When it comes to books, a year-end best of list is slightly more difficult (for me) than a similar list of music or films. For starters, I tend to read all over the map, not just current releases. This year, I finally got around to reading The Bell Jar! I also picked up She's Come Undone, which I had been meaning to read for a decade. Due to the nature of my job, I also read a lot of new stuff in order to recommend titles (and because my huge love is contemporary fiction). This makes it difficult to do a straight up Top 10 books for the year, because what would it consist of? Top 10 books of 2011, top 10 recent reads, top 10 of everything I read this year? I managed to do one last year, but this year, I am going to mix it up a little, and simply present my First Annual Book Awards. Enjoy.
My Greatest Discovery: Antonya Nelson. This category was a toss up between Nelson, who has been writing for years, and Victoria Patterson, who is only on her second book. Both of them were new discoveries for me, although I was vaguely familiar with Nelson's name. Over Memorial Day weekend, I read her novel Bound, which was a 2010 release. The story is engaging, the writing is first-rate, and most impressively to me was the way in which she made about twenty characters seem necessary in a relatively small book. You can check out my original post here: http://shane-malcolm.blogspot.com/2011/05/book-review-bound-by-antonya-nelson.html.
Best Biography/Autobiography/Memoir: August Gale by Barbara Walsh. I read several books in this category in 2011, but the most well-written was certainly Walsh's tribute to her enigmatic grandfather, Paddy. This book gets you more bang for your buck, because it's actually two tales in one. Walsh traces the story of the August gale that rocked Newfoundland in 1935 and its momentous effect on the fishermen (one in particular) with painstaking historical accuracy, while also chronicling the present day saga of she and her father hot on the trail of family secrets ... all in the name of love and redemption. Riveting from the first page.
The Well Worth the Wait Classic Award: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. Again, this could have gone to any number of books, but Plath takes the trophy simply because I've been hearing about The Bell Jar all my life. The story of Esther Greenwood, this could almost be viewed as the female Catcher In The Rye, although the dark tones and themes are much more overt here. The book spoke to me as I read it at age 34. If I'd encountered it earlier in life, I'm not sure how I would have reacted. Very real, very haunting, entirely timeless.
Most Disappointing Read: Clouds of Witness by Dorothy L. Sayers. I feel like this is a sacrilegious statement, but don't worry, I am definitely going to give this Grande Dame of mystery another chance. I had wanted to read her for years, since she's considered to be as good as (and in some cases better than) my beloved Agatha Christie. Alas, I may have chose the wrong title to start with. I certainly enjoyed Clouds of Witness, but it didn't live up to the hype. I didn't find myself blown away by her talent like I do at the end of each Christie book. I also found Lord Peter Whimsey to be quite annoying. Still, it was nothing short of impressive in terms of plotting and technical achievement.
Most Memorable Book: The Magus by John Fowles. No contest here. This is one of the most unforgettable books I've ever read, and unlike anything else out there. I cannot even speak properly about this novel yet, but here's the link to my previous blog http://shane-malcolm.blogspot.com/2011/10/magus-by-john-fowles-wild-ride-into.html
The "I Feel Like I'm Not Alone" Award: Rob Sheffield, and the late May Sarton. This year, I read Sheffield's heartwarming, genuine tribute to music Talking To Girls About Duran Duran. I have long loved this man, since his columns in "Rolling Stone" magazine, and this book was laugh inducing and tear-jerking at the same time. I also read May Sarton's 1973 memoir, Journal Of A Solitude, which chronicles one year of her life and her inward search as an introvert. Words cannot express how thankful I am to Sheffield and dear departed Sarton. I feel like they are kindred spirits of mine, and reading them, I'm less alone in the world.
Most Underrated Novel: By Nightfall by Michael Cunningham. This one sort of got lost in the shuffle when it was released in 2010. Sure, it garnered some good reviews, but it didn't have the buzz of Cunningham's earlier works like The Hours and A Home At the End of the World. I absolutely loved this book, which details the personal collapse of art gallery owner Peter Harris. His life is in shambles, although he doesn't exactly know this when the book begins. His marriage, seemingly solid, is crumbling. A visit from his brother in law, Mizzy, stirs up feelings and attractions that are far more devastating than they first appear. Because the entire book is told from Peter's viewpoint, there is a lot we miss, but you'll have fun filling in the blanks. As always, Cunningham's writing is top notch.
Greatest Use of Talent: Sarah Braunstein, The Sweet Relief Of Missing Children. Braunstein's novel is as dark as they come, and it's equally amazing. My book group was vociferous in its reaction to this novel, which involves an abduction, as well as several parents who make "wrong" choices. People were disturbed by the book, but wow, did we ever have a great discussion. And even those who were most put off by the novel rose up to praise the writer for her shimmering prose. When Braunstein spoke at the Bailey Library, she was engaging and won over the crowd. Only the most talented can win unanimous praise even when their books are so divisive. As for me, I liked the book enough to put it in my Top 3 for the year if this was a traditional Top 10.
Most Deserving of the Hype Award: Room by Emma Donoghue. Sometimes a book is so good that it's actually deserving of all the great press, five star reviews, and award nominations. Room is one such book. It's also one of only two books that every single person in my book group loved, and let me tell you, this is a group of diverse and serious readers! I recommended Room to my mother, and it promptly became one of her favorite books of all time. My brother read it, and he's not usually a fan of contemporary literary fiction. People talk about it on the street, in the shops, on the bus. Emma Donoghue took a dark and disturbing storyline and wove it into something larger than life. Ma and Jack will stay in your hearts forever. I will go out on a limb and say that books like this are why we read. Here is the link to my original post: http://shane-malcolm.blogspot.com/2011/04/no-room-for-improvement.html
And now, at last, we come to our final award. Out of dozens of books read this year, only one can take the equivalent of Oscar's Best Picture. If this were a live broadcast, I'd hope to have this presented by Ian McEwan or Anne Tyler. Ladies and gentlemen, this was my favorite.
Book of the Year 2011: Swim Back To Me by Ann Packer. That's right, a short story collection is taking this trophy right out from underneath all the novels I read this year. Packer knows how to write about human emotions, human connections, and human tragedy. She is a gift to the literary world, and I pretty much knew from the time I read this in April that it would be my book of the year. Lo and behold, I was correct. Here is a link to where I said more about this title: http://shane-malcolm.blogspot.com/2011/05/book-review-swim-back-to-me-by-ann.html.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
The Magus by John Fowles: A Wild Ride Into the Mystic
I read The Magus by John Fowles over the summer. I read a few other books as well, but I can definitely say that The Magus defined my reading during the summer of 2011. I had long wanted to read the book, because of its revered status, but only this year did I bother to investigate the premise of the novel. Upon doing so, I moved the book closer to the top of my to-read list.
The Magus is not like anything I've read before. In some ways that can be said about each individual book that one reads, but truly, there is something that sets this giant tome in a class of its very own. First appearing in 1963, Fowles released a revised edition (with a tweaked ending) in 1977, and it's this version clocking in at 656 pages that I read.
The Magus is a mixture of genres and styles, encompassing mystery, psychological thriller, love story, philosophical treatise, and literary fiction. There's lots of other stuff in there, too. Above all, though, it's a heck of a good story, full of twists and turns and shocking revelations that keep you guessing until the very end and long after.
Nicholas Urfe is our protagonist (or antagonist, depending on your view). He's a 26 year old, smart, good looking, independent man whose parents died early, leaving him wayward and adrift. Very self-possessed, he is often lost in his thoughts and also quite judgmental of the 1950s London society in which he lives. Looking for adventure in the wake of a tumultuous romantic relationship, he accepts a post as language instructor in a school on the Greek island of Phraxos.
Although the adventure ostensibly begins when Nicholas arrives on Phraxos, close attention must be paid to the opening fifty pages of The Magus, which detail his relationship with a young Australian woman named Alison. These scenes are important, because they will tie in to the storyline at a later point. They are also notable for showcasing Fowles's strength at writing about romantic relationships between men and women, and for his strong character development. Although this part of the story flies by quickly almost as a prologue of sorts, it rings quite true in its portrayal of young love in first, glorious bloom.
Once Nick arrives in Greece, he discovers that he is just as bored as he was in London. He also realizes that his poetry is not very good, and even makes an unsuccessful attempt at suicide. Soon, however, he makes his way to the mysterious mansion of Maurice Conchis on the secluded part of Phraxos known as Bourani, and here is where his life takes a turn, if not for the better, certainly toward the more interesting. On Bourani, nothing is what it first appears, and Conchis seems nothing less than a magician or magus who manipulates Nicholas and sends him on a labyrinthine adventure that cannot begin to be described in this blog. You'll simply have to read The Magus for yourself. I will say only that a beautiful woman named Lily is a central figure in the games Conchis plays with Nicholas, and she emerges as a vivid but oh-so-puzzling character in her own right.
