what are you reading?

[...]

I feel bad for not reading more fiction, but there's so much non-fiction/theory stuff I've stockpiled that really interests me I just can't find the time to switch. I guess movies take care of my fiction needs and books the non, which might explain why I tend to avoid documentaries as well I guess.

Anyway, I usually read a couple chapters a day on weekdays and set aside weekend time at the coffeeshop to plow through longer stretches of whatever I'm into at the moment. I usually have a couple books going at once and a few movies that I switch between. I've been more willing to drop movies halfway through when they aren't satisfying, something I also did with written fiction, but most non-fiction stuff I have a better idea of what I want from it so I tend to read those through to the end other than some essay books where I'll skip things like the endless ruminations on the meaning of 9/11 or whatever that sprouted like weeds in the format during the 2000s.

[wba2]

I'm reading roughly 2 hours per day from Monday to Friday every week. 1 hour while travelling to work, and 1 hour while travelling home.
I also - as a rule - read each time I take a shit.

I hadn't been reading much for 20 years (roughly some 20 books per year - not counting thousands of articles, in magazines, newspapers, on the net, and such, and also not counting reading half a book or certain essays in a book and such stuff as well, of course). Before that I was a total bookworm, though (reading roughly 100 books per year), and since last year I'm trying to get there again (50 books last year, and I'll be probably back at 100 annually from this year onwards).

It really helps if you structure your days in a way that automatically accounts for certain amounts of reading time. Nowadays reading (books) is my No.1 top priority and favorite pastime once more (like it used to be 20 years ago), and I'm totally looking forward to every minute I can carve out some time for reading. I'm also thinking a lot during the day about the books I'm currently reading, so that also helps you to stay focused.

It also helped immensly when I stopped having/using a smartphone.

[kanafani]

I also - as a rule - read each time I take a shit.

Jeez I hope those are not library books you're reading

[wba2]

I also - as a rule - read each time I take a shit.

Jeez I hope those are not library books you're reading

I just take a shit. I don't play with it while I'm at it.

[liquidnature]

I also - as a rule - read each time I take a shit.

Jeez I hope those are not library books you're reading

omg. this made me laugh real hard. also, i'm scarred for life

[kanafani]

I also - as a rule - read each time I take a shit.

Jeez I hope those are not library books you're reading

I just take a shit. I don't play with it while I'm at it.

Oh OK then, that's fine. I am just not very familiar with the customs in Germany

[liquidnature]

after a break to finish other works, back to Pickwick now and it is the most delicious indulgence i can think of. here's another terrifyingly brilliant passage, if anyone cares to read it.

Spoiler!

‘Yes!—a madman’s! How that word would have struck to my heart, many years ago! How it would have roused the terror that used to come upon me sometimes, sending the blood hissing and tingling through my veins, till the cold dew of fear stood in large drops upon my skin, and my knees knocked together with fright! I like it now though. It’s a fine name. Show me the monarch whose angry frown was ever feared like the glare of a madman’s eye—whose cord and axe were ever half so sure as a madman’s gripe. Ho! ho! It’s a grand thing to be mad! to be peeped at like a wild lion through the iron bars—to gnash one’s teeth and howl, through the long still night, to the merry ring of a heavy chain and to roll and twine among the straw, transported with such brave music. Hurrah for the madhouse! Oh, it’s a rare place!

‘I remember days when I was afraid of being mad; when I used to start from my sleep, and fall upon my knees, and pray to be spared from the curse of my race; when I rushed from the sight of merriment or happiness, to hide myself in some lonely place, and spend the weary hours in watching the progress of the fever that was to consume my brain. I knew that madness was mixed up with my very blood, and the marrow of my bones! that one generation had passed away without the pestilence appearing among them, and that I was the first in whom it would revive. I knew it must be so: that so it always had been, and so it ever would be: and when I cowered in some obscure corner of a crowded room, and saw men whisper, and point, and turn their eyes towards me, I knew they were telling each other of the doomed madman; and I slunk away again to mope in solitude.

