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Taipei (Vintage Contemporaries) Paperback – June 4, 2013
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"[A] modernist masterpiece. . . . True, his characters are young people living in Brooklyn. And he writes about the Internet. But we should stop calling Tao Lin the voice of his generation. Taipei, his new novel, has less to do with his generation than with the literary tradition of Knut Hamsun, Ernest Hemingway, and Robert Musil. . . . I cheerfully wrote "Proust" in the margin early on—because the hero, a young writer named Paul, takes such a meta attitude toward his own memories."—Benjamin Lytal, New York Observer
"Here we have a serious, first-rate novelist putting all his skills to work."—Clancy Martin, New York Times Book Review
"Mr. Lin casts a spell in Taipei. . . . [It is] his strongest book. At its best, it has distant echoes of early Hemingway, as filtered through Twitter and Klonopin: it's terse, neutral, composed of small and often intricate gestures. . . . it's about flickers of perception, flickers that the author catches as if they were fireflies."—Dwight Garner, New York Times
"Amazing. . . . the best writer about what it's like to be f*cked up on drugs that I've ever read."—John Horgan, author of The End of Science
"One thing I like about Tao's writing is how beside the point for me 'liking' it feels -- it's a frank depiction of the rhythm of a contemporary consciousness or lack of consciousness and so it has a power that bypasses those questions of taste entirely. Like it or not, it has the force of the real."—Ben Lerner, author of Leaving the Atocha Station
"[A] novel about disaffection that's oddly affecting. . . . for all its emotional reality, Taipei is a book without an ounce of self-pity, melodrama, or posturing."—Publishers Weekly, starred review
"Lin is an existential writer, really, less interested in tracing the contours of his particular social group than in describing the very personal and sometimes unbearable tyranny of one's own mind. . . . the novel's climactic scene. . . . builds over a few pages to a revelation that, in its sheer unexpected beauty, recalls the powerfully moving ending of David Markson's Wittgenstein's Mistress."—Slate
- Print length256 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- Publication dateJune 4, 2013
- Dimensions5.19 x 0.64 x 8 inches
- ISBN-100307950174
- ISBN-13978-0307950178
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Guest Review of Taipei, by Tao Lin
By Charles Yu
Charles Yu is the author of How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe, which was named one of the best books of the year by Time magazine. He received the National Book Foundation’s 5 Under 35 Award for his story collection Third Class Superhero, and was a finalist for the PEN Center USA Literary Award. His work has been published in The New York Times, Playboy, and Slate, among other periodicals. Yu lives in Los Angeles with his wife, Michelle, and their two children.
What does it feel like to be alive? It's an inquiry central to many novels, either explicitly or implicitly, and it has been explored in so many ways, in so many variations and permutations, that it's remarkable when someone finds a new way of asking the question. With Taipei, Tao Lin has managed to do just that. The novel's protagonist, Paul, is a twenty-something writer living in New York City who has at least two extraordinary capabilities: (1) a terrifyingly high tolerance for pharmacological substances, and (2) a prodigious ability to record and recount the moment-to-moment flow of micro-impressions and fleeting sensations of his awareness. While Lin may not be the first writer to combine these two elements in the form of a novel, he is the first one to synthesize them in this particular way, and it is the tension and interaction of these things that make Taipei such a compelling read.
What does it feel like to be alive? Weird. Really weird. That's something very easy to forget - we have an ability to acclimate quickly to our own ambient mental environment. For similar reasons, the fundamental strangeness of being alive is also very hard to articulate. What Tao Lin does is to slow everything down, paying very close attention to everything, registering his findings. The noise and bustle and all-night lights of the big city, first New York City, and then Taipei, the blur of pills and parties and people's faces are presented not as an impressionistic smear, but in careful, deliberate language, prose so precise it cannot be anything but excruciatingly honest. At times, Taipei feels like an experiment, a study on how to use (and abuse) your brain, with Paul communicating in a way that almost feels scientific - he's a scientist studying the strange thing called his self, or an alien who experiences human consciousness as if he were test-driving a brand new technology. It is this detachment which allows Lin to render, in a very pure, very visceral way, what the fringe feels like, a displacement or distance from the center, from your own heart, the psychological impossibility of going to some real or imagined home. Taipei renders all of this with a brute and direct force, and I admit at times that force caused me to flinch. This kind of experience is why I read, though - to be challenged, to be confronted, to experience something completely familiar that has been made entirely new.