The bulk of the action in The Magus takes place on Bourani, and watching Nicholas navigate the maze set by Conchis is certainly a riveting reading experience. However, there are plenty of asides and various backdrops in this huge novel, including flashbacks to important periods in Conchis's life which he relates to Nicholas in great detail, and a sojourn to the mountains that Nicholas takes with Alison when he has reached an impasse of sorts on Bourani. These rustic mountain scenes are understatedly touching and lay a groundwork for the finale of the novel, which ultimately ends up being more of a love story than it first appears (arguably).
I thoroughly enjoyed The Magus. I liked the character development, the storyline, the questions of physical attraction vs. romantic love, the adventure, the mystery, the historical references, and Fowles's writing style. By the end of the novel, I was slightly annoyed (impatient), as I waited for everything to come together, and although I didn't really get the answers I wanted, I found the concluding pages of this book so striking that I forgave everything else. I would recommend the novel to almost everyone just for the sheer puzzlement of it, and the excitement of joining Nicholas as he weaves his way through the Magus's tangled web. Certainly this modern classic offers the reader one heck of a free ride!
The Magus is not like anything I've read before. In some ways that can be said about each individual book that one reads, but truly, there is something that sets this giant tome in a class of its very own. First appearing in 1963, Fowles released a revised edition (with a tweaked ending) in 1977, and it's this version clocking in at 656 pages that I read.
The Magus is a mixture of genres and styles, encompassing mystery, psychological thriller, love story, philosophical treatise, and literary fiction. There's lots of other stuff in there, too. Above all, though, it's a heck of a good story, full of twists and turns and shocking revelations that keep you guessing until the very end and long after.
Nicholas Urfe is our protagonist (or antagonist, depending on your view). He's a 26 year old, smart, good looking, independent man whose parents died early, leaving him wayward and adrift. Very self-possessed, he is often lost in his thoughts and also quite judgmental of the 1950s London society in which he lives. Looking for adventure in the wake of a tumultuous romantic relationship, he accepts a post as language instructor in a school on the Greek island of Phraxos.
Although the adventure ostensibly begins when Nicholas arrives on Phraxos, close attention must be paid to the opening fifty pages of The Magus, which detail his relationship with a young Australian woman named Alison. These scenes are important, because they will tie in to the storyline at a later point. They are also notable for showcasing Fowles's strength at writing about romantic relationships between men and women, and for his strong character development. Although this part of the story flies by quickly almost as a prologue of sorts, it rings quite true in its portrayal of young love in first, glorious bloom.
Once Nick arrives in Greece, he discovers that he is just as bored as he was in London. He also realizes that his poetry is not very good, and even makes an unsuccessful attempt at suicide. Soon, however, he makes his way to the mysterious mansion of Maurice Conchis on the secluded part of Phraxos known as Bourani, and here is where his life takes a turn, if not for the better, certainly toward the more interesting. On Bourani, nothing is what it first appears, and Conchis seems nothing less than a magician or magus who manipulates Nicholas and sends him on a labyrinthine adventure that cannot begin to be described in this blog. You'll simply have to read The Magus for yourself. I will say only that a beautiful woman named Lily is a central figure in the games Conchis plays with Nicholas, and she emerges as a vivid but oh-so-puzzling character in her own right.
The bulk of the action in The Magus takes place on Bourani, and watching Nicholas navigate the maze set by Conchis is certainly a riveting reading experience. However, there are plenty of asides and various backdrops in this huge novel, including flashbacks to important periods in Conchis's life which he relates to Nicholas in great detail, and a sojourn to the mountains that Nicholas takes with Alison when he has reached an impasse of sorts on Bourani. These rustic mountain scenes are understatedly touching and lay a groundwork for the finale of the novel, which ultimately ends up being more of a love story than it first appears (arguably).
I thoroughly enjoyed The Magus. I liked the character development, the storyline, the questions of physical attraction vs. romantic love, the adventure, the mystery, the historical references, and Fowles's writing style. By the end of the novel, I was slightly annoyed (impatient), as I waited for everything to come together, and although I didn't really get the answers I wanted, I found the concluding pages of this book so striking that I forgave everything else. I would recommend the novel to almost everyone just for the sheer puzzlement of it, and the excitement of joining Nicholas as he weaves his way through the Magus's tangled web. Certainly this modern classic offers the reader one heck of a free ride!
Monday, June 20, 2011
Atwood's Bodily Harm
Margaret Atwood is one of our greatest living writers, a Canadian treasure who has been considered a strong contender for the Nobel Prize in Literature for several years. Having produced excellence in the realms of the novel, the short story, and poetry, her reputation as a jack of all trades is well established. She won the Booker Prize for 2000's The Blind Assassin, and the Governor General's Award for 1985's The Handmaid's Tale, which remains her most famous creation to this day.
I read The Handmaid's Tale in 2005 and Cat's Eye (1989) in 2006. Both are among my all time favorites. I also read at least one short story and a couple of her poems during my school years. Last week, I picked up her 1981 novel Bodily Harm, mostly because it's the one I've heard the least about. Surfacing, The Robber Bride, and Alias Grace would have been more obvious choices, but this relatively slim novel (less than 300 pages) called out to me.
I read the book rather quickly, and I'm still not sure what I think of it. The prose is exemplary, as Atwood's prose always is. The protagonist, Rennie, is very interesting. The plot is solid, and the messages come through loud and clear. In some way, though, the book left me puzzled.
One of Atwood's strengths as an author is the way she tells a story, presenting us with multiple time frames through the eyes of one narrator. This strategy is employed to great effect in Cat's Eye, which takes place in present day Toronto as Elaine Risley prepares for an exhibition of her art. We go back in time to Elaine's childhood and teenage years, and the alternating scenes work fabulously to tell something closer to a whole story. In Bodily Harm, we also get fragmented narration, but somehow it's a little more confusing. Maybe not confusing, but certainly not straightforward. I can't help thinking that this reflects the narrator's state of mind, because Rennie feels fragmented herself, still trying to deal with the aftermath of a mastectomy.
Bodily Harm opens with Rennie returning from the market to find that her apartment has been invaded, and a coil of rope left ominously on her bed. This stressful scenario prompts her to take a tropical vacation. She is a journalist who writes lifestyle stories, and this time she decides to combine work and pleasure, taking off for the secluded Caribbean island of St. Antoine to write a travel guide article of sorts. Upon arriving at her destination, she meets a host of interesting and mysterious characters including Dr. Minnow, who is running for public office; Laura, who bites her nails ragged and grew up in an abusive household; and the alluring Paul, who charters boats and may be involved in some sort of smuggling ring. Rennie soon discovers that not all is peaceful on St. Antoine, and as she becomes increasingly involved in the goings-on of the island, Bodily Harm turns into a thriller of sorts.
As the action escalates on St. Antoine, Rennie has flashbacks to her life in Toronto. She was living with her boyfriend Jake, writing stories on everything from the return of faux fur to chain drain jewelry, when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her surgery changed everything that she thought she knew about herself and her life. She fell in love with her doctor, Daniel. After her mastectomy, she was no longer able to feel sexually attractive. She and Jake split up, and her feelings for Daniel remained basically unresolved.
Atwood is extremely adept at linking Rennie's flashbacks to her current situation on St. Antoine, although the tone of the two threads is very different. The flashbacks are always interesting, but very inward looking; whereas Rennie's current situation is action-packed and dangerous. Of course, there was danger in her life before, especially when cancer reared its head. Atwood juxtaposes these two periods in Rennie's life seemingly to make a bigger point and to teach Rennie (and the reader) a "valuable life lesson," which becomes clear at the conclusion of the novel.
There is a lot more to the flashbacks than cancer and unrequited love. At times, Rennie goes further back, to her childhood in the unhappy town of Griswold, where her mother became "stuck" taking care of her senile grandmother. This gloomy upbringing left its mark on Rennie, who seems sophisticated and bright, but not entirely happy. She is exceedingly cynical. Also, Atwood makes it clear that Rennie's boyfriend Jake was abusive, though whether intentionally so is something the reader is left to wonder.
Bodily Harm was released in 1981, and there are cultural references to Ronald Regan and the punk scene. The feminist movement of the early 70s also hovers over the book, in particular, the way that Rennie was affected by it and how she relates to it today. Atwood is a feminist, and issues of woman's rights, female sexuality, and power play between the genders are of great importance to her. Never does she focus on these issues to the point of alienating readers; in fact, they usually heighten the impact of her stories. In Bodily Harm, there is no escaping the presence of gender issues, and at the novel's conclusion, Rennie comes to a very sobering realization.
