Rating: 
Summary: I tried, I really did!
Review: "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.
Rating: 
Summary: An unusual and intriguing work of psychological fiction
Review: David Markson's novel, Wittgenstein's Mistress, follows the stream of consciousness of Kate, a woman in mid-life who is cut off from all human contact. She has "gotten rid of all unnecessary baggage," meaning that she is living a minimalist lifestyle in an abandoned beach house without electricity or running water. She is sufficiently self aware to know that she is insane. She refers to a number of events in her past that point to the cause of her mental decline -- the death of her only child at age seven from meningitis, the breakdown of her marriage, the deaths of both parents and the guilt and loneliness ensuing from all of the above. Gradually, the reader becomes aware that there is no other living being in the protagonist's existence. Gradually, the reader starts to suspect -- without ever quite knowing for certain -- that the world has somehow come to an end and that the protagonist is the sole survivor. The stream of consciousness narration is the most fascinating and challenging aspect of this novel. The protagonist's thoughts are out of focus, obsessively repetitive, factually inconsistent (she refers to her only child first as Adam, then as Simon and, finally, as Lucien) and without logical sequence -- all of which are indicative of her mental state. This makes the novel all the more intriguing. However, it also makes for difficult reading. Unless you're planning on reading this book in a single sitting, be sure to have a bookmark handy. Finding one's place in this book can be a challenge. Nonetheless, the protagonist always remains sympathetic. There is a purity and sweetness of soul that shines through the ramblings. Toward the book's end, she has what appears to be a moment of lucidity where she comes close to acknowledging the pain of her situation -- whatever that situation may be. The passage is absolutely heart-breaking. This novel is filled with hundreds of references and anecdotes relating to music, art history, poetry, drama, mythology and the classics. These references cry out to be looked into further. In this respect, this novel reminds me of the works of Markson's friend and mentor, Malcolm Lowry. I suspect that there may be hidden gems in this book that won't become clear until the references are checked out and the book re-read.
Rating:
Summary: "Original?" In what way?
Review: David Markson, Wittgenstein's Mistress (Dalkey Archive Press, 1988) I gave up on it. I understand its appeal for many, and it's probably the best example of what stream-of-consciousness would look like written down in first person by someone with an obsessive mental editor, but that as a convention doesn't hold up for as many pages as this novel wants to be. It would have been a great plotless short story, though. The narrator's voice rings true, if somewhat grating, like reading the two-hundred-fifty page rough draft of a meandering Andy Rooney column. And that's its major problem, it never centers on anything. There's nothing for the reader to latch onto and follow, other than the voice. Other reviewers have commented on the novel's originality, and I was never quite able to find it. Those who thought it original for being a first-person last-woman-on-earth narrative are encouraged to go read, well, any number of last-person-on-earth sci-fi works. Those who found it in the narrator's existential angst are encouraged to check out Alain Robbe-Grillet's The Erasers and Jean-Paul Sartre's Roads to Freedom series of novels. Those who thought it original for being a whole novel told from the single perspective of an unreliable narrator can turn many places, most notably the work of James Baldwin, to see influences. In any case, I missed the originality. (zero)
Rating:
Summary: Rewarding, difficult book
Review: I read books on the bus and on the subway between work and meetings, etc. With some books I feel like I make progress if I get through 3 or 4 pages at a time, and others I can breeze through as much as 10. With this book, I can get through 10-12 pages at a time on the bus/subway, etc. But it's still slow-going. It's not because I'm bored--parts of this book make me laugh out loud to the point of visceral pain. It's because I'm using my brain in a different way, and I feel a bit tired after reading those 10-12 pages. Tired in a good way. This book is a fascinating picture of the way someone's brain works, someone who's a bit off. I loved "Kate's" openness to putting things together, like imagining Rembrandt and de Kooning in the same room in Delft. The playfulness of the text and its underlying sadness moved me. But make no mistake, this text requires some work on the part of the reader. I like these sorts of challenges. Markson is not exactly "bus-reading," but I do think he writes some wonderfully nutty stuff and there is a reward in it.
Rating: 
Summary: Heavens to Betsy
Review: 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.
Rating:
Summary: Heavens to Betsy
Review: 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.
Rating:
Summary: Wittgenstein's Ex
Review: 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.
Rating: 
Summary: Wonderful story, but could have been much shorter
Review: The commentary on lonliness is well done, but I found the endless cultural references tedious. I also didn't think that the roundabout connections created made much difference to the story itself. Definitely recommended but with the caveat that it requires mucho endurance to slog through the references.
Rating:
Summary: Wittgenstein's Ex
Review: This is not a review.
Years back, a reviewer said about Richard Brautigan that he wrote books that college sophmores aspire to write.
Have I read much Brautigan? I believe he committed suicide in Eastern Montana.
Well, maybe not Eastern Montana after all, though if you're standing on the Montana/South Dakota border, there is no Eastern Montana.
Or did I mean the Montana/North Dakota border? I'm not sure sometimes though my guess is that it's the one without the rock faces.
Rock faces. That makes for a difficult transition to this, the next in this long series of mysterious utterences.
But this is just the text. What about the subtext? That too is eerily eerie.
Even eerily eerier is Mannheim's "contemoraneity of the non-contemporaneous."
Or, that we're uncertain who decided that punctuation is inserted into quoted text within the "quotation marks";
That is the exception.
In my life thus far exceptions have not proven the rule.
I am mad. I am crazy.
Yesterday I died but returned in time to write this.
"In time." What a fatuous concept. I enjoy the word "fatuous." It is that most self-referential of things: fatuousness.
I am dizzy with fatuousness. I am Mark's son.
I am a sophmore.
Rating:
Summary: The Way of All Meat (semi-spoilers included)
Review: This is one of those stories that falls into the Big Two-Hearted River genre of stories, where what the characters are not thinking about is more important than the action on the page. For instance, the world has ended, and it is not directly stated how it has become devoid of people (but I think we all know). What does populate the narrator's thought are the biographies of the great artists of history. Is it possible to lead a meaningful life interacting only with dead history? This book makes an argument that yes, it can be done, but it will be no less tragic than a life with the living. The accomplishment of this book is that it almost convinces us that such a life may be no less rewarding.
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