From Booklist
Review
"Gchat as dialogue, endless drugs, misused words--welcome to the genius of Tao Lin's new novel. . . . Lin is one of the few fiction writers around who engages with contemporary life, rather than treating his writing online as existing in opposition to or apart from the hallowed analogue space of the novel. . . . exactly the kind of book I hoped Tao Lin would one day write."—Emily Witt, The Daily Beast
"A strange, hypnotic, memoir-reeking novel that is equal parts dissociative and heartbreaking, surreally hallucinogenic and grittily realist, ugly and beautiful."—Porochista Khakpour, author of Sons And Other Flammable Objects
"With Taipei Tao Lin becomes the most interesting prose stylist of his generation."—Bret Easton Ellis, author of Lunar Park
"Lin's great skill is to punctuate the narration with occasional moments of great lyricism, beauty, or pain."—Gideon Lewis-Kraus, Harper's
"[Taipei] could also have been called Drugs. But the marketing team at Vintage may not have wanted it placed alongside contemporary "drug fiction" like Irvine Welsh's The Acid House. . . . Lin has grander ambitions. . . . Lin doesn't romanticize drugs, or really even seem to enjoy them much. Nor does he moralize about them. Taipei carefully avoids the conventional drug genres of bacchanal and cautionary tale. . . . It is a depiction of the alienated subject in a personality-driven world."—LA Review of Books
"[Taipei] reads like a howl, and also—with its cast of angel-headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night—rather like Allen Ginsberg's poem 'Howl.'"—The Guardian
"[P]sychologically astute, often beautiful and completely unexpected."—NPR
"Taipei might be the first spiritual narrative that millennials—that anyone living in 2013, really—can get behind."—PopMatters
"In an age when the young consume mass quantities of music, video, and film, Tao provides a broader statement about the difficulty and importance of giving birth to oneself. . . . startling and life affirming."—Paste
"Taipei brilliantly portrays the life of many young men—drifting and difficult to reach, bound only to technology and drugs."—Financial Times
"[T]he first book I'd recommend to people who want to read a next-level novel, something akin to space-age journalism."—David Miller, Matador
From the Inside Flap
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
It began raining a little from a hazy, cloudless-seeming sky as Paul, 26, and Michelle, 21, walked toward Chelsea to attend a magazine-release party in an art gallery. Paul had resigned to not speaking and was beginning to feel more like he was “moving through the universe” than “walking on a sidewalk.” He stared ahead with a masklike expression, weakly trying to remember where he was one year ago, last November, more for something to do than because he wanted to know, though he was not incurious. Michelle, to his left, drifted in and out of his peripheral vision—far enough away for pedestrians to pass unknowingly between them—like a slow, amorphous flickering. Paul was thinking the word “somewhere,” meditatively as both placeholder and ends, when Michelle asked if he was okay.
“Yes,” said Paul automatically. As they entered a building, a few minutes later, he sort of glanced at Michelle and was surprised to see her grinning, then couldn’t stop himself from grinning. Sometimes, during an argument, feeling like he’d been acting in a movie and the scene had ended, Paul would suddenly grin, causing Michelle to grin, and they’d be able to enjoy doing things together again, for one to forty hours, but that hadn’t happened this time, partly because Michelle had grinned first. Paul looked away, slightly confused, and suppressed his grin. “What,” he said in an unintentionally loud monotone, unsure what he felt exactly, and they entered a large, mundane elevator, whose door closed slowly.
