This book took me a good bit longer to finish than I expected, but that's the way with these things sometimes. My own life has been somewhat unpredictable lately (many things have been moving and shifting, many plans and obligations have been sprung on me) and, as for the book itself, it can be somewhat dense at points. That's somewhat in reference to the fairly ornate prose style, but more so related to the various cultural references that can be found each chapter. While I have more familiarity with the Edwardian Era than most, I still found myself frequently needing to go to the notes. All this is to say that the old maxim remains true: That which is good often does not come easily.

I have no interest in writing a formal review for this novel. As is the case for most classical literature, I sincerely doubt that my comments would be more interesting or better written than those of the reviewers who came before me. I will, however, share a few of my thoughts and, out of courtesy to those who might be reading this, try to keep them as spoiler free as possible.

One thing this book has taught me is how much I miss authorial intrusion that doesn't feel a need to be meta or ironic. While I understand this sort of thing is very much out of vogue, (and perhaps it should be, on some level the thematic layer of the book should extend from the narrative itself, not the author's reflections on it) there's something quite enriching about how Forster does it. Forster shapes his characters and events well, rarely failing to treat even the most reprehensible of them (The Wilcoxes lol) without a fair hand or earnest reflection. Much of this is amplified by the authorial voice, a presence which strikes me now as almost something of a scorekeeper. So far as I recall, no character (aside from maybe Dolly woops) fails to receive credit or acknowledgement from the author, one of the most humanizing forces in a book that might otherwise seem a bit simple in its critiques.

In this, we find the deep moral clarity at the heart of Howard's End. While Forster is never quiet about his own ideals, (the critiques of the imperialist, the anti-feminist and the land-owning class are strongly felt) his writing is also characterized by a desire to understand why the world seems so ready to make excuses for those ready to exploit it for all its worth. For all their intelligence and sensitivity, the Schlegel sisters, (the main characters) put up with and, in some cases, even become apologists for the excesses, thoughtlessness and indifference of the capitalistic Wilcoxes.

These critiques of the Schlegels are among the most meaningful of the book: For all the learning, art and philosophy of his intellectuals, at no point in Forster's novel do these characters succeed in meaningfully improving the society they find themselves in, despite their best intentions. At risk of overstepping my bounds, I might wager that this reflects a deep frustration on the part of the author.

Despite the learning and best intentions of his peers, the world of Forster's time was an unsteady one, full of turmoil and inequity, slowly creeping towards a war that seemed inevitable. Undergirding the text of Howard's End is a kind of uneasy soul-searching over what role an intellectual has in such a society. In spite of all the beauty and love found throughout the novel, the reader is never kept more than a few inches from the precipice of helplessness. Yet, at the same time, the novel never allows the reader to forget the people, the land and the beauty worth honoring, a factor which is most present whenever the titular home of Howard's End is involved.

I didn't much expect this page to function as a journal, but I felt like writing and sharing, so this is how it must go.

I spent the earlier part of my afternoon baking Alexandertorte, which tasted quite lovely, but fell a part a bit toward the end of its assembly. In the latter end of my evening, I finally got around to reading I Have No Mouth but I Must Scream, something I've put off for a minute. I wasn't particularly impressed, but I can appreciate the obvious influence it had on some stories I'm a bit more fond of, such as those of VanderMeer. Otherwise, I've been reading Forster's Howard's End and the occasional literary journal. I have work I should be doing, but it hasn't been done yet. If you're into writing with suspense, there's a terrifying amount of uncertainty as to whether or not I get to it tonight.

As is my habit in early spring, I spent some time outside, watching the sunset. There's really not much out here, but the chirps of the spring peepers and the early buds on the trees are beautiful. An anecdote might be the best way to explain how small of a town I live in currently: My computer says my location is a town about 10 miles east from here, a town known (so far as I can tell, at least), for a burnt down house and a couple wineries. There's a poem in there somewhere (at least, Richard Hugo might think so) but I can't be bothered to write it at the moment.

As for my own poetry, I was vaguely playing with an idea earlier about the construction orange and yellows of a particularly vivid sunset, and the construction of tomorrow throughout the night, but it felt way too saccharine. I wrote a different poem yesterday, one about the persistence of deadnettle in an otherwise well-maintained lawn. It was pleasant in a minimalist sort of way, where it felt like every word and linebreak was a solid contribution to the meaning of the piece. It made me wonder whether or not I should lean harder into a minimalist impulse of mine that occasionally springs up, but that's an instinct I'm skeptical of. It's not that I'm incapable of making good minimalist writing (I am, I think), just that it's part of a recent tendency of mine to want to completely overhaul the sort of writing I do. I can recognize that this is part of an internal struggle regarding my relatively few noteworthy publications, but it's still something to be wary of. Still, it's a good insight into my mindset at the moment.

Best,
Gus, Lord Guszone

I won't be the first to point out the trend of movies and shows getting unnecessary and unasked for sequels and reboots. It's been widely discussed as a phenomenon, and is usually explained with the simple logic of "studios want safe IPs, most don't want to take serious risks."

That's true, yeah. But there's another layer to unpack there, which is the increased frequency with which they come out. It doesn't take a genius to realize that working with an already popular franchise is going to make more money. It's absurd to think this thought is new, when it's so seemingly obvious. Yet, while sequels and reboots have always existed, they seem unusually prominent now. Why?

Let's consider reboots and sequels as part of a wider genre of media revival, a genre that also includes adaptations. When we include adaptations as part of this tradition, we see that this revival tendency has been prominent for basically all of film history, it's just the things being revived now are no longer books or plays, but just other movies and TV shows.

This, in my mind, is incredibly telling as to why the reboot apocalypse is upon us: it's not that franchise revival is new, but rather that we increasingly live in a world where non-televised media isn't widely consumed. The endless reboots, then, are a factor of our increasingly post-reading society, one in which book adaptations are far less guaranteed to secure an audience.