Word: novelizes
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...Fast Move or I’m Gone: Kerouac’s Big Sur,” Gibbard and Jay Farrar—of Son Volt and Uncle Tupelo fame—collaborate to craft a soundtrack to an upcoming documentary about Jack Kerouac’s 1967 novel “Big Sur.” Lyrics for the soundtrack are entirely drawn from the novel’s text, but while the project’s concept is intriguing, the album itself proves disappointing. Though certain tracks skillfully utilize the duo’s unique vocal talents, featuring...
Frustratingly, a number of songs use poorly-chosen passages from the novel to create banal lyrics. For instance, on the track “These Roads Don’t Move” lines like “These roads don’t move / You’re the one that moves,” are surely meant to feel prophetic, but instead just feel insipid. As anyone even vaguely familiar with Beat literature can attest, Kerouac’s writing offers more beautifully composed images than those selected by Gibbard and Farrar to depict in song...
Unsurprisingly, the album’s haphazardly culled lyrics often resemble an incongruous mishmash of words that aspire to poetry, but largely remain trite and poorly-culled from the original text. Even if one didn’t know the lyrics were patchworked from a novel, it’s easy to tell that the songs are at least somewhat internally disconnected, as each tune fails to tell a complete story and doesn’t quite form a lyrically unified whole...
This being a Pamuk novel, of course, that happiness is short-lived. While the unabashed descriptions of lovemaking can at times verge on clumsy, the descriptions of loss are etched in sharp relief. Kemal, much to his regret, ends things with Füsun, and the next 350-odd pages chronicle his devastating remorse and unsuccessful attempts to win her back. In the process, he alienates his friends, breaks off his engagement, sacrifices his stake in a distribution and export firm, and even starts a production company called Lemon Films Inc. to finance the absurd scripts of his ex-lover?...
...book moves slowly, as it’s meant to. Kemal preserves moments in his memory as meticulously as the objects in his museum, cataloguing them in careful and loving detail. Pamuk himself completed this novel over a period of six years, spending at least 10 hours each day alone writing in a flat overlooking old Istanbul, and the sense of that isolation drifts throughout his painstaking dissection of heartbreak. More than any other novelist today, Pamuk has laid claim to the dispassionate prose style and layered, self-reflective inheritance of Proust. At one point, he follows a numbered list...