“What,” said Paul at a normal volume.
“Nothing,” said Michelle still grinning a little.
“Why are you grinning?”
“No reason,” said Michelle.
“What caused you to grin?”
“Nothing. Just life. The situation.”
Entering the party, on the fifth floor, Paul realized he’d said vaguely negative things on the internet, at some point, about a person who was probably in attendance, so walked quickly to Jeremy—an easy-to-talk-to acquaintance—and asked what movies he’d seen recently. Michelle stood at a near distance—partly in view, then obscured, then fully in view—before approaching, with what seemed like a sly smile, to ask if Paul wanted a drink. Jeremy was calculating aloud the per-hour price of a two-part biopic on Che Guevara when Michelle returned with a beer. Paul thanked her and she moved away in an intermittent, curving, crablike manner, seeming relaxed and disoriented. “She wants to be alone,” thought Paul with some confusion. “Or she wants to let me be alone.”
An hour later they were holding their third or fourth drinks, sitting on chairs in a dark corner, facing what seemed to Paul like one group of sixty to eighty friends. Loud, dancey, mostly electronic music—currently Michael Jackson—played from unseen speakers. Paul was staring at an area of torsos. In his previous relationships, he knew, he had experienced dissatisfaction, to some degree, as an empirically backed enthusiasm for the future, because it implied the possibility of a more satisfying relationship with someone he hadn’t met; with Michelle, whom he felt closer to than his previous girlfriends—he’d told her this a few times, truthfully—dissatisfaction felt more like a personal failing, a direct indication of internal malfunctioning, which he should focus on privately correcting. Instead, he vaguely knew, he was waiting for Michelle, or some combination of Michelle and the world, to endure and overpower his negativity—to be the solution in which he would irreversibly, untraceably dissolve. He sipped his wine, thinking about how Michael Jackson had been using ten to forty Xanax per night, according to the internet, before he died last summer. Paul distractedly scooted his chair toward Michelle and, with unclear purpose, touched her shoulder, tentative and reckless as a child petting a large dog looking elsewhere. Expecting the bored expression of ten minutes ago, when they’d looked at each other noncommittally as she returned to her chair with another drink, Paul was surprised by Michelle’s severely, actively—almost seethingly—depressed expression. Michelle’s face reddened antagonistically, in reflexive defense, it seemed, because then she appeared frustrated and a little confused, then shy and embarrassed. Paul asked if she wanted to leave soon. Michelle hesitated, then asked if that was what Paul wanted.
“I don’t know. Are you hungry?”
“Not really. Are you?”
“I don’t know,” said Paul. “I would eat somewhere.” One night, months ago, they had sat on a curb on Lafayette Street to continue an argument in a resting position. Paul had become distracted by Michelle’s calm, intelligent demeanor and had begun to forget why they were arguing, even while speaking in an agitated voice, as he became fixated, with increasing appreciation, on how Michelle liked him enough to not simply leave and never see him again, which she could do—which anyone could always do, Paul had thought, suddenly intrigued by the concept of gratitude. Do you want to eat at the Green Table?”
“If that’s what you want,” said Michelle.
“Okay. When do you want to leave?”
“After I finish this glass of wine.”
“Okay,” said Paul, and scooted his chair halfway to where it had been. “I’m going to introduce Kyle to someone. I’ll be back in like five minutes.”
Paul couldn’t find Kyle, 19, or Kyle’s girlfriend, Gabby, 28—his suitemates in an apartment off the Graham L train stop in Brooklyn—and was returning to Michelle when he realized he’d walked past Kyle, standing drunkenly alone in a dense area of people, as if at a concert. After some indecision, briefly motionless, Paul turned around and asked if Kyle wanted to meet Traci. Kyle nodded and followed Paul outside the gallery, to a wide hallway, where six people, including Traci—described earlier by Kyle as “really hot,” by Paul as “her blog gets a lot of hits”—shook hands with one another. Paul grinned uncomfortably as he stared at one person, then another, thinking he had “absolutely nothing” to say, except maybe what he was currently thinking, which didn’t seem appropriate and also kept changing. He noticed Michelle sitting alone, against a wall, around thirty feet away. The front of his head felt extraneous and suctioned as a plastic bag, stuck there in a wind, as he walked to her, aware she had probably seen him grinning at Traci, and asked if she wanted to go now.