If some of this sounds a little heavy, do not fear. Margaret Atwood is a commercially successful author as well as a critically acclaimed one, and this is because she knows how to hold your interest. Bodily Harm is never boring, even at Rennie's most introspective moments. The conclusion to the thriller plot line on St. Antoine, and the conclusions that Rennie makes about herself, are both satisfying. I was, however, unsatisfied by the fact that the opening invasion scene is never really touched upon again. I thought there would be some kind of resolution, but apparently it was included on a more metaphorical level (and, of course, to steer Rennie toward her tropical destination). Atwood is great with description, characterizations, and action in equal measure. Bodily Harm is not her most essential novel, nor is it her best, but it's an important part of her oeuvre, and an enjoyable, rewarding read.
I read The Handmaid's Tale in 2005 and Cat's Eye (1989) in 2006. Both are among my all time favorites. I also read at least one short story and a couple of her poems during my school years. Last week, I picked up her 1981 novel Bodily Harm, mostly because it's the one I've heard the least about. Surfacing, The Robber Bride, and Alias Grace would have been more obvious choices, but this relatively slim novel (less than 300 pages) called out to me.
I read the book rather quickly, and I'm still not sure what I think of it. The prose is exemplary, as Atwood's prose always is. The protagonist, Rennie, is very interesting. The plot is solid, and the messages come through loud and clear. In some way, though, the book left me puzzled.
One of Atwood's strengths as an author is the way she tells a story, presenting us with multiple time frames through the eyes of one narrator. This strategy is employed to great effect in Cat's Eye, which takes place in present day Toronto as Elaine Risley prepares for an exhibition of her art. We go back in time to Elaine's childhood and teenage years, and the alternating scenes work fabulously to tell something closer to a whole story. In Bodily Harm, we also get fragmented narration, but somehow it's a little more confusing. Maybe not confusing, but certainly not straightforward. I can't help thinking that this reflects the narrator's state of mind, because Rennie feels fragmented herself, still trying to deal with the aftermath of a mastectomy.
Bodily Harm opens with Rennie returning from the market to find that her apartment has been invaded, and a coil of rope left ominously on her bed. This stressful scenario prompts her to take a tropical vacation. She is a journalist who writes lifestyle stories, and this time she decides to combine work and pleasure, taking off for the secluded Caribbean island of St. Antoine to write a travel guide article of sorts. Upon arriving at her destination, she meets a host of interesting and mysterious characters including Dr. Minnow, who is running for public office; Laura, who bites her nails ragged and grew up in an abusive household; and the alluring Paul, who charters boats and may be involved in some sort of smuggling ring. Rennie soon discovers that not all is peaceful on St. Antoine, and as she becomes increasingly involved in the goings-on of the island, Bodily Harm turns into a thriller of sorts.
As the action escalates on St. Antoine, Rennie has flashbacks to her life in Toronto. She was living with her boyfriend Jake, writing stories on everything from the return of faux fur to chain drain jewelry, when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her surgery changed everything that she thought she knew about herself and her life. She fell in love with her doctor, Daniel. After her mastectomy, she was no longer able to feel sexually attractive. She and Jake split up, and her feelings for Daniel remained basically unresolved.
Atwood is extremely adept at linking Rennie's flashbacks to her current situation on St. Antoine, although the tone of the two threads is very different. The flashbacks are always interesting, but very inward looking; whereas Rennie's current situation is action-packed and dangerous. Of course, there was danger in her life before, especially when cancer reared its head. Atwood juxtaposes these two periods in Rennie's life seemingly to make a bigger point and to teach Rennie (and the reader) a "valuable life lesson," which becomes clear at the conclusion of the novel.
There is a lot more to the flashbacks than cancer and unrequited love. At times, Rennie goes further back, to her childhood in the unhappy town of Griswold, where her mother became "stuck" taking care of her senile grandmother. This gloomy upbringing left its mark on Rennie, who seems sophisticated and bright, but not entirely happy. She is exceedingly cynical. Also, Atwood makes it clear that Rennie's boyfriend Jake was abusive, though whether intentionally so is something the reader is left to wonder.
Bodily Harm was released in 1981, and there are cultural references to Ronald Regan and the punk scene. The feminist movement of the early 70s also hovers over the book, in particular, the way that Rennie was affected by it and how she relates to it today. Atwood is a feminist, and issues of woman's rights, female sexuality, and power play between the genders are of great importance to her. Never does she focus on these issues to the point of alienating readers; in fact, they usually heighten the impact of her stories. In Bodily Harm, there is no escaping the presence of gender issues, and at the novel's conclusion, Rennie comes to a very sobering realization.
If some of this sounds a little heavy, do not fear. Margaret Atwood is a commercially successful author as well as a critically acclaimed one, and this is because she knows how to hold your interest. Bodily Harm is never boring, even at Rennie's most introspective moments. The conclusion to the thriller plot line on St. Antoine, and the conclusions that Rennie makes about herself, are both satisfying. I was, however, unsatisfied by the fact that the opening invasion scene is never really touched upon again. I thought there would be some kind of resolution, but apparently it was included on a more metaphorical level (and, of course, to steer Rennie toward her tropical destination). Atwood is great with description, characterizations, and action in equal measure. Bodily Harm is not her most essential novel, nor is it her best, but it's an important part of her oeuvre, and an enjoyable, rewarding read.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Literary Classic: A Good Man Is Hard To Find and Other Stories by Flannery O'Connor
Flannery O'Connor is one of the most well-known names from 20th century literature. She wrote two novels, Wise Blood and The Violent Bear It Away, before her early death at thirty-nine years of age. She is probably more revered for her two collections, A Good Man Is Hard To Find and the posthumously published Everything That Rises Must Converge. In 1972, she won the National Book Award (also posthumously) for her Complete Stories. She is absolutely among the greatest short story writers of all time.
I remember reading three of her stories for my AP English class with Mrs. Taylor during senior year of high school: "Greenleaf," "The Enduring Chill," and "Parker's Back." They were strange and alluring, eccentric tales, and my curiosity was piqued. Somehow I did not have to read her for any of my college courses, but she's always been in the back of my mind. Last month, one of my book groups decided to tackle our first collection of short stories (we've only read novels up to this point), and we unanimously selected O'Connor's A Good Man Is Hard To Find.
This collection of ten stories produced some of the most famous and studied titles in recent memory, including "A Late Encounter With The Enemy," "Good Country People," and "The Displaced Person." It's a bleak book, full of desperate, tortured, and unhappy characters, and lots of uncomfortable situations. O'Connor's style is often labeled Southern Gothic, and she is compared to writers like Eudora Welty, William Faulkner, and Carson McCullers. Her tales are not for the faint of heart.
In all honesty, though, Flannery O'Connor did not write like anyone before or since. Her style is unique and entirely her own, which is a large part of the reason these works have stood the test of time. Yes, the South of the 1950s is a huge part of the stories' fabric, which places her alongside Eudora Welty. However, Welty's stories were written in a much more formal style, and violence and danger were merely undercurrents. O'Connor, on the other hand, writes in a quick, blunt style with slight echoes of Hemingway, and violence is right on the surface of these sometimes chilling tales. The only living author I can think of whose stories bear a slight resemblance to O'Connor is Joyce Carol Oates, but again, these comparisons are not overt.
The title story, " A Good Man Is Hard To Find," is possibly the most well-known in this batch. It follows a family of six as they take off on a road trip. They are not a happy bunch. The grandmother, known only as The Grandmother, is constantly harping at her son, Bailey. Her grandchildren, a boy and girl, are argumentative and fidgety. Bailey himself is often finding fault with his old mother, yelling at and insulting her more than once. His wife (also nameless) and newborn baby don't have much to do. When the grandmother's cat jumps out of a basket and startles Bailey, he drives their car down into a ravine. They are soon "rescued," but the rescuers are a group of bandits led by a notorious killer named The Misfit who has been referenced since the opening of the story. What happens next is horrific, even by today's standards, and you'll not soon forget this tale.
Flannery O'Connor was a Roman Catholic, and many of her stories involve characters searching for grace, pondering grace, or finding grace at an unlikely moment. Religion was an integral part of her work. It also cannot be denied that many of her characters are racist, uneducated, and coarse. She was writing what was real to her in that time and place, and it's often ugly and hateful. You can argue that she was making deeper points than are readily apparent in some of the stories, possibly trying to combat racism by exposing it at its brutal core. These are issues that have been debated for more than fifty years, and readers will have to make up their own minds.
The endings of O'Connor's stories are often abrupt and startling, and they leave you wanting more. Sometimes, the conclusions raise more questions than answers, which again reminds me of some of the short stories of Joyce Carol Oates. There is symbolism in many of these stories, as well as allegory, metaphor, and irony. O'Connor employed many literary techniques and used each them in an expert manner.
There is something sinister in almost every story in this collection. O'Connor is exploring the dark facets of human nature, but again, she also allows her characters to find moments of grace, albeit in strange ways. She addressed themes that were somewhat ahead of their time, as in the story "A Stroke of Good Fortune," wherein the protagonist is disgusted and dismayed to find herself pregnant.
