly’s mind again: “The Waves,” he wrote in The Enemies of Promise, “is one of the books which comes nearest to stating the mystery of life, and so, in a sense, nearest to solving it.” More Difficult Books

Difficult Books: The Cantos, The Dream Songs, The Sonnets

"He was drunk and exhausted but he was critically acclaimed and respected." - The Hold Steady, "Stuck Between Stations" Writing about literature is often figured as a sort of parasitism - "what lice will do, when they have no more blood to suck," is how I'm told they put it in the Nineteenth Century. For a time in the Twentieth, however, the relationship between a certain school of exegetes and a certain coterie of writers was closer to symbiosis. The job of New Critics and their Formalist counterparts was to decode a text's meanings through close examination of its language. The job of the poet, meanwhile, was to create a text that would stand up to such scrutiny. Ezra Pound's Cantos constitute, it seems to me, the paramount example of poetry alert to - even anxious about - its own interpretative possibilities. It is the tension between Pound's confidence in the cryptographic stamina of his readers and his desire to make the poems finally unsolvable that makes The Cantos (all 800 pages of them) so frustrating. And so beautiful. Behind the bricolage of quotations (translated, mistranslated, untranslated), the syntactic suspensions, the typographic oddities and the lunatic fragmentation, there's always a sense of something powerful, mysterious, and epic at work. John Berryman's The Dream Songs, which I came to by way of The Hold Steady's Boys and Girls in America, clearly counts The Cantos among its million billion influences. And at first blush, The Dream Songs seem equally baffling - the kind of private language the philosophers tell us isn't possible:                       Le's do a hoedown, gal, one blue, one shuffle, if them is all you seem to réquire. Strip, ol banger, skip us we, sugar; so hang on one chaste evenin. -Sir Bones, or Galahad: astonishin yo legal & yo good. Who is Mr. Bones? Why the dialect? And what's up with that accent mark over the "e"? These are the same kinds of questions Pound invites. For all their fragmentation, though, The Dream Songs are intensely intimate in a way The Cantos never quite manage. Through a variety of moods and methods, they adumbrate the life and consciousness of a hero as multifarious and singular as Joyce's Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker. Also: Berryman's ear is astonishing. Sometimes a Difficult Book is more swimming pool than jigsaw puzzle. Rather than trying to solve it, we do better just to jump in. The final poem cycle worth mentioning in this troika of Difficult Books is Ted Berrigan's The Sonnets. Berrigan is often identified as a "second-generation" New York School poet, a designation both helpful and un-. On the one hand, The Sonnets draw on both the suggestive opacity of John Ashbery and the urbanity of Frank O'Hara and Kenneth Koch. On the other, nothing about these poems feels self-consciously "School"ed. By the time his generation came of age (Berrigan was born in 1934), the New Criticism's dominance was waning, and with it the legacy of programatic formalism. The fragmentation of The Sonnets speaks of openness and freedom, rather than discipline and constraint. Which is to say it's a very 1960s kind of book. "And high upon the Brooklyn Bridge alone," Berrigan writes, to breathe an old woman slop oatmeal, loveliness that longs for butterfly! There is no pad as you lope across the trails and bosky dells I often think sweet and sour pork" shoe repair, and scary. What does it mean? I have no idea. I often don't, when I read these three marvelous poets. But I don't know what life means, either - just that, like Berrigan, Berryman, and Pound, it makes me feel alive. More Difficult Books