“Do you?” said Michelle. not standing.
“Yeah,” said Paul looking toward the gallery.
“You can talk to Kyle more, if you want.”
“I don’t want to,” said Paul.
“It seems like you do.”
“I don’t,” said Paul, who viewed friends mostly as means to girlfriends, he knew, contrary to Michelle, who valued them as ends (they’d discussed this a few times and concluded, to some degree, that Paul had his writing, Michelle her friends). “I’m just going to say bye to him. I’ll be right back.” When he couldn’t find Kyle in the hallway he walked robotically into the dark, crowded gallery thinking “lost in the world” in a precariously near-earnest tone. Kyle was standing with a group of people in a sideways manner that didn’t clearly indicate if he knew them or not. He looked at Paul with an expression like he was thinking what to say, then like he was going to insult Paul, then less like he’d chosen to refrain than like he’d lost interest.
“I think Michelle feels like I’m not giving her enough attention,” said Paul slowly.
“That’s funny,” said Kyle after a few seconds. “Because Gabby, after one of our parties, said you gave Michelle so much attention and were always next to her talking to her, but I’m always talking to someone else, and that I don’t love her.”
“What did you say?”
“That I love her and give her attention,” said Kyle with a bored, self-loathing expression.
Paul couldn’t find Michelle in the hallway, discrepant and vulnerable, in the bright off-white corridor as a rarely seen animal, then turned a corner and saw her crouched on the floor, sixty to eighty feet away and not apparently doing anything. Paul, walking self-consciously toward her, vaguely remembered a night, early in their relationship, when he somehow hadn’t expected her to enlarge in his vision as he approached where she’d stood (looking down at a flyer, one leg slightly bent) in Think Coffee. The comical, bewildering fear—equally calming and surprising, amusing and foreboding—he’d felt as she rapidly and sort of ominously increased in size had characterized their first two months together. It had seemed like they would never fight, and the nothingness of the future had gained a framework-y somethingness that felt privately exciting, like entering a different family’s house as a small child, or the beginning elaborations of a science-fiction conceit. Then, one night, in late April, after cooking and eating pasta together, Paul had complained—meekly, without looking at her face—that Michelle never helped wash dishes. Michelle stared at him silently a few seconds before her eyes became suddenly watery, the extra layer of translucence materializing like a shedding of something delicate. Paul stared back, weirdly entranced—he’d never seen her cry—before crawling across his wood floor, over his yoga mat, dizzy with emotion, to hug her and apologize. In May he began complaining once or twice a week (that certain things Michelle did were inconsiderate, that he felt neglected) and, by July, most days, was either visibly irritated or mutely, inscrutably despondent, as if he alone had a vast knowledge of horrible truths, which, he knew, he didn’t— but could still feel good, to some degree, after coffee or alcohol or, when easily attainable, prescription drugs, most recently methadone, supplied by Michelle’s friend who had fallen down stairs, which they’d ingested once every four to six days for five weeks, ending three weeks ago. One night, since then, Michelle had told Paul it seemed like he “hated” her and Paul, after a around ten seconds, had cited a day they’d had fun together, then had grinned and said “no” illogically when Michelle correctly said they’d been on methadone that day.
“Why are you sitting so far away?”
“I’m waiting for you. You said you wanted to leave an hour ago.”
Outside, on the sidewalk, Michelle walked quickly ahead with her hands in her jacket pockets, as if to better escape Paul with a more streamlined form, though also it was still raining. Paul asked what she wanted to do. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
They crossed Tenth Avenue in a diagonal, not at an intersection, through headlights of a stopped taxi—two or three people were closing their umbrellas, getting in—onto the opposite sidewalk and continued downtown, bodies bent against the wind.