I cannot say that reading A Good Man Is Hard To Find is a particularly pleasant experience, because so many of the stories are bleak. However, it is definitely an intriguing, challenging, and revelatory experience, and certainly worth it to see one of the masters of the short story form at the peak of her powers. There is a reason that some authors are considered essential touchstones of fiction. Flannery O'Connor is one of the literary greats, with an uncontested place in the canon.
I remember reading three of her stories for my AP English class with Mrs. Taylor during senior year of high school: "Greenleaf," "The Enduring Chill," and "Parker's Back." They were strange and alluring, eccentric tales, and my curiosity was piqued. Somehow I did not have to read her for any of my college courses, but she's always been in the back of my mind. Last month, one of my book groups decided to tackle our first collection of short stories (we've only read novels up to this point), and we unanimously selected O'Connor's A Good Man Is Hard To Find.
This collection of ten stories produced some of the most famous and studied titles in recent memory, including "A Late Encounter With The Enemy," "Good Country People," and "The Displaced Person." It's a bleak book, full of desperate, tortured, and unhappy characters, and lots of uncomfortable situations. O'Connor's style is often labeled Southern Gothic, and she is compared to writers like Eudora Welty, William Faulkner, and Carson McCullers. Her tales are not for the faint of heart.
In all honesty, though, Flannery O'Connor did not write like anyone before or since. Her style is unique and entirely her own, which is a large part of the reason these works have stood the test of time. Yes, the South of the 1950s is a huge part of the stories' fabric, which places her alongside Eudora Welty. However, Welty's stories were written in a much more formal style, and violence and danger were merely undercurrents. O'Connor, on the other hand, writes in a quick, blunt style with slight echoes of Hemingway, and violence is right on the surface of these sometimes chilling tales. The only living author I can think of whose stories bear a slight resemblance to O'Connor is Joyce Carol Oates, but again, these comparisons are not overt.
The title story, " A Good Man Is Hard To Find," is possibly the most well-known in this batch. It follows a family of six as they take off on a road trip. They are not a happy bunch. The grandmother, known only as The Grandmother, is constantly harping at her son, Bailey. Her grandchildren, a boy and girl, are argumentative and fidgety. Bailey himself is often finding fault with his old mother, yelling at and insulting her more than once. His wife (also nameless) and newborn baby don't have much to do. When the grandmother's cat jumps out of a basket and startles Bailey, he drives their car down into a ravine. They are soon "rescued," but the rescuers are a group of bandits led by a notorious killer named The Misfit who has been referenced since the opening of the story. What happens next is horrific, even by today's standards, and you'll not soon forget this tale.
Flannery O'Connor was a Roman Catholic, and many of her stories involve characters searching for grace, pondering grace, or finding grace at an unlikely moment. Religion was an integral part of her work. It also cannot be denied that many of her characters are racist, uneducated, and coarse. She was writing what was real to her in that time and place, and it's often ugly and hateful. You can argue that she was making deeper points than are readily apparent in some of the stories, possibly trying to combat racism by exposing it at its brutal core. These are issues that have been debated for more than fifty years, and readers will have to make up their own minds.
The endings of O'Connor's stories are often abrupt and startling, and they leave you wanting more. Sometimes, the conclusions raise more questions than answers, which again reminds me of some of the short stories of Joyce Carol Oates. There is symbolism in many of these stories, as well as allegory, metaphor, and irony. O'Connor employed many literary techniques and used each them in an expert manner.
There is something sinister in almost every story in this collection. O'Connor is exploring the dark facets of human nature, but again, she also allows her characters to find moments of grace, albeit in strange ways. She addressed themes that were somewhat ahead of their time, as in the story "A Stroke of Good Fortune," wherein the protagonist is disgusted and dismayed to find herself pregnant.
I cannot say that reading A Good Man Is Hard To Find is a particularly pleasant experience, because so many of the stories are bleak. However, it is definitely an intriguing, challenging, and revelatory experience, and certainly worth it to see one of the masters of the short story form at the peak of her powers. There is a reason that some authors are considered essential touchstones of fiction. Flannery O'Connor is one of the literary greats, with an uncontested place in the canon.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Book Review: She's Come Undone by Wally Lamb
Warning: this review contains spoilers
Nineteen years after its release, and fourteen years since Oprah chose it as one of her book club titles, I finally read She's Come Undone by Wally Lamb.
I read Lamb's novel I Know This Much Is True years ago and have always considered it among my all time favorites. Thus, my expectations for She's Come Undone were very high. I'm glad to say I was not disappointed.
I read She's Come Undone in a week. It's a fairly sizable book, clocking in at 465 pages in the trade paperback edition. I never lost interest and found myself grabbing the book to read during spare moments, like the five minutes between packing my lunch and leaving for work.
She's Come Undone is told in the first person, from the point of view of Dolores Price. We follow her from the age of four, when she believes her life started with the delivery of her family's television set, to the age of forty, when she finally attains some semblance of a "normal," contented life. Along the way, she undergoes one tragedy after another, including her parents' divorce, her mother's nervous breakdown and hospitalization, and a horrific rape when she is only thirteen years old. These events cause her to eat herself into oblivion, and when she finally leaves home for college, she weighs more than 250 pounds.
If you think She's Come Undone sounds a bit like a soap opera, well, I can't say that it doesn't play out like one. And the soaps are actually mentioned numerous times, because Dolores watches many of them over the years, from "Love Of Life" and "Search For Tomorrow" right up through "As The World Turns" and "Days Of Our Lives." Much like food, television is her addiction, and she wastes away hours of her life in front of the tube.
Two things save this novel from dissolving into melodramatic histrionics: Lamb's effortless and appealing writing style, and Dolores Price herself. She is a self-effacing, observant, world-weary, and often hilarious character, and you'll probably never forget her. At least, most of the people I know who read the book during its 1997 heyday seem to remember her fondly all these years later.
Dolores absolutely deserves our pity, because all of the tragedies leading up to her obesity and unhealthy lifestyle are completely out of her hands. Later in life, she briefly contemplates the existence of God and the cruel tricks of the universe. She justifies most of her actions by reflecting on the blows she suffered, but she never panders for our sympathy. It's a testament to Lamb's skills as a writer that we feel for her and root for her in spite of the soap opera plot.
In the early chapters of the book, when Dolores's parents are having their marital troubles, we watch her fawn over her father while often seeming exasperated by her mother. She is disrespectful and outright rude to her mother. This bothered me at times, because her mother didn't deserve the treatment she received from her cheating husband. However, Dolores's worshiping of her father does seem very realistic, as does the fury she brings down on him after he abandons them. She turns on him completely, and years later at her mother's funeral, she blows up at her dad in one of the most emotional passages of the book.
Bernice Price, Dolores's mother, emerges as a likable, strong character who tries to do right by her daughter in spite of not having an easy time of things herself. She dies fairly early in the book, and this lays the groundwork for Dolores's emotional growth throughout the rest of the novel. In the years following Ma's death, Dolores realizes that her father wasn't as great as she thought he was, and that her mother wasn't as bad as she made her out to be. During her therapy sessions with Dr. Shaw (she suffers a breakdown and is hospitalized for years), Dolores addresses her residual feelings of anger and abandonment toward her deceased mother, but she is also able to forgive her and to finally express her love for her. During the final stretch of the book, Dolores regularly reflects on Ma, and it's poignant in a very real way, mainly because we've taken an emotional journey with her.
I've hardly scratched the surface of the plot points in this book. There is a tumultuous marriage, an abortion, an odd encounter with a whale, and a cast of memorable supporting characters. Among the best of these are Dolores's religious grandmother; Larry the wallpaper guy and his wife Ruth (who resurface in a clever way at the end of the book); and Roberta, the neighbor who owns a tattoo parlor and comes back in to Dolores's life years later. Also, Mr. Pucci, her high school guidance counselor and "pal," to whom she repays kindness in a very big way in the last chapters of the book.
Because She's Come Undone charts the course of forty years in one woman's life, we see a lot of American history unfold. Lamb does a great job painting distinct eras, mentioning songs and television shows and fashion styles that were popular at any given point in Dolores's life, weaving them in to the fabric of the story so that we watch a country change along with the protagonist living in it. During the final stretch of the novel, which takes place in the mid-80s, Lamb addresses the AIDS epidemic via the character of Mr. Pucci. This segment works well and manages never to seem heavy handed, at least not to this reader.
I liked a lot of things about She's Come Undone, including the setting, the passage of time, the plot, and the supporting characters. I really enjoy Wally Lamb's writing style. He walks that line between commercial and literary fiction, and I think he walks it very well. Most of all, though, I loved the character of Dolores Price, surely one of the most memorable heroines in this great era of modern fiction.