‘I did this for years; long, long years they were. The nights here are long sometimes—very long; but they are nothing to the restless nights, and dreadful dreams I had at that time. It makes me cold to remember them. Large dusky forms with sly and jeering faces crouched in the corners of the room, and bent over my bed at night, tempting me to madness. They told me in low whispers, that the floor of the old house in which my father died, was stained with his own blood, shed by his own hand in raging madness. I drove my fingers into my ears, but they screamed into my head till the room rang with it, that in one generation before him the madness slumbered, but that his grandfather had lived for years with his hands fettered to the ground, to prevent his tearing himself to pieces. I knew they told the truth—I knew it well. I had found it out years before, though they had tried to keep it from me. Ha! ha! I was too cunning for them, madman as they thought me.

‘At last it came upon me, and I wondered how I could ever have feared it. I could go into the world now, and laugh and shout with the best among them. I knew I was mad, but they did not even suspect it. How I used to hug myself with delight, when I thought of the fine trick I was playing them after their old pointing and leering, when I was not mad, but only dreading that I might one day become so! And how I used to laugh for joy, when I was alone, and thought how well I kept my secret, and how quickly my kind friends would have fallen from me, if they had known the truth. I could have screamed with ecstasy when I dined alone with some fine roaring fellow, to think how pale he would have turned, and how fast he would have run, if he had known that the dear friend who sat close to him, sharpening a bright, glittering knife, was a madman with all the power, and half the will, to plunge it in his heart. Oh, it was a merry life!

‘Riches became mine, wealth poured in upon me, and I rioted in pleasures enhanced a thousandfold to me by the consciousness of my well-kept secret. I inherited an estate. The law—the eagle-eyed law itself—had been deceived, and had handed over disputed thousands to a madman’s hands. Where was the wit of the sharp-sighted men of sound mind? Where the dexterity of the lawyers, eager to discover a flaw? The madman’s cunning had overreached them all.

‘I had money. How I was courted! I spent it profusely. How I was praised! How those three proud, overbearing brothers humbled themselves before me! The old, white-headed father, too—such deference—such respect—such devoted friendship—he worshipped me! The old man had a daughter, and the young men a sister; and all the five were poor. I was rich; and when I married the girl, I saw a smile of triumph play upon the faces of her needy relatives, as they thought of their well-planned scheme, and their fine prize. It was for me to smile. To smile! To laugh outright, and tear my hair, and roll upon the ground with shrieks of merriment. They little thought they had married her to a madman.

‘Stay. If they had known it, would they have saved her? A sister’s happiness against her husband’s gold. The lightest feather I blow into the air, against the gay chain that ornaments my body!

‘In one thing I was deceived with all my cunning. If I had not been mad—for though we madmen are sharp-witted enough, we get bewildered sometimes—I should have known that the girl would rather have been placed, stiff and cold in a dull leaden coffin, than borne an envied bride to my rich, glittering house. I should have known that her heart was with the dark-eyed boy whose name I once heard her breathe in her troubled sleep; and that she had been sacrificed to me, to relieve the poverty of the old, white-headed man and the haughty brothers.

‘I don’t remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl was beautiful. I know she was; for in the bright moonlight nights, when I start up from my sleep, and all is quiet about me, I see, standing still and motionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wasted figure with long black hair, which, streaming down her back, stirs with no earthly wind, and eyes that fix their gaze on me, and never wink or close. Hush! the blood chills at my heart as I write it down—that form is her’s; the face is very pale, and the eyes are glassy bright; but I know them well. That figure never moves; it never frowns and mouths as others do, that fill this place sometimes; but it is much more dreadful to me, even than the spirits that tempted me many years ago—it comes fresh from the grave; and is so very death-like.

‘For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler; for nearly a year I saw the tears steal down the mournful cheeks, and never knew the cause. I found it out at last though. They could not keep it from me long. She had never liked me; I had never thought she did: she despised my wealth, and hated the splendour in which she lived; but I had not expected that. She loved another. This I had never thought of. Strange feelings came over me, and thoughts, forced upon me by some secret power, whirled round and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I hated the boy she still wept for. I pitied—yes, I pitied—the wretched life to which her cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that she could not live long; but the thought that before her death she might give birth to some ill-fated being, destined to hand down madness to its offspring, determined me. I resolved to kill her.