“Wait,” said Paul. “Can we stop walking for a minute?”
They stopped, facing the same direction, on the sidewalk.
“What’s wrong?” said Paul after a few seconds, slightly accusatorily.
“You’ve been ignoring me all night,” said Michelle.
“I moved close to you and hugged you, when we were sitting.”
“Once we got inside you walked away and started talking to other people.”
“You walked away from me,” said Paul. “I felt confused.”
A deli worker standing under an awning was looking into some unspecific distance, honestly uninterested. “I’ve never felt you act this way before,” said Michelle unsteadily, looking down, suddenly tired and scared, the protest of her having dispersed to something negotiable. For a few days, two or three months ago, she had considered studying abroad in Barcelona next spring, which would’ve meant four months apart. Paul thought of how they’d kept delaying buying plane tickets to visit his parents in Taiwan—in December, which was next month, he knew—as if in tacit understanding that their relationship wouldn’t last that long. Paul felt himself trying to interpret the situation, as if there was a problem to be solved, but there didn’t seem to be anything, or maybe there was, but he was three or four skill sets away from comprehension, like an amoeba trying to create a personal webpage using CSS.
“I’m just naturally losing interest,” he finally said, a little improvisationally, and Michelle began quietly crying. “I didn’t expect this at all,” she said. “I’ve felt good about us the past two weeks. I thought we’ve been closer than we’ve ever been.”
“I think I was affected by the study-abroad thing,” said Paul nearly inaudibly, confused how she’d thought they’d been close the past two weeks.
“Go back to the party. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Wait. I don’t think we should leave each other now.”
“Have a good time with your friends,” said Michelle sincerely.
“Wait. What friends?”
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” said Michelle.
“If we leave each other now it’s over.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that.”
“I only go to things to find a girlfriend,” said Paul paraphrasing himself, and they stood not looking at each other, for one or two minutes, as rain from faraway places disappeared into their clothing and hair. Paul felt surprised by the friendly tone of his voice as he asked if Michelle wanted to eat dinner with him, in a restaurant.
“I don’t want to talk to you right now,” said Michelle.
“I don’t want to be in a relationship where it’s like this.”
“I don’t either,” said Michelle.
“I’m going back if you don’t want to do something.”
“I want to go home. Good night.”
“Okay,” said Paul, and turned around, aware they hadn’t parted like this before. He crossed 22nd Street and turned to cross Tenth Avenue and saw Michelle disjunctively running and walking toward him, stopping at a red light with the posture of a depressed teenager. Paul thought of how she liked Nirvana a lot, and she crossed the street, slowing as she neared and stopping within arm’s reach. “Paul,” she said after a few seconds, and touched his upper arm, as if to offer a way back, through her, to some prior intimacy, from where they could tunnel carefully elsewhere, or to the same place, but with a kind of skill this time, having practiced once. Paul remained still, unsure what to say or think. Michelle lowered her hand to her side. “What are you doing?” she said, somewhat defensively.
“What do you mean?”
“Aren’t you going back to the party?”
“Yeah. I said I was.”
“Fine,” said Michelle.
Paul felt passively committed to not moving.
“Why are you standing here?”