Difficult Books: Richardson, Sterne, Melville

Samuel Richardson, Clarissa, Or the History of a Young Lady (1747-8): The difficulty of Richardson's masterpiece lies almost exclusively in its length: the outsized Penguin Classics edition (9x5.5x3) is 1,500 pages and weights nearly three pounds. I'm not sure it's the longest novel in English; Richardson's own Sir Charles Grandison might be longer, and surely the likes of Pynchon, Wallace, and Bolaño have overtaken Clarissa by now—but she is certainly among the longest. Other possible sources of difficulty: the eighteenth-century diction and syntax of Richardson's masterpiece may seem a little strange or prim at first, as may the social mores of eighteenth-century England, and some readers find the plot insufficient to the length of the book (“if you were to read Richardson for the story," Samuel Johnson noted,  "your impatience would be so much fretted that you would hang yourself.”) Many readers, however, are ultimately drawn in by Richardson's hero and heroine and the incredible psychological depth with which he draws them (Johnson again: “the first book in the world for the knowledge it displays of the human heart"). The nature of the relationship between the beautiful, virtuous, otherworldly Clarissa Harlowe and her lover/tormenter, the aristocratic libertine Robert Lovelace is entrancing. For emotional and psychological complexity, you will not find a more impressive novel in English. Laurence Sterne, The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman (1759-1767): In the words of Steve Coogan (playing himself playing Tristram Shandy in Michael Winterbottom's film version of Sterne's seemingly unfilmable novel), Tristram Shandy is “a post-modern classic before there was any modernism to be post- about.” Sterne's 1759 masterpiece is an anachronism—a case of modern, even post-modern, literary sensibility springing up almost two hundred years before either aesthetic became widespread.  The difficulty of the book is primarily structural: the novel's jumbled, non-linear chronology is frequently interrupted by hero/narrator Tristram's taste for digressions, pre-history, and recounting the doings of minor characters instead of his own life story (he does not get around to narrating his own birth until the third volume of the novel). Tristram patches into his text seemingly unrelated tales, letters, and images as he pleases, and (maddeningly) begins recounting events only to stop short of their denouement (a sort of writerly/readerly coitus interruptus). Some readers just don't enjoy the novel’s intense consciousness of the chaos of real "life and opinions" and the near-impossibility of representing them accurately in literary form (Samuel Johnson, for one: "Nothing odd will do long. Tristram Shandy did not last."). Sterne’s artful literary approximation of the associative, digressive messiness that is the real mode of human thinking and life plots, his attention to the difference between real time and narrative time, and his constant attention to the author’s determinative and problematic role in the story he tells, are not for everyone. But for those willing to mount their hobbyhorses and give TS a go, I recommend watching Winterbottom's film (a movie about making a movie about a book about writing a book) as a warm-up.  Also, as one of our readers testified in the introductory post for this series, "Tristram Shandy is laugh aloud funny. I picked it up a few years ago with no prior knowledge–just wanted a novel from the eighteenth century. It’s a real treat. At one point, Sterne gets 8 pp. out of a piping hot chestnut falling into a guy’s breeches. This is lofty stuff." Herman Melville, Moby Dick; Or, The Whale (1851): This is one of my favorite books and my choice for the great American novel, but I know others to have found it tough sledding (which, in a Shandian vein, reminds me of Moby Dick's Nantucket sleigh rides…). The trouble with Moby Dick, as I've gathered, is twofold: First, it's structurally odd, an anatomy more than a novel: a mix of novelistic narration and plot, reverie and essay, a quasi-scientific treatise on whether the whale is a fish (the dreaded ceatology chapter—which I recommend skipping altogether the first time through), dramatic monologues and dialogues, technical descriptions of the craft of whaling, a miscellany of quotations. Second, I have a feeling with Melville (as with his sometime friend and contemporary Nathanial Hawthorne) that the allegory at work in the novel is a little out of my league as a contemporary person (the allegorical habit of mind is rarely evident in contemporary culture—perhaps in Lars von Trier's Dogville), that I might not have the wherewithal to construe properly: What does the counterpane represent? The whiteness of the whale? The doubloon? Unlike, say, Pilgrim's Progress whose allegory is totally transparent (Obsinate, Pliable, Worldly Wiseman…), Melville's symbols have an indissoluble ambiguity, a lingering feeling of disparate possible meanings. But this is how it's supposed to be, I think, and speaks more to Melville's genius and his slightly mystical taste for signifiers with multiple signifieds. As with Milton, I recommend hearing this book. Moby Dick is really funny—occasionally verging into slapstick (Ah, the meeting between Queequeq and Ishmael! Oh, the shark sermon!)—and its prose is magnificent from start to finish (though heavy on dialect speech, which can be hard to read). With a recording, someone else (I recommend Frank Muller at Recorded Books) has the trouble of doing the dialect and you just have the pleasure and the beauty. For those averse to audiobooks, I am particularly fond of the Norton edition with illustrations by Warren Chappell and notes and commentary by Harrison Hayford and Hershel Parker. More Difficult Books