‘For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning, and then of fire. A fine sight, the grand house in flames, and the madman’s wife smouldering away to cinders. Think of the jest of a large reward, too, and of some sane man swinging in the wind for a deed he never did, and all through a madman’s cunning! I thought often of this, but I gave it up at last. Oh! the pleasure of stropping the razor day after day, feeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the gash one stroke of its thin, bright edge would make!

‘At last the old spirits who had been with me so often before whispered in my ear that the time was come, and thrust the open razor into my hand. I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed, and leaned over my sleeping wife. Her face was buried in her hands. I withdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly on her bosom. She had been weeping; for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her cheek. Her face was calm and placid; and even as I looked upon it, a tranquil smile lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on her shoulder. She started—it was only a passing dream. I leaned forward again. She screamed, and woke.

‘One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered cry or sound. But I was startled, and drew back. Her eyes were fixed on mine. I knew not how it was, but they cowed and frightened me; and I quailed beneath them. She rose from the bed, still gazing fixedly and steadily on me. I trembled; the razor was in my hand, but I could not move. She made towards the door. As she neared it, she turned, and withdrew her eyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded forward, and clutched her by the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sank upon the ground.

‘Now I could have killed her without a struggle; but the house was alarmed. I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced the razor in its usual drawer, unfastened the door, and called loudly for assistance.

‘They came, and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft of animation for hours; and when life, look, and speech returned, her senses had deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously.

‘Doctors were called in—great men who rolled up to my door in easy carriages, with fine horses and gaudy servants. They were at her bedside for weeks. They had a great meeting and consulted together in low and solemn voices in another room. One, the cleverest and most celebrated among them, took me aside, and bidding me prepare for the worst, told me—me, the madman!—that my wife was mad. He stood close beside me at an open window, his eyes looking in my face, and his hand laid upon my arm. With one effort, I could have hurled him into the street beneath. It would have been rare sport to have done it; but my secret was at stake, and I let him go. A few days after, they told me I must place her under some restraint: I must provide a keeper for her. I! I went into the open fields where none could hear me, and laughed till the air resounded with my shouts!

‘She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to the grave, and the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible corpse of her whose sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles of iron. All this was food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind the white handkerchief which I held up to my face, as we rode home, till the tears came into my eyes.

‘But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restless and disturbed, and I felt that before long my secret must be known. I could not hide the wild mirth and joy which boiled within me, and made me when I was alone, at home, jump up and beat my hands together, and dance round and round, and roar aloud. When I went out, and saw the busy crowds hurrying about the streets; or to the theatre, and heard the sound of music, and beheld the people dancing, I felt such glee, that I could have rushed among them, and torn them to pieces limb from limb, and howled in transport. But I ground my teeth, and struck my feet upon the floor, and drove my sharp nails into my hands. I kept it down; and no one knew I was a madman yet.

‘I remember—though it’s one of the last things I can remember: for now I mix up realities with my dreams, and having so much to do, and being always hurried here, have no time to separate the two, from some strange confusion in which they get involved—I remember how I let it out at last. Ha! ha! I think I see their frightened looks now, and feel the ease with which I flung them from me, and dashed my clenched fist into their white faces, and then flew like the wind, and left them screaming and shouting far behind. The strength of a giant comes upon me when I think of it. There—see how this iron bar bends beneath my furious wrench. I could snap it like a twig, only there are long galleries here with many doors—I don’t think I could find my way along them; and even if I could, I know there are iron gates below which they keep locked and barred. They know what a clever madman I have been, and they are proud to have me here, to show.

‘Let me see: yes, I had been out. It was late at night when I reached home, and found the proudest of the three proud brothers waiting to see me—urgent business he said: I recollect it well. I hated that man with all a madman’s hate. Many and many a time had my fingers longed to tear him. They told me he was there. I ran swiftly upstairs. He had a word to say to me. I dismissed the servants. It was late, and we were alone together—for the first time.

‘I kept my eyes carefully from him at first, for I knew what he little thought—and I gloried in the knowledge—that the light of madness gleamed from them like fire. We sat in silence for a few minutes. He spoke at last. My recent dissipation, and strange remarks, made so soon after his sister’s death, were an insult to her memory. Coupling together many circumstances which had at first escaped his observation, he thought I had not treated her well. He wished to know whether he was right in inferring that I meant to cast a reproach upon her memory, and a disrespect upon her family. It was due to the uniform he wore, to demand this explanation.