Nineteen years after its release, and fourteen years since Oprah chose it as one of her book club titles, I finally read She's Come Undone by Wally Lamb.
I read Lamb's novel I Know This Much Is True years ago and have always considered it among my all time favorites. Thus, my expectations for She's Come Undone were very high. I'm glad to say I was not disappointed.
I read She's Come Undone in a week. It's a fairly sizable book, clocking in at 465 pages in the trade paperback edition. I never lost interest and found myself grabbing the book to read during spare moments, like the five minutes between packing my lunch and leaving for work.
She's Come Undone is told in the first person, from the point of view of Dolores Price. We follow her from the age of four, when she believes her life started with the delivery of her family's television set, to the age of forty, when she finally attains some semblance of a "normal," contented life. Along the way, she undergoes one tragedy after another, including her parents' divorce, her mother's nervous breakdown and hospitalization, and a horrific rape when she is only thirteen years old. These events cause her to eat herself into oblivion, and when she finally leaves home for college, she weighs more than 250 pounds.
If you think She's Come Undone sounds a bit like a soap opera, well, I can't say that it doesn't play out like one. And the soaps are actually mentioned numerous times, because Dolores watches many of them over the years, from "Love Of Life" and "Search For Tomorrow" right up through "As The World Turns" and "Days Of Our Lives." Much like food, television is her addiction, and she wastes away hours of her life in front of the tube.
Two things save this novel from dissolving into melodramatic histrionics: Lamb's effortless and appealing writing style, and Dolores Price herself. She is a self-effacing, observant, world-weary, and often hilarious character, and you'll probably never forget her. At least, most of the people I know who read the book during its 1997 heyday seem to remember her fondly all these years later.
Dolores absolutely deserves our pity, because all of the tragedies leading up to her obesity and unhealthy lifestyle are completely out of her hands. Later in life, she briefly contemplates the existence of God and the cruel tricks of the universe. She justifies most of her actions by reflecting on the blows she suffered, but she never panders for our sympathy. It's a testament to Lamb's skills as a writer that we feel for her and root for her in spite of the soap opera plot.
In the early chapters of the book, when Dolores's parents are having their marital troubles, we watch her fawn over her father while often seeming exasperated by her mother. She is disrespectful and outright rude to her mother. This bothered me at times, because her mother didn't deserve the treatment she received from her cheating husband. However, Dolores's worshiping of her father does seem very realistic, as does the fury she brings down on him after he abandons them. She turns on him completely, and years later at her mother's funeral, she blows up at her dad in one of the most emotional passages of the book.
Bernice Price, Dolores's mother, emerges as a likable, strong character who tries to do right by her daughter in spite of not having an easy time of things herself. She dies fairly early in the book, and this lays the groundwork for Dolores's emotional growth throughout the rest of the novel. In the years following Ma's death, Dolores realizes that her father wasn't as great as she thought he was, and that her mother wasn't as bad as she made her out to be. During her therapy sessions with Dr. Shaw (she suffers a breakdown and is hospitalized for years), Dolores addresses her residual feelings of anger and abandonment toward her deceased mother, but she is also able to forgive her and to finally express her love for her. During the final stretch of the book, Dolores regularly reflects on Ma, and it's poignant in a very real way, mainly because we've taken an emotional journey with her.
I've hardly scratched the surface of the plot points in this book. There is a tumultuous marriage, an abortion, an odd encounter with a whale, and a cast of memorable supporting characters. Among the best of these are Dolores's religious grandmother; Larry the wallpaper guy and his wife Ruth (who resurface in a clever way at the end of the book); and Roberta, the neighbor who owns a tattoo parlor and comes back in to Dolores's life years later. Also, Mr. Pucci, her high school guidance counselor and "pal," to whom she repays kindness in a very big way in the last chapters of the book.
Because She's Come Undone charts the course of forty years in one woman's life, we see a lot of American history unfold. Lamb does a great job painting distinct eras, mentioning songs and television shows and fashion styles that were popular at any given point in Dolores's life, weaving them in to the fabric of the story so that we watch a country change along with the protagonist living in it. During the final stretch of the novel, which takes place in the mid-80s, Lamb addresses the AIDS epidemic via the character of Mr. Pucci. This segment works well and manages never to seem heavy handed, at least not to this reader.
I liked a lot of things about She's Come Undone, including the setting, the passage of time, the plot, and the supporting characters. I really enjoy Wally Lamb's writing style. He walks that line between commercial and literary fiction, and I think he walks it very well. Most of all, though, I loved the character of Dolores Price, surely one of the most memorable heroines in this great era of modern fiction.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Book Review: Bound by Antonya Nelson
I had been meaning to read Bound for several months, but it was always checked out at the library, or I was sidetracked by other titles for my book groups, etc. This Memorial Day weekend, I finally had the book in my hands, and I read all 229 pages within one day (mostly outside at the park).
Bound is the first thing I've ever read by Antonya Nelson, who has written several well-reviewed novels and short story collections, including Talking In Bed. I will definitely be reading more of this woman's work.
I had one major reservation going into Bound, from reading the book jacket and some online reviews. Although the premise was intriguing, there seemed to be a lot of characters, and I wasn't sure how Nelson could do them all justice in the course of such a relatively small novel. But justice is served, and this is one first-rate cast of characters.
The novel opens with a car crash and a dog's point of view, if you can imagine such a combination. Misty and her dog Max have just plunged over a cliff in Colorado, and Misty is dead on impact. The first chapter is told from Max's point of view, as she tries to decide between watching over her owner's body and taking off into the wild. Eventually, the call of the wild proves too strong, and Max takes off, only to be found by Elise and her slacker boyfriend Lance.
We then move on to the heart of the story, set in Wichita, Kansas. The primary characters are Oliver and Catherine Desplaines, a wealthy couple. Oliver is 70, and Catherine is in her early 40s. She is his third wife, and with each marriage, he has "traded up" for a younger woman. Now, he is having an affair with a woman even younger than Catherine, referred to only as The Sweetheart. Catherine is oblivious to his affair, busy as she is attending to her mother Grace, who is residing in a nursing home after suffering a stroke. And into this setting comes a bombshell: Catherine has just been named the legal guardian of fifteen year old Cattie, the daughter of her best friend from high school who happened to be none other than Misty who was just killed in a car accident in far off Colorado!
Bound centers around this revelation, but there are so many offshoots and subplots that are given almost equal space and attention. For instance, while Catherine learns of her new ward, alternating chapters focus on Cattie as she learns of her mother's death and runs away from her posh East Coast boarding school, renting a room at the home of a classmate's sister and becoming involved with the mysterious Randall, who is also renting space in the same building. These scenes are a nice contrast to Oliver and Catherine's life in Wichita, and once again, dogs are involved.
As we go back and forth between Catherine the elder and Catherine/Cattie the younger, we are also treated to flashbacks via both characters. Catherine's flashbacks revolve around her friendship with Misty during their high school days, while Cattie's center on her life with Misty in Texas. Misty had a very rough childhood, and her friendship with the beautiful Catherine was a source of great pride to her. The stories of their past are rendered vividly, and when Catherine journeys to Texas to meet Cattie and see the home of her deceased former friend, she realizes that Misty had turned her life around dramatically, improved her appearance, become a successful real estate agent and a terrific mother. When Catherine sees what became of Misty's life, it's truly one of the most poignant passages in the book.
I've given you just the bare essentials of Bound's plot, but there's even more to feast on in this book! When Misty and Catherine were having their teenage adventures, a serial killer named the BTK (Bind, torture, kill) was on the loose in Wichita, and now, all these years later, he has resurfaced! If this seems a bit random at first, just let Nelson work her magic. She connects the dots in a masterful fashion, and the linking of past to present is never less than smooth, whether it's young Misty to adult Misty or the BTK's first reign of terror with his latest taunting. Nelson seems to be commenting on the strangeness of life and the various ways we are all connected, or "bound," by our pasts and presents. It's a testament to her skills as a narrator that things like the BTK and the dog subplot never seem like random, senseless plot points, but manage instead to gel as part of the larger picture.
There are some great supporting characters in this book, including Oliver's cast of past wives and daughters, particularly Miriam, his surly daughter from his second marriage. Miriam does not get a lot of air time in the book, but she emerges as a very vivid personality, and the scene in which she tells Oliver off as they journey to Texas to pick up a waylaid Cattie is one of the highlights of Bound (and had me laughing out loud for one of the few times in the book). Grace Harding, Catherine's mother, is another great character, a former professor who has recently been rendered mute by a stroke. Oliver never liked his mother-in-law, but when Catherine becomes sidelined by her new responsibilities, he starts making more of an effort. The bond that grows between he and Grace is another emotional high point of the novel.