Difficult Books: Burton, Milton, Swift

The Anatomy of Melancholy, Robert Burton (1621): This is a dense, digressive, wonderfully learned, quasi-autobiographical, quasi-psychological exploded encyclopedia of all things melancholic and otherwise—a mishmash of case studies (a man who thought he was turned to glass), citations from contradictory ancient and modern authorities (c. 1620), quotations from the Bible, essays on geography and climatology, observations on the deficiencies of the Catholic Church, recommendations of study as a cure for melancholy (and then reflections on study as a cause of melancholy), a utopia. Burton described his Anatomy as: "a rhapsody of rags gathered together from several dung-hills, excrements of authors, toys and fopperies confusedly tumbled out, without art, invention, judgement, wit, learning, harsh, raw, rude, phantastical, absurd, insolent, indiscreet, ill-composed, indigested, vain, scurrile, idle, dull, and dry…" Indeed, such it is, and for this intellectually dense disorder, the book can be baffling and dizzy-making (esp. if you read the NYRB edition, the most readily available, which has very close-set type and does not translate all of Burton's Latin). Burton's long, loose, Latinate sentences can also be rough going.  But it is very much worth a try. Burton is an endearingly humble narrator who, while he calls himself an ignorant smatterer, might teach you to accept the incurable madness— melancholy— fallenness—of humankind. Paradise Lost, John Milton (1667): With Milton, Latinate syntax is again at the heart of the difficulty: Milton reverses the normal order of words and clauses (Yoda-ish, only more complex).  Milton's blank verse epic is also long ("No one ever wished it longer," Samuel Johnson once remarked), as well as being one of the most richly allusive works in the language--and these allusions are sometimes crucial to making sense of the dramatic action of the poem and the nature and motivations of its characters (Adam, Eve, Satan, God the Father, Jesus, assorted angels—the story of Paradise Lost is the story of the fall of man (more or less) as reported in the first book of the Old Testament, Genesis). Milton drew his references from classical literature, philosophy, history, and myth, as well as contemporary (i.e. C17th) politics, theology, and religious debates, and so for those determined to get at the very marrow of Milton, Merritt Y. Hughes' Complete Poems and Prose, the definitive scholarly edition, is the best choice for its excellent, extensive footnotes (not endnotes, which are irritating and slow reading immeasurably).  However, Milton's poetry can stand on its own: listening to Milton read aloud by a talented reader, the convoluted syntax comes to seem almost natural, and the grandeur of Milton's blank verse shines forth.  If you can't find a Milton marathon in your neighborhood, try English classical actor Anton Lesser's audiobook recording. Illustrated editions of the poem can also be illuminating: Gustave Doré and William Blake's illustrations are the best (and there's a $10 Dover edition of the Doré illustrations).  As an additional warm-up, you might consider reading "Happy Birthday, Milton", by New York Times columnist and legendary Milton scholar Stanley Fish. A Tale of A Tub, Jonathan Swift (1684-1710): Swift may have sat across the aisle from Milton (Swift was a Church of England priest who supported the monarchy; Milton, a fervently committed dissenter who supported the English Revolution), but for the difficulty of their literary work and for the passion of their commitments to opposed theologies, they have a certain improbable correlation. The sources of difficulty in Swift's Tale, however, are somewhat different from those of Paradise Lost.  Swift's prose style is pretty straightforward as 18th century prose styles go, though it may take a while to get used to sentences that might begin with phrases like "So that…," occasional syntactic inversions, occasional paragraph-length sentences, and (in some editions) capitalization of common nouns (quite common in early modern English--Milton's as well). The most marked difficulty with Swift is that the issues, persons, and events he continually alludes to were very much of his particular historical moment, an age defined by the sort of party politics and culture wars we know too well, but that are hard to get a grasp on at 300 years remove.  With an edition that has decent footnotes, you should be able to orient yourself pretty well. And what's more, the finer points of late 17th and early 18th century political squabbles are not the main event in any case: the Tale is a primarily a satire of "Modern" writing—writing produced by the (then) new class of professional writers whom many educated and aristocratic readers came to despise (akin to the way certain publications have denigrated bloggers and blogging). These Grub Streeters were paid (oh, how distasteful!) and had not necessarily gone to Oxford or Cambridge, and might not have read Aristotle or Horace, and didn't necessarily care about the classics or classical rules of art.  All of this was deeply distressing to Swift. The persona that Swift assumes in the Tale is a parody of one of the worst of these Grub Street hacks (and I've read them—they often are dreadful and crazy and bad—though not always).  Swift's hack is perpetually distracted and self-absorbed and, as we discover by degrees, quite probably insane. The work that this unreliable narrator promises in the title page—A Tale of a Tub—is what seems at first a pretty straightforward allegory of the history of the Christian church and its breaking into Catholicism, Anglicanism, and dissenting Protestantism.  But the hack is continually interrupting this tale to hold forth on a variety of increasingly bizarre subjects: his own ill health, his poverty, "the use and improvement of madness," the other books he is going to write soon ("A general history of Ears," "A Modest Defense of the Proceedings of the Rabble in all Ages").  As you near the end, it feels like the whole world is being sucked down by the ferocious energy of the satire: the Church of England, Jesus, and even Swift himself, who seems to enjoy occupying the subjectivity of his madman a bit too much.  Swift claimed that the Tale was designed "to expose the Abuses and Corruptions in Learning and Religion." That it does—but there's very little left standing when all's exposed. In the realm of satire, this has my vote for the greatest of them all (but I, invasive narrator that I am, must admit that I'm hardly impartial as a one-time graduate student of eighteenth-century literature). More Difficult Books