‘This man had a commission in the army—a commission, purchased with my money, and his sister’s misery! This was the man who had been foremost in the plot to ensnare me, and grasp my wealth. This was the man who had been the main instrument in forcing his sister to wed me; well knowing that her heart was given to that puling boy. Due to his uniform! The livery of his degradation! I turned my eyes upon him—I could not help it—but I spoke not a word.

‘I saw the sudden change that came upon him beneath my gaze. He was a bold man, but the colour faded from his face, and he drew back his chair. I dragged mine nearer to him; and I laughed—I was very merry then—I saw him shudder. I felt the madness rising within me. He was afraid of me.

‘“You were very fond of your sister when she was alive,” I said.—“Very.”

‘He looked uneasily round him, and I saw his hand grasp the back of his chair; but he said nothing.

‘“You villain,” said I, “I found you out: I discovered your hellish plots against me; I know her heart was fixed on some one else before you compelled her to marry me. I know it—I know it.”

‘He jumped suddenly from his chair, brandished it aloft, and bid me stand back—for I took care to be getting closer to him all the time I spoke.

‘I screamed rather than talked, for I felt tumultuous passions eddying through my veins, and the old spirits whispering and taunting me to tear his heart out.

‘“Damn you,” said I, starting up, and rushing upon him; “I killed her. I am a madman. Down with you. Blood, blood! I will have it!”

‘I turned aside with one blow the chair he hurled at me in his terror, and closed with him; and with a heavy crash we rolled upon the floor together.

‘It was a fine struggle that; for he was a tall, strong man, fighting for his life; and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to destroy him. I knew no strength could equal mine, and I was right. Right again, though a madman! His struggles grew fainter. I knelt upon his chest, and clasped his brawny throat firmly with both hands. His face grew purple; his eyes were starting from his head, and with protruded tongue, he seemed to mock me. I squeezed the tighter.

‘The door was suddenly burst open with a loud noise, and a crowd of people rushed forward, crying aloud to each other to secure the madman.

‘My secret was out; and my only struggle now was for liberty and freedom. I gained my feet before a hand was on me, threw myself among my assailants, and cleared my way with my strong arm, as if I bore a hatchet in my hand, and hewed them down before me. I gained the door, dropped over the banisters, and in an instant was in the street.

‘Straight and swift I ran, and no one dared to stop me. I heard the noise of the feet behind, and redoubled my speed. It grew fainter and fainter in the distance, and at length died away altogether; but on I bounded, through marsh and rivulet, over fence and wall, with a wild shout which was taken up by the strange beings that flocked around me on every side, and swelled the sound, till it pierced the air. I was borne upon the arms of demons who swept along upon the wind, and bore down bank and hedge before them, and spun me round and round with a rustle and a speed that made my head swim, until at last they threw me from them with a violent shock, and I fell heavily upon the earth. When I woke I found myself here—here in this gray cell, where the sunlight seldom comes, and the moon steals in, in rays which only serve to show the dark shadows about me, and that silent figure in its old corner. When I lie awake, I can sometimes hear strange shrieks and cries from distant parts of this large place. What they are, I know not; but they neither come from that pale form, nor does it regard them. For from the first shades of dusk till the earliest light of morning, it still stands motionless in the same place, listening to the music of my iron chain, and watching my gambols on my straw bed.’

[brian d]

if we're quoting our favorite dickens passages, here's mine from our mutual friend:

Spoiler!

The mature young lady is a lady of property. The mature young gentleman is a gentleman of property. He invests his property. He goes, in a condescending amateurish way, into the City, attends meetings of Directors, and has to do with traffic in Shares. As is well known to the wise in their generation, traffic in Shares is the one thing to have to do with in this world. Have no antecedents, no established character, no cultivation, no ideas, no manners; have Shares. Have Shares enough to be on Boards of Direction in capital letters, oscillate on mysterious business between London and Paris, and be great. Where does he come from? Shares. Where is he going to? Shares. What are his tastes? Shares. Has he any principles? Shares. What squeezes him into Parliament? Shares. Perhaps he never of himself achieved success in anything, never originated anything, never produced anything? Sufficient answer to all; Shares. O mighty Shares! To set those blaring images so high, and to cause us smaller vermin, as under the influence of henbane or opium, to cry out, night and day, 'Relieve us of our money, scatter it for us, buy us and sell us, ruin us, only we beseech ye take rank among the powers of the earth, and fatten on us'!

my copy of the old curiosity shop is on its way; i'm excited!