As you can see, there is a lot going on in Bound. The plot is strong, the characters are very real, and the writing is superb. Nelson's writing style at times bears a resemblance to John Updike's, especially the long, luxuriant sentences that say so much even when they say very little. She is a great stylist, but it's all in the service of a plot that moves quite rapidly, and characters you will care about even if you can't always sympathize with them. Catherine, in particular, emerges as an extremely real presence on the page, and I think you'll find it difficult not to like her. Even Oliver, who is quite disgusting in his actions, is hard to dislike. Nelson gets inside these characters' heads and develops them quickly but thoroughly, while never losing sight of her plot.
I give very high marks to Bound. I won't quite put it at the level of Room or Swim Back To Me, two of the best books I've read this year (or any year). That having been said, let me say that Room is a book that comes along very rarely in one's life, and Swim Back To Me is a collection of stories, so it's not really fair to compare it to this novel. And let me also point out that I read Bound in 24 hours, which is the quickest I've read a novel in years. Granted, it was a sunny day off, but still ... something to be said for that.
This is another book that will stay with me. I've been thinking about it and talking about it quite a bit today. I hope you'll give it a shot ... there's a lot to like, and a lot to ponder.
Bound is the first thing I've ever read by Antonya Nelson, who has written several well-reviewed novels and short story collections, including Talking In Bed. I will definitely be reading more of this woman's work.
I had one major reservation going into Bound, from reading the book jacket and some online reviews. Although the premise was intriguing, there seemed to be a lot of characters, and I wasn't sure how Nelson could do them all justice in the course of such a relatively small novel. But justice is served, and this is one first-rate cast of characters.
The novel opens with a car crash and a dog's point of view, if you can imagine such a combination. Misty and her dog Max have just plunged over a cliff in Colorado, and Misty is dead on impact. The first chapter is told from Max's point of view, as she tries to decide between watching over her owner's body and taking off into the wild. Eventually, the call of the wild proves too strong, and Max takes off, only to be found by Elise and her slacker boyfriend Lance.
We then move on to the heart of the story, set in Wichita, Kansas. The primary characters are Oliver and Catherine Desplaines, a wealthy couple. Oliver is 70, and Catherine is in her early 40s. She is his third wife, and with each marriage, he has "traded up" for a younger woman. Now, he is having an affair with a woman even younger than Catherine, referred to only as The Sweetheart. Catherine is oblivious to his affair, busy as she is attending to her mother Grace, who is residing in a nursing home after suffering a stroke. And into this setting comes a bombshell: Catherine has just been named the legal guardian of fifteen year old Cattie, the daughter of her best friend from high school who happened to be none other than Misty who was just killed in a car accident in far off Colorado!
Bound centers around this revelation, but there are so many offshoots and subplots that are given almost equal space and attention. For instance, while Catherine learns of her new ward, alternating chapters focus on Cattie as she learns of her mother's death and runs away from her posh East Coast boarding school, renting a room at the home of a classmate's sister and becoming involved with the mysterious Randall, who is also renting space in the same building. These scenes are a nice contrast to Oliver and Catherine's life in Wichita, and once again, dogs are involved.
As we go back and forth between Catherine the elder and Catherine/Cattie the younger, we are also treated to flashbacks via both characters. Catherine's flashbacks revolve around her friendship with Misty during their high school days, while Cattie's center on her life with Misty in Texas. Misty had a very rough childhood, and her friendship with the beautiful Catherine was a source of great pride to her. The stories of their past are rendered vividly, and when Catherine journeys to Texas to meet Cattie and see the home of her deceased former friend, she realizes that Misty had turned her life around dramatically, improved her appearance, become a successful real estate agent and a terrific mother. When Catherine sees what became of Misty's life, it's truly one of the most poignant passages in the book.
I've given you just the bare essentials of Bound's plot, but there's even more to feast on in this book! When Misty and Catherine were having their teenage adventures, a serial killer named the BTK (Bind, torture, kill) was on the loose in Wichita, and now, all these years later, he has resurfaced! If this seems a bit random at first, just let Nelson work her magic. She connects the dots in a masterful fashion, and the linking of past to present is never less than smooth, whether it's young Misty to adult Misty or the BTK's first reign of terror with his latest taunting. Nelson seems to be commenting on the strangeness of life and the various ways we are all connected, or "bound," by our pasts and presents. It's a testament to her skills as a narrator that things like the BTK and the dog subplot never seem like random, senseless plot points, but manage instead to gel as part of the larger picture.
There are some great supporting characters in this book, including Oliver's cast of past wives and daughters, particularly Miriam, his surly daughter from his second marriage. Miriam does not get a lot of air time in the book, but she emerges as a very vivid personality, and the scene in which she tells Oliver off as they journey to Texas to pick up a waylaid Cattie is one of the highlights of Bound (and had me laughing out loud for one of the few times in the book). Grace Harding, Catherine's mother, is another great character, a former professor who has recently been rendered mute by a stroke. Oliver never liked his mother-in-law, but when Catherine becomes sidelined by her new responsibilities, he starts making more of an effort. The bond that grows between he and Grace is another emotional high point of the novel.
As you can see, there is a lot going on in Bound. The plot is strong, the characters are very real, and the writing is superb. Nelson's writing style at times bears a resemblance to John Updike's, especially the long, luxuriant sentences that say so much even when they say very little. She is a great stylist, but it's all in the service of a plot that moves quite rapidly, and characters you will care about even if you can't always sympathize with them. Catherine, in particular, emerges as an extremely real presence on the page, and I think you'll find it difficult not to like her. Even Oliver, who is quite disgusting in his actions, is hard to dislike. Nelson gets inside these characters' heads and develops them quickly but thoroughly, while never losing sight of her plot.
I give very high marks to Bound. I won't quite put it at the level of Room or Swim Back To Me, two of the best books I've read this year (or any year). That having been said, let me say that Room is a book that comes along very rarely in one's life, and Swim Back To Me is a collection of stories, so it's not really fair to compare it to this novel. And let me also point out that I read Bound in 24 hours, which is the quickest I've read a novel in years. Granted, it was a sunny day off, but still ... something to be said for that.
This is another book that will stay with me. I've been thinking about it and talking about it quite a bit today. I hope you'll give it a shot ... there's a lot to like, and a lot to ponder.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Sarton's Solitude
For years, I've been aware of May Sarton as an author of novels and poetry, but have never read anything by her. Recent conversations with a library patron who is a Sarton fan steered me toward her journals, for which she is actually most known and acclaimed. After doing a quick bit of research, I decided to read one of these journals, and I picked Journal of a Solitude, which was published in 1973.
Journal of a Solitude was written from September of 1971 to September of 1972, during a period in which Sarton was involved with a woman she refers to as X. Interestingly, we hear almost nothing of their relationship, although as Sarton writes near the end of the book, everything she wrote in this journal was informed by what she was going through with X, even when she consciously chose to reveal very little about it.
During this period of time, May Sarton resided in rural New Hampshire, in a house called Nelson. By the time of Journal of a Solitude, she had lived in Nelson for more than a decade and formed a very real, very special attachment to the house. By the conclusion of the journal, she has made the decision to move to Maine in another year or two, to a huge house by the sea in York. She would, of course, carry out this decision, spending the last two decades of her life in Maine, and writing more journals, including the well-known The House by the Sea.
Journal of a Solitude is one of those books I enjoy, in which an author talks frequently about other authors, as well as artists and composers who mean something to her or him. In this journal, Sarton discusses, among others, Virginia Woolf, George Sarton (a scientist), Katherine Mansfield, Georgia O'Keefe, and Louis Armstrong. She also quotes passages from Robert Frost, Carl Jung, and Flannery O'Connor. I have always loved hearing what authors and musicians think of other authors and musicians, or learning about their idols and inspirations. Sarton speaks of these people with reverence and respect, and she even knew some of them (like Virginia Woolf) to an extent.
At the heart of this journal is one woman's inward life, a life of solitude, as she calls it. May Sarton was not really living in solitude. Yes, she was a single woman of 59 at the time she wrote this book, but she had dozens of friends, wonderful neighbors, and speaking engagements at colleges, churches, and other venues that took her across the country. Certainly, she was social and engaged. However, she lived alone, and she relished her inner life. She was an introvert by nature, someone who absolutely had to have time to herself, in which to reflect and process her life experiences. She explains it best in this passage:
"There is no doubt that solitude is a challenge and to maintain balance within it a precarious business. But I must not forget that, for me, being with people or even with one beloved person for any length of time without solitude is even worse. I lose my center. I feel dispersed, scattered, in pieces. I must have time alone in which to mull over any encounter, and to extract its juice, its essence, to understand what has really happened to me as a consequence of it."
What a great description of the way in which introverts must have alone time to process life! I think anyone who is an introvert, who requires extended periods of time to him or herself, will relate very much to Sarton's writing in this journal. And others, too, will benefit from her descriptions of the small pleasures in life, the private moments that can bring so much joy in and of themselves.