“You came back,” said Paul feebly, and four to six people approached from the direction of the party. Michelle stepped into a soil-y area, lower and darker than the sidewalk, and leaned between spires on a metal fence, with her left profile—obscured by her long, dark hair—toward Paul, who stared dumbly at the gently convex curve of her back, thinking with theoretical detachment that he should console her and that maybe the discomfort of her forearms against the thin metal of the fence had created a location, accessible only to herself, toward which she could relocate, away from what she felt, in a kind of shrinking. “Do you—” said Paul, and coughed twice with his mouth closed. “Do you want to eat dinner with me somewhere?” Michelle turned toward him a little, moving her head to see through her hair. “What are you doing?” she said in a tired, distracted voice, and leaned back on the fence without waiting for an answer. After a vague amount of time Paul heard himself asking again if she wanted to eat dinner with him, at the Green Table, one of the few restaurants they wanted to but hadn’t tried, then she was walking away, her long legs scissorlike in their little, orderly movements. It would take her thousands of steps to get anywhere, but she would get there easily, and when she arrived, in the present, it would seem like it had been a single movement that brought her there. Did existence ever seem worked for? One seemed simply to be here, less an accumulation of moments than a single arrangement continuously gifted from some inaccessible future.
Product details
- Publisher : Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group; First Edition (June 4, 2013)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 256 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0307950174
- ISBN-13 : 978-0307950178
- Item Weight : 5.6 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.19 x 0.64 x 8 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #390,192 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #733 in Asian American Literature & Fiction
- #3,727 in Psychological Fiction (Books)
- #21,699 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Tao Lin is the author of ten books, including Leave Society (2021), Trip: Psychedelics, Alienation, and Change (2018), and Taipei (2013). He's working on a nonfiction book titled Self Heal: How I Cured My Autism, Autoimmune Disorder, Eczema, Depression, and Other Health Problems Naturally. He lives in Hawaii. Visit his website at https://taolin.us.
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It's as if Paul is being observed by a second consciousness at all times, a consciousness that is also his own
Ummmm
It's actually insane. The idea that no matter the level of pain one feels one can be at peace with it. Can let go of attachment to the idea that pain is bad, and as a result actually alter the experience of pain. Like the man I saw on tv who nonchalantly stuck a metal stake through his arm.
If anyone finds it boring, I think it's because they want the moments in Paul's life to follow a satisfying arc, which they refuse to, but instead choose to spiral in on themselves.
Even though it's written in third person, it's as if the narrator's voice is also coming from Paul, and the narrator describes Paul's emails with his mother as if confiding in a close friend.
There were some lines which I had trouble translating into my imagination, like the line: "but if you're dead you'll be dead," said Paul in a loud, murmurred, (typo!) strangely incredulous voice that he felt aversion toward and confused by." 142 I tried to read Paul's dialogue out loud to myself like 3 times, and found it hard to be loud and murmur at the same time, but it actually seemed interesting and surprisingly weird-sounding.
It's also almost like a literary person writing a celebrity tell-all about people no one cares about but are about to care about (what?)
Even the way Lin describes things that happen is like experiencing a memory, instead of a reality based on memory. There are summaries of conversations, and each moment in time that is jumped to seems to have been jumped to just to look at a certain impression it made, a certain not-fully-understood significance that it had, or strong feeling of emptiness.
Maybe not
Lin wants to speak to the people of the present so he describes present-day experience, but the themes he reaches at are existential, timeless.
Immersing himself in contemporary culture nonjudgementally is what allows Paul to see the world in the clarity of time immemorial (jk)
Paul finds himself speaking in tones that seem to have come from nowhere, like eerie puppets are controlling the strings of his voice.
A person's inability to control his own actions - to feel his perceiving mind is at one with his actions - that how he expresses himself outwardly into the world is compatible with his inner feeling of what he should be.
In fact Paul is obsessed with using drugs to make social situations more enjoyable for himself and others, and it seems to be an effective tactic. (Until when?)
Which begs the question - why is it so hard for us to communicate with each other? Are drugs a defense against cultural systems which have dammed up our minds and the flow of our creativity? Even if they are, do they last? Do they point to some other possible reality?
Drugs and the Internet are vehicles of liberation, and of suffering, just like anything else.
It seems to me that anyone who reads Taipei and goes away with a feeling that its message is nihilistic, emotionless, and meant to be painful for the reader, wasn't open to trying to understand, or wasn't able to understand, the book. Uhh
Or because they don't understand it, they assume lin must be trying to attack them in some way, or insult them and their way of life. Don't review the reviews
Chogyam trungpa once said, "compassion is not so much being kind; it is being creative to wake a person up."