[pabs]

Brian, what a wonderful, thoughtful passage from Dickens! Thank you! A pleasure to read, not only for its beautiful construction, but for its meaning. Great sarcasm!

You've given me an idea for a new topic.

[liquidnature]

A pleasure to read, not only for its beautiful construction, but for its meaning.

I feel as though this can be said for any sentence Dickens ever wrote. The man sure had a way with words. I'm horrendously under-read for a self-professed book lover, but I'd imagine in many years time, after I have traversed the centuries and genres of literature, that I will still hold Dickens in the highest of regards as a very favorite author.

[thoxans]

the investor's manifesto: preparing for prosperity, armageddon, and everything in between (william j. bernstein) lernin' how to make them millions

[Roscoe]

THE POISONED CHOCOLATES CASE by Anthony Berkeley, a kind of catch-all of 1930s English murder mystery tropes, it gives an unsolved crime (involving those poisoned chocolates) to the six members of a self-described Criminologist Club to solve. Multiple scenarios are put forth, different murderers are suggested, and there's good meta-fictional fun as at swipes are taken at Agatha Christie's most notorious novel in particular and the very idea of mystery-solving in general. Lots of fun and some good stings in its tail at the end. It doesn't quite go where you think it might.

And then THE FRENCH LIEUTENANT'S WOMAN for some reason -- I streamed a few minutes of the movie and thought, as I always think with that film, that the novel just has to be better, and yeah, a couple of chapters in, it is.

[nrh]

?

I'm reading a couple of Barry Gifford books at the moment. The Cuban Club and Do The Blind Dream?

gifford is low key one of my favorite (living) american writers but those are two of his worst books

[wigwam]

idk him except the lynch movies what are the good books?

[nrh]

idk him except the lynch movies what are the good books?

the lynch movies aren't anything like the books. i'd do the sailor and lula collection, sinaloa story or baby cat face first.

[wigwam]

v cool thx my library doesnt have cuban or sinola but im getting the rest

[MatiasAlbertotti]

Bartleby & Co. by Enrique Vila-Matas.

Not sure about this one yet. I mean I get all the theory about copists and the literature of no, but so far It feels like I'm just going through anecdotes and name dropping. I hope it builds into something, luckily I will find out soon, since it's a short read.

[Senor Arkadin]

Not really a Barry Gifford story, but I once read "Wild At Heart" on a plane when flying to Costa Rica, with the film poster as the cover. Coincidentally Laura Dern was on my plane, while we were all waiting in line to go through immigration I smirked and pointed at the cover of the book. She didn't find it nearly as amusing as I did. I think maybe picture of her about to kiss Nic Cage was weird with her kids present. But I was was like 16 and I was not well-tuned to things like that at the time.

[nrh]

I hope it builds into something, luckily I will find out soon, since it's a short read.

it both does and doesn't? a great book though i think, though in some ways i think it's not a great intro to vila-matas late style. even if you're mixed on this it's very much worth moving on to el mal de montano which continues and complicates many of the arguments in bartelby. he says doctor pasavento is conclusion to the trilogy but sadly it hasn't been translated yet and my spanish is far too poor for that book. mac y su contratiempo translation gets published next month and i can't wait, since folks who've read it in spanish say it's one of his very best...

[MatiasAlbertotti]

I hope it builds into something, luckily I will find out soon, since it's a short read.

it both does and doesn't? a great book though i think, though in some ways i think it's not a great intro to vila-matas late style. even if you're mixed on this it's very much worth moving on to el mal de montano which continues and complicates many of the arguments in bartelby. he says doctor pasavento is conclusion to the trilogy but sadly it hasn't been translated yet and my spanish is far too poor for that book. mac y su contratiempo translation gets published next month and i can't wait, since folks who've read it in spanish say it's one of his very best...

