What goes through the mind of a poet
on the verge of death? This sprawling masterpiece of streaming transcendence is
one of the more breathtaking interpretations of that divine explosion, one in
which the wick ignited by a soul gifted with deep perception winds its way
through life before being incinerated at the door of death’s bomb. Broch is a
master of Zen paradox; throughout the novel he attempts to dissociate his
readers from context by turning basic concepts into intangible contradictions.
While reading this one gets the sense that there is no purpose in life, that we
are just along for the ride, while natural laws and theoretical ideas are only
toys we use for exercising the gifts of reason and story. Unfortunately, he
doesn’t depart from this formula at all, so the book risks the distinction of
being one of the most redundant, repetitious, and inherently boring one to
readers who don’t appreciate philosophical conundrums.
The pulse of the novel is a
metafictional one; the ancient Roman writer Virgil is faced with the decision
of burning The Aeneid before his
death. Most of this takes place in the second half. The first half is an
overwhelming barrage of apprehension in modernist prose. The first two sections
are incredibly consistent, religiously intense, and before beginning the third
section I was predicting that this would be in my top 5 reads of all time.
Metafiction is somewhat of a bore to me, so the third section had me skipping
ahead a few times. If it is too difficult or boring for you, at least give the
fourth and final “Homecoming” section a try. I’m having trouble describing it;
it’s simply one of the most spiritually gratifying pieces of literature in
existence. It's a worthy capstone beyond measure, the heart of an unforgettable
novel, and a must read for the enlightened few.