The natural world plays a huge role in this book. Sarton was a gardener, a lover of plants and animals, and her descriptions of flowers, as well as the changing seasons in New England, are absolutely beautiful. Her eye for detail in these matters was amazing. For someone like myself, not very knowledgeable when it comes to flowers, these passages were eye-opening and informative. On the other hand, as a resident of Maine, I could relate very much to her descriptions of the weather, particularly her frustration when the Spring of 1972 seemed to take so very long to get underway!
I read this book quickly, but I am sure it will stay with me always. Sarton's writing is very real, because she was writing of her life. Her introspection and self-exploration rings very true. Her relishing of quiet moments, reflection, the artistic life, and simple pleasures is passionately conveyed and strikes a chord with this reader. I hope people continue to discover her journals and to get something out of them for years to come. For introverts, I highly recommend this book ... once you read it, you'll feel like you've met another kindred spirit.
Journal of a Solitude was written from September of 1971 to September of 1972, during a period in which Sarton was involved with a woman she refers to as X. Interestingly, we hear almost nothing of their relationship, although as Sarton writes near the end of the book, everything she wrote in this journal was informed by what she was going through with X, even when she consciously chose to reveal very little about it.
During this period of time, May Sarton resided in rural New Hampshire, in a house called Nelson. By the time of Journal of a Solitude, she had lived in Nelson for more than a decade and formed a very real, very special attachment to the house. By the conclusion of the journal, she has made the decision to move to Maine in another year or two, to a huge house by the sea in York. She would, of course, carry out this decision, spending the last two decades of her life in Maine, and writing more journals, including the well-known The House by the Sea.
Journal of a Solitude is one of those books I enjoy, in which an author talks frequently about other authors, as well as artists and composers who mean something to her or him. In this journal, Sarton discusses, among others, Virginia Woolf, George Sarton (a scientist), Katherine Mansfield, Georgia O'Keefe, and Louis Armstrong. She also quotes passages from Robert Frost, Carl Jung, and Flannery O'Connor. I have always loved hearing what authors and musicians think of other authors and musicians, or learning about their idols and inspirations. Sarton speaks of these people with reverence and respect, and she even knew some of them (like Virginia Woolf) to an extent.
At the heart of this journal is one woman's inward life, a life of solitude, as she calls it. May Sarton was not really living in solitude. Yes, she was a single woman of 59 at the time she wrote this book, but she had dozens of friends, wonderful neighbors, and speaking engagements at colleges, churches, and other venues that took her across the country. Certainly, she was social and engaged. However, she lived alone, and she relished her inner life. She was an introvert by nature, someone who absolutely had to have time to herself, in which to reflect and process her life experiences. She explains it best in this passage:
"There is no doubt that solitude is a challenge and to maintain balance within it a precarious business. But I must not forget that, for me, being with people or even with one beloved person for any length of time without solitude is even worse. I lose my center. I feel dispersed, scattered, in pieces. I must have time alone in which to mull over any encounter, and to extract its juice, its essence, to understand what has really happened to me as a consequence of it."
What a great description of the way in which introverts must have alone time to process life! I think anyone who is an introvert, who requires extended periods of time to him or herself, will relate very much to Sarton's writing in this journal. And others, too, will benefit from her descriptions of the small pleasures in life, the private moments that can bring so much joy in and of themselves.
The natural world plays a huge role in this book. Sarton was a gardener, a lover of plants and animals, and her descriptions of flowers, as well as the changing seasons in New England, are absolutely beautiful. Her eye for detail in these matters was amazing. For someone like myself, not very knowledgeable when it comes to flowers, these passages were eye-opening and informative. On the other hand, as a resident of Maine, I could relate very much to her descriptions of the weather, particularly her frustration when the Spring of 1972 seemed to take so very long to get underway!
I read this book quickly, but I am sure it will stay with me always. Sarton's writing is very real, because she was writing of her life. Her introspection and self-exploration rings very true. Her relishing of quiet moments, reflection, the artistic life, and simple pleasures is passionately conveyed and strikes a chord with this reader. I hope people continue to discover her journals and to get something out of them for years to come. For introverts, I highly recommend this book ... once you read it, you'll feel like you've met another kindred spirit.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Book Review: Swim Back To Me by Ann Packer
Swim Back To Me is the newest book by the award-winning author of The Dive From Clausen's Pier, and it includes one novella and five short stories. If a better collection is released this year, I will be very surprised, because Packer has delivered something a cut above with this book. The characters are vivid, the situations are real, the language is exquisite, and the emotion is captivating. You'll be touched time and again as you weave your way through these tales of human connection, suffering, and self-realization.
The opening novella, "Walk For Mankind," gets the ball rolling. A story of young love and its ensuing confusion, I read the 100 pages in one sitting, then closed the book with a lump in my throat. The story is told from the point of view of a middle aged man, Richard, who is reflecting on the autumn of his eighth grade year, when a new red headed girl named Sasha moved to town. Richard is not reflecting for any particular reason other than to stroll down memory lane, but it's obvious that Sasha was his first love. We soon confirm that fact, and Packer's rendering of those powerful feelings of first love in full bloom is brutally real. Sasha and Richard start hanging out on a regular basis, and their friendship is strictly platonic. We glimpse the dynamics of their respective families, who become entertaining supporting characters in their own right. However, the main crux of the story begins when Sasha and Richard decide to do the Walk for Mankind, and set about collecting as many pledges as they can. One evening, they head to the Recreation Association to collect signatures, but it's closed. While kicking around the parking lot, they come across a bunch of older kids smoking pot by a fence. One of these, Cal, is practically an adult, and Sasha soon becomes involved with him. This is the catalyst that reveals Richard's feelings for her, and it's sad to watch his powerlessness as his first love becomes enamored with an older bad boy. You'll have to read the novella to get the full effect, but you'll be glad you did. The story takes place over the course of one year, but it tells of an emotional bond that would propel Richard throughout his life.
Although the opening novella is a hard act to follow, Packer manages to keep hitting home runs with the five stories that follow. "Molten" is probably the most gut-wrenching, as a mother obsessively listens to CDs from her son's collection, and we soon learn that he was recently killed in a freak accident. This is an inventive concept for a short story, and Packer goes all out with the musical analysis. She uses lyrics from real songs (she chooses not to reveal song titles, although you can find them in the copyright credits at the beginning of the book, probably to reflect the fact that Kathryn would not necessarily know the names of the songs and artists in Ben's collection), and she describes the music in fine detail, allowing us to hear it as Kathryn hears it. This is the only way she can find to feel close to her deceased Ben, and she becomes obsessed with listening. One evening, when her husband skips a meeting and stays home, she becomes angry, feeling that he is denying her the alone time she has come to require. Kathryn lets herself go, forgets to shower, ignores the dishes, and simply immerses herself in music until she takes deliberate action at the story's finale, which seems to offer her (and us) some semblance of peace.
The rest of the stories are equally strong, but I'm not going to describe all of them. One involves a woman on her second marriage whose husband simply fails to come home one evening; another focuses on a dad preparing for the birth of his first child. Each story is realistic, involving a situation that could happen to any of us. Packer zeroes in on human emotions and makes her characters ring true within the course of concise twenty to thirty page stories. Moments of humor are woven in to balance heartache and grief.
I'll close by including an excerpt from the story "Dwell Time" that shows Packer's graceful prose in action :
"It was a Monday, which meant tonight it was just the two of them and her girls - his kids were with their mother. Laura was making enchiladas, a good compromise in the complicated culinary calculus of this family: simple enough that she wouldn't feel she was making nicer meals for her kids than for his, but also sure to please them, or at least Charlotte, who in all foods preferred things folded or rolled to things lying flat on a plate."
These stories are all beautiful, often painful, sometimes revelatory. Together, they make up the best book I've read so far this year.
The opening novella, "Walk For Mankind," gets the ball rolling. A story of young love and its ensuing confusion, I read the 100 pages in one sitting, then closed the book with a lump in my throat. The story is told from the point of view of a middle aged man, Richard, who is reflecting on the autumn of his eighth grade year, when a new red headed girl named Sasha moved to town. Richard is not reflecting for any particular reason other than to stroll down memory lane, but it's obvious that Sasha was his first love. We soon confirm that fact, and Packer's rendering of those powerful feelings of first love in full bloom is brutally real. Sasha and Richard start hanging out on a regular basis, and their friendship is strictly platonic. We glimpse the dynamics of their respective families, who become entertaining supporting characters in their own right. However, the main crux of the story begins when Sasha and Richard decide to do the Walk for Mankind, and set about collecting as many pledges as they can. One evening, they head to the Recreation Association to collect signatures, but it's closed. While kicking around the parking lot, they come across a bunch of older kids smoking pot by a fence. One of these, Cal, is practically an adult, and Sasha soon becomes involved with him. This is the catalyst that reveals Richard's feelings for her, and it's sad to watch his powerlessness as his first love becomes enamored with an older bad boy. You'll have to read the novella to get the full effect, but you'll be glad you did. The story takes place over the course of one year, but it tells of an emotional bond that would propel Richard throughout his life.