I've read some 20 pages more and I'm already into it. I think it just took a little to get in the correct mindset. Still it's worth the read only for the pleasure of how nice Vila-Matas' writes. I'll make sure to get to the other two on the triology once I'm done with this one. Thanks for the recommendations!!

[MatiasAlbertotti]

I hope it builds into something, luckily I will find out soon, since it's a short read.

it both does and doesn't? a great book though i think, though in some ways i think it's not a great intro to vila-matas late style. even if you're mixed on this it's very much worth moving on to el mal de montano which continues and complicates many of the arguments in bartelby. he says doctor pasavento is conclusion to the trilogy but sadly it hasn't been translated yet and my spanish is far too poor for that book. mac y su contratiempo translation gets published next month and i can't wait, since folks who've read it in spanish say it's one of his very best...

I finished it and loved it. I feel bad now about my first reaction to it, but after finishing it, checked some reviews and a lot of them (for and against) get stuck on how clever or boring it is because of all the references. Now that I finished it, I think that the references are a way of going around certain points and ideas that Vila-Matas chooses not to tackle head on, and that's the genius of it. It's accused of imitating Borges (as if that were a bad thing), but I don't think it does at all, to me he cleverly uses the style to accomplish something entirely different, since Borges was always about telling a story, and Vila-Matas is doing a lot more; I'm not saying is better than Borges, it's just toying with his influence and taking you somewhere else.

Still, I need time to let it sink in. I feel like I'm rambling and can't find, exactly, the point I want to make. I will have to re-read it, maybe in a year or two in order to make some sort of coherent idea.

And also to make a list of all the references.

[kanafani]

[wba2]

How's the Tanizaki going, kanafani?

[kanafani]

How's the Tanizaki going, kanafani?

I’m only 80 pages in, but so far so great. Promises to be one of those great novels about the eclipse of a family and an era. I saw the movie recently so I’m curious on how that will hold up. I will report back when i’ve Made sufficient progress.

[wba2]

How's the Tanizaki going, kanafani?

I’m only 80 pages in, but so far so great. Promises to be one of those great novels about the eclipse of a family and an era. I saw the movie recently so I’m curious on how that will hold up. I will report back when i’ve Made sufficient progress.

[Roscoe]

FRENCH LIEUTENANT'S WOMAN is rocketing right along, and the movie is just dwindling into a small greasy stain in comparison. Maybe a miniseries could get some of the novel's energy and time games.

[Evelyn Library P.I.]

I've begun reading far more, and my movie-watching has sharply declined, but at least some of the reading is about movies! I'm starting Jonathan Rosenbaum's literary memoir Moving Places, which I've had out of the library before but never actually read. Has anyone here read it? Already apparent that it's an essential read for understanding his development as a writer/critic and his subsequent personal canon formation.

[nrh]

think i mentioned it before but we both moved this month, by now almost everything necessary is unpacked but all the books are still sitting in boxes. so i needed a book and grabbed something new from the bookstore downstairs from my office - unclay by tf powys, which so far seems to be a death takes a holiday story filtered through a very eccentric religious lens? the writing is lovely so far and very much love all the details new directions has put into their new edition -
https://www.ndbooks.com/book/unclay/

[Roscoe]

After FRENCH LIEUTENANT'S WOMAN I needed something a bit lighter, and went back to Donald E. Westlake's Dortmunder novels, and WATCH YOUR BACK! is turning out to be very great fun.

[kanafani]

How's the Tanizaki going, kanafani?

I’m only 80 pages in, but so far so great. Promises to be one of those great novels about the eclipse of a family and an era. I saw the movie recently so I’m curious on how that will hold up. I will report back when i’ve Made sufficient progress.

Finished this a while ago. Really a great novel with finely defined characters. My favorite is the youngest sister, Taeko, a free spirit who longs for an independence that is just not yet feasible in that particular historical transitional era. There are some exciting set pieces (a flood, a big storm, an illness, difficult childbirth...). Kind of interesting how it also captures the casual deplorable politics and mindsets of middle class types, without taking anything away from their humanity: The Makiokas are a mindlessly nationalistic bunch that deeply revere the emperor, their German neighbors are Hitler enthusiasts, etc... Whoever said that the novel is greater than the movie adaption, I agree wholeheartedly.