Introducing Difficult Books, A Descriptive List

Whether scholars, creative writers, or citizen book lovers, most readers agree on a canon of certain legendarily difficult books—books that are hard to read for their length, or their syntax and style, or their structural and generic strangeness, or their odd experimental techniques, or their abstraction.  This post inaugurates a new Millions series devoted to identifying and describing these most difficult books: ones we've read/wrangled with ourselves, ones we've known students to struggle with time and again, ones that, more simply, "everyone knows" are hard to read—those works whose mere titles glisten with an aura of rarefied impenetrability. There will, doubtless, be those readers who look scornfully on our choices ("Psh. These aren't that hard, you're just not smart enough to read them"). Indeed, for myself, that is probably true. And to those so brilliant that not a one of these tomes challenged or vexed them more than a People magazine, we tip our hats.  This list is for the mere mortals among us—who have found themselves reading and rereading the same paragraph of James Joyce's Ulysses to no avail, who have been reduced to tears by Faulkner's one-line chapter, "My mother is a fish," in As I Lay Dying, who may have spitefully broken the brittle spine of her first used copy of Tristram Shandy, who use a volume of Gibbon's History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire as a doorstop and eye it with a wary distrust when she walks past it (for it is fond of stubbing toes). But this is also a list for those who, after breaking the spine, picked up the wounded volume, taped it back together, and finished that infuriating chapter, and another, and another… until, triumph!, it was finished at last. And, perhaps, now that we think on it again, having finished, could it be that it was worth the struggle? Could it be that in the pain of it was a tinge of pleasure, of value (not to mention pride)? The hope is that our series will eventually be exhaustive, and because this is a series and so on-going, we welcome your suggestions. Where we can, we also offer our advice to aspiring readers of a particular difficult work. Our descriptions aim to be modest primers for those about to embark on the reading of a difficult book, as well as small, memorial essays on these (by many measures) great books. Titles will come from many eras and genres—the Renaissance, the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the high Modernism of the early twentieth century, and finally our own time, and we include fiction, poetry, philosophy, and critical theory. Titles will be primarily those written in English, but in some cases we include translations. Future posts will cover works by Immanuel Kant, G.W. F. Hegel, Marcel Proust, Robert Musil, James Joyce, Ezra Pound, Virginia Woolf, Gertrude Stein,  Djuna Barnes, William Vollmann, Thomas Pynchon, Jacques Derrida, David Foster Wallace, Joseph McElroy, Donna Harraway, William H. Gass, William Gaddis, and others. 1621: The Anatomy of Melancholy by Robert Burton 1667: Paradise Lost by John Milton 1704: A Tale of a Tub by Jonathan Swift 1747-8: Clarissa by Samuel Richardson 1759-67: The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman by Laurence Sterne 1851: Moby Dick by Herman Melville 1922-62: The Cantos by Ezra Pound 1927: To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf 1964: The Sonnets by Ted Berrigan 1969: The Dream Songs by John Berryman 1969: Ada, or Ardor by Vladimir Nabokov 1974: Dhalgren by Samuel R. Delany