Quote about "continuously gifted from some inaccessible future"
But it's not that Paul has control over anything that happens - physical laws of the universe are not bent, no magical realism is employed. This is not what a mind-centric view means. We still don't have free will, and must comply with physics. The only way we can gain freedom is by freeing our thoughts, by training our minds to rewrite and recalibrate reality, to live in our minds. (make this better)
Tao mentions Don Dellilo as influence in one work. Dellilo says: DeLillo has described his fiction as being concerned with "living in dangerous times",[3] and in a 2005 interview declared, "Writers must oppose systems. It's important to write against power, corporations, the state, and the whole system of consumption and of debilitating entertainments [...] I think writers, by nature, must oppose things, oppose whatever power tries to impose on us."[4]
But Lin says he is not making a commentary on contemporary culture in any way. But this doesn't mean he is an apathetic hipster. He is even more radical than the writers that seek to criticize the actions of the people in the world: he criticizes no one, but instead tries to change the conversation- criticizes the language itself. Or rather, rewrites the language.
Because Paul is able to view the world as springing from his mind, aided by drugs, which already make him hyper-aware of the open-endedness (whatness?) and bendableness of what he is perceiving, and aided by the Internet, which is another reflection of our minds-if the physical world
can be said to be a reflection of our minds- and is an alternate reality. Navigating the world of constantly recalibrating perception, the mind itself eventually can't be clinged to any more strongly than anything material can, and all sense of reality is lost.
This is where the ground of groundlessness is found.
It's not that other writers don't write introspectively - of course they do. But Lin places the parameters of Paul's mind literally outside the parameters of the universe. He makes his mind bigger. So Paul can go "afk" his face, can separate his consciousness from his body entirely, and be in another place, the Internet inside his mind.
It's not merely that Lin makes elaborate metaphors; he expands the parameters of what a metaphor is. He makes the metaphor so big that it becomes the thing that is real, the subject, and life itself is the metaphorical object.
The electric kool aid acid test
By observing strict rules, Lin’s writing becomes a microcosmic universe of its own, propelling itself forward relentlessly.
Inside one mind, what has been communicated between the mind (Paul) and another person can never be fully determined, only Paul's perceptions can be observed. By maintaining complete loyalty to his subjectivity, lin admits that his subject's object is inherently irreconcilable with his mind that observes it. What
That the outside world cannot be definitely pinned down, that others' actions and intentions and facial expressions can only be guessed at. That reality itself can only be guessed at and agreed upon, but in their hearts the people won't be sure if they understand the agreed upon thing in the same way, really, inherently.
I should finish reading first I'm only on like page 140something
Because if he lives inside his mind, then all outer appearances are simply arising phenomena, and to pass judgement on them would be foolish. So it's not detachment, but lack of judgement. Paul seeks love over enlightenment? Siddhartha? Read the damn book
Something about the title being a place
Someone once said of Tao Lin that he's a performance artist using the medium of writing, which sounds cool, but also kind of sucks and reminded me of when people said I was a conceptual artist when all I was trying to do was make beautiful things. (I'm lying, though, it's still a challenge to remain dogma-less)
But Taipei is the furthest from the performance artist assessment. It is merely a beautiful object, to be stared at happily.
Lin's radicalism is not in the drugs he takes or even in some perceived new style of writing: it's in his way of seeing the world, which is remarkably strict in its adherence to nondual thinking, ......
Events in reality are rendered uncertain, but the emotions underlying them are real
He takes the concept of drugs and applies it to experience in life that could be described as having the effect of the concept drugs....
Siddhartha sought answers in the world, but Paul seeks them in his mind. The Buddha taught that the mind rules everything, which is contrary to our western grounding in science. But when observation springs primarily from perception, when all observation is grounded in perception [clarify], a different metaphysical place emerges, inside a mind. From here is where real aloneness can be experienced: where emotions are confusing, complex, ever-changing and
Still obvious?
