Maturity, one discovers, has everything to do with the acceptance of ‘not knowing.
– Mark Z. Danielewski –
I’ve been happily reading the House of Leaves (published in March 2000) for the past few months. A book which has gained legendary status because of its unconventional style and format that has left many readers in deep fascination and respect for the author Mark Z. Danielewski who spent years to create this impressive and artistic work. HOL has an international popularity and appeal, with translations in a number of different languages and college courses dedicated to unraveling the mysteries of the House.
I deeply enjoy reading House Of Leaves and want to share this experience with you, my friendly readers. I always strive to create the most fun, valuable, thought-provoking, and entertaining posts as possible. As far as my narrations go, I don’t edit anything. I record directly to my iPhone and upload the recording here, so I apologize if it’s not 100% professional, but it’s the best that I can do at the present time with minimum amount of equipment. Listening is a great medium. I’ve got tons of audiobooks myself. They’re a blast! And if you’re wondering about my accent, well it’s all over the place with North and South American, along with other influences.
I’ll be narrating a certain paragraph from the House that has been randomly selected, mostly because this particular paragraph contains only two sentences, and I love me those long sentences! Now please, before we begin, do not ask me to explain to you the meaning of this paragraph or the book itself. That’s a very difficult question with a very complicated answer. I’ll just say that the house is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. (And this paragraph seems to be describing something of a sexual nature). The House Of Leaves is a multi-level, interactive reading experience. Its prose is very poetic, that’s why it’s great to read aloud and ponder on the beauty and depth of each line. So without further ado, I bring to you page 89, the second paragraph of House Of Leaves, get ready for it…
I’ve also left some pictures of the book below so you can see how some of the pages are set up in a very odd way.
Here we go!
Narration by Charles DuFont
We never even kissed or looked into each other’s eyes. Our lips just trespassed on those inner labyrinths hidden deep within our ears, filled them with the private music of wicked words, hers in many languages, mine in the off color of my only tongue, until as our tones shifted, and our consonants spun and squealed, rattled faster, hesitated, raced harder, syllables soon melting with groans, or moans finding purchase in new words, or old words, or made-up words, until we gathered up our heat and refused to release it, enjoying too much the dark language we had suddenly stumbled upon, craved to, carved to, not a communication really but a channeling of our rumored desires, hers for all I know gone to Black Forests and wolves, mine banging back to a familiar form, that great revenant mystrery I still could only hear the shape of, which in spite of our seperate lusts and individual cries still continued to drive us deeper into stranger tones, our mutual desire to keep gripping the burn fueled by sound, hers screeching, mine– I didn’t hear mine–only hers, probably counter-pointing mine, a high-pitched cry, then a whisper dropping unexpectedly to practically a bark, a grunt, whatever, no sense any more, and suddenly no more curves either, just the straight away, some line crossed, where every fractured sound already spoken finally compacts into one long agonizing word, easily exceeding a hundred letters, even thunder, anticipating the inevitable letting go, when the heat is ultimately too much to bear, threatening to burn, scar, tear it all apart, yet tempting enough to hold onto for even one second more, to extend it all, if we can, as if by getting that much closer to the heat, that much more enveloped, would prove . . .–which when we did clutch, hold, postpone, did in fact prove too much after all, seconds too much, and impossible to refuse, so blowing all of everything apart, shivers and shakes and deep in her throat a thousand letters crashing in a long unmodulated fall, resonating deep within my cochlea and down the cochlear nerve, a last fit of fury describing in lasting detail the shape of things already come.
Thanks for reading and check out this other excerpt from the House here!