Paul's relationship with the world is like that of a stoic man with his equally stoic nephew for whom he has unspoken, inexpressible affection. It is platonic in the deepest sense of the word: platonic love etc
In an interview in which he was on MDMA, which is partially excerpted in the book, and which occurred before most of the events in the book**, Lin says that his goal is to find a girlfriend. Then he says that's a secondary goal, and his first goal is to have a comfortable relationship with anything happening externally. This is the relationship that is the story of the book: Paul's mind vs the external.
Is there some contradiction there? If Taipei is a modern day Siddhartha, are Lin's two goals reconcilable?
As someone who vacillates between extreme romanticism based on projections formed of Internet-based crushes and the desire to join a buddhist-ish monastery, this question is relevant to me.
By entertaining all possibilities in one's mind, one can avoid causing real-world harm ?
To me, Lin doesn't seem interested in denouncing anything at all, nor does he seek to elevate any certain kind of lifestyle. He simply wants to take what's around him and distill it, alchemize it, so that mundane experience can no longer be labeled mundane. So that all experience is worthwhile, and is equally beautiful and equally empty.
Paul doesn't feel less than other people, and he is not a robot struggling to understand human emotion, as someone wrote in their review on Goodreads.. Just because a person feels deeply isolated from other humans, and can't connect to them, doesn't make that person robotic.
And, yeah, the "I did this, this and this while I thought that, that, that and that" stuff can wear thin. Lin treads the same Manhattan streets Jay McInerney did almost 30 years ago in Bright Lights, Big City, just with less energy. Partly perhaps because McInerney and his pals took drugs that made you go up and Tao Lin's posse favors drugs that make you go down.
Still, when Lin is in the mood, he can really light up the page.
It's hard to make boredom exciting, but he's funny, there are neat lines (sitting on the grass at night by the East River in a park, Tao's protagonist defines his local world this way: "Manhattan. . .seemed. . .like an enormous, unfinished cruise ship that had been disassembled and rearranged by thousands of disconnected organizations") and A-list drumroll stuff (could a horse be named "athlete of the year"?) and an original point of view--a self-obsessed, very successful young novelist protagonist who appears to have strangely the ego, drive and self-regard of a druggy church mouse. Imagine if a 21st century Oscar Wilde had reinvented Waiting for Godot.
Paul also takes drugs, lots of drugs. Unlike the Beats, who took drugs to find ecstatic union with a friend or the universe, or the Hippies, who got high to get on the fast track to enlightenment, Paul has no grand rationalization for his massive ingestion of psychedelics, uppers and downers. All Paul and his friends seem to be reaching for is respite from some deep and nameless anxiety. Their drug use lacks the desperation of addiction, but it doesn't feel fun either. More like grim obligation, which is what reading about it finally feels like as well.
Taipei provides a minutely detailed examination of a consciousness shaped more by the digital than the analog world. The novel has a flat, affectless, often convoluted prose style that poses interesting challenges to our assumptions about what constitutes art. We've put the tools of communication into Everyman's hands, but blogging, tweeting, posting, uploading, narrowcasting, etc is not the same as creating a polished artistic statement. Lin makes that point beautifully (maybe even intentionally) when Paul and Erin get high and go to a MacDonald's in Taipei, where they make a boring, inane, juvenile faux documentary with iMovie.
There is a long, honorable history in the novel of writers diving deeply into a single consciousness to reveal truths about how we process the world around us. What makes this book such a slog at times is that Paul never engages the people and places around him in a meaningful way. If this novel was meant as a send up of Brooklyn hipsterdom, it should have been funnier. If it was meant to chronicle this iteration of lost twentysomethings, it should have more shading and social context. Instead we have a main character who is both self-absorbed and anhedonic, not a pretty combination. Paul's consciousness is like a dark star, collapsing endlessly inward, sucking in all the light around it.