Although the opening novella is a hard act to follow, Packer manages to keep hitting home runs with the five stories that follow. "Molten" is probably the most gut-wrenching, as a mother obsessively listens to CDs from her son's collection, and we soon learn that he was recently killed in a freak accident. This is an inventive concept for a short story, and Packer goes all out with the musical analysis. She uses lyrics from real songs (she chooses not to reveal song titles, although you can find them in the copyright credits at the beginning of the book, probably to reflect the fact that Kathryn would not necessarily know the names of the songs and artists in Ben's collection), and she describes the music in fine detail, allowing us to hear it as Kathryn hears it. This is the only way she can find to feel close to her deceased Ben, and she becomes obsessed with listening. One evening, when her husband skips a meeting and stays home, she becomes angry, feeling that he is denying her the alone time she has come to require. Kathryn lets herself go, forgets to shower, ignores the dishes, and simply immerses herself in music until she takes deliberate action at the story's finale, which seems to offer her (and us) some semblance of peace.
The rest of the stories are equally strong, but I'm not going to describe all of them. One involves a woman on her second marriage whose husband simply fails to come home one evening; another focuses on a dad preparing for the birth of his first child. Each story is realistic, involving a situation that could happen to any of us. Packer zeroes in on human emotions and makes her characters ring true within the course of concise twenty to thirty page stories. Moments of humor are woven in to balance heartache and grief.
I'll close by including an excerpt from the story "Dwell Time" that shows Packer's graceful prose in action :
"It was a Monday, which meant tonight it was just the two of them and her girls - his kids were with their mother. Laura was making enchiladas, a good compromise in the complicated culinary calculus of this family: simple enough that she wouldn't feel she was making nicer meals for her kids than for his, but also sure to please them, or at least Charlotte, who in all foods preferred things folded or rolled to things lying flat on a plate."
These stories are all beautiful, often painful, sometimes revelatory. Together, they make up the best book I've read so far this year.
Friday, April 22, 2011
No Room For Improvement
I wasn't sure whether I would blog about Emma Donoghue's much revered novel, Room. What could I say that has not already been said? The book came out last September and ended up on practically every year end best-of list. It was short listed for the Man Booker Prize, won the Commonwealth Writers' Prize, and most recently, was short listed for the Orange Prize. Perhaps most tellingly, it also was named Best Fiction of 2010 on the literary social networking sight Goodreads, cementing its status as that not overly common thing: the commercial and critical success story.
I don't want to review Room, per se, but I do feel a need to write about it. The book is not light reading, although it is fast paced and immediately engaging. The plot revolves around five-year-old Jack and his mother, Ma, who are held hostage in a sound proofed garden tool shed of 11x11 dimensions. Jack was born into this room, so he has known nothing but what resides within its four walls for the duration of his life. He has never felt sunlight, only glimpsed it through Room's skylight. He refers to it as God's face.
Jack's mother was kidnapped while walking to class during her first year of college, and she was imprisoned for two years before Jack was born, so she has not known fresh air or sunlight for seven years. The name of the captor is Nicholas, referred to as Old Nick, and he appears once a week to deliver Sunday Treat (usually a necessity of some sort), and to force himself upon Ma.
From this horrific scenario springs a story so enveloping and powerful that you will not be able to put it down. Emma Donoghue chose to tell the story from Jack's point of view, and she manages to maintain the perspective of a five-year-old throughout the entire book. Jack speaks as a child would, specifically, a child who has not known anything beyond the confines of Room. You quickly become familiar with "Jack Speak." For example, "Ma hotted up dinner," and "I switched off" (meaning, go to sleep). It's a bold move to write a book from this perspective, but to maintain a consistent voice throughout is exceedingly admirable.
I won't tell you whether Jack and Ma make an escape from Room, but here's a hint: the book unfolds almost like a play, with two very distinct acts. The first act is notably descriptive and deliberate, detailing the surroundings of Room and the day to day activities that sustain Jack and Ma. The second act is much faster paced, with more characters and action. However, the book does not feel disjointed, nor does the pace ever drag.
Room was the latest book read by the Bailey Title Waves, a contemporary fiction discussion group that I facilitate at the Bailey Library on the third Wednesday of each month. This is a dynamic group of passionate, smart readers, and we have taken on some challenging novels over the past seven months. Usually the group's opinion is somewhat split, with several members loving a given title, while others are not big fans. Always, though, the discussion is lively, and even the non-fans find something to like in each of the books. With Room, I think we came closest to a general consensus, with almost every member present giving a high five to the novel. One member went so far as to say it exemplifies a perfect read for her. The book also led us, once again, to discuss the different reasons we read. This same member said that she reads to be entertained: and Room is certainly a captivating reading experience.
As Emma Donoghue continues to collect accolades for her novel, I would like to say one more thing. Although it is absolutely well-written, well-researched, and thoroughly engrossing, the book's greatest achievement seems to be its portrait of a mother's love for her child. Given the unfathomable circumstances in which these characters found themselves, Ma did everything in her power to create some semblance of a life for Jack. She made sure he exercised regularly, ate healthily, and was exposed to books. She taught him math, vocabulary, and valuable life lessons in every way she could. Without giving much away, I'll also say that she makes the ultimate sacrifice to try and assure their escape. Reading this book is an emotionally affecting experience, with never a dull moment. Hats off to Emma Donoghue for this powerful novel, which I think deserves every award it's winning.
I don't want to review Room, per se, but I do feel a need to write about it. The book is not light reading, although it is fast paced and immediately engaging. The plot revolves around five-year-old Jack and his mother, Ma, who are held hostage in a sound proofed garden tool shed of 11x11 dimensions. Jack was born into this room, so he has known nothing but what resides within its four walls for the duration of his life. He has never felt sunlight, only glimpsed it through Room's skylight. He refers to it as God's face.
Jack's mother was kidnapped while walking to class during her first year of college, and she was imprisoned for two years before Jack was born, so she has not known fresh air or sunlight for seven years. The name of the captor is Nicholas, referred to as Old Nick, and he appears once a week to deliver Sunday Treat (usually a necessity of some sort), and to force himself upon Ma.
From this horrific scenario springs a story so enveloping and powerful that you will not be able to put it down. Emma Donoghue chose to tell the story from Jack's point of view, and she manages to maintain the perspective of a five-year-old throughout the entire book. Jack speaks as a child would, specifically, a child who has not known anything beyond the confines of Room. You quickly become familiar with "Jack Speak." For example, "Ma hotted up dinner," and "I switched off" (meaning, go to sleep). It's a bold move to write a book from this perspective, but to maintain a consistent voice throughout is exceedingly admirable.
I won't tell you whether Jack and Ma make an escape from Room, but here's a hint: the book unfolds almost like a play, with two very distinct acts. The first act is notably descriptive and deliberate, detailing the surroundings of Room and the day to day activities that sustain Jack and Ma. The second act is much faster paced, with more characters and action. However, the book does not feel disjointed, nor does the pace ever drag.
Room was the latest book read by the Bailey Title Waves, a contemporary fiction discussion group that I facilitate at the Bailey Library on the third Wednesday of each month. This is a dynamic group of passionate, smart readers, and we have taken on some challenging novels over the past seven months. Usually the group's opinion is somewhat split, with several members loving a given title, while others are not big fans. Always, though, the discussion is lively, and even the non-fans find something to like in each of the books. With Room, I think we came closest to a general consensus, with almost every member present giving a high five to the novel. One member went so far as to say it exemplifies a perfect read for her. The book also led us, once again, to discuss the different reasons we read. This same member said that she reads to be entertained: and Room is certainly a captivating reading experience.
As Emma Donoghue continues to collect accolades for her novel, I would like to say one more thing. Although it is absolutely well-written, well-researched, and thoroughly engrossing, the book's greatest achievement seems to be its portrait of a mother's love for her child. Given the unfathomable circumstances in which these characters found themselves, Ma did everything in her power to create some semblance of a life for Jack. She made sure he exercised regularly, ate healthily, and was exposed to books. She taught him math, vocabulary, and valuable life lessons in every way she could. Without giving much away, I'll also say that she makes the ultimate sacrifice to try and assure their escape. Reading this book is an emotionally affecting experience, with never a dull moment. Hats off to Emma Donoghue for this powerful novel, which I think deserves every award it's winning.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Book Review: This Vacant Paradise by Victoria Patterson
Victoria Patterson is a first-time novelist (she also has one collection of short stories, Drift, to her credit), and if This Vacant Paradise is any indication, she has a bright literary career ahead of her.
I picked up This Vacant Paradise on a whim, because the summary on the book jacket appealed to me. I'm so glad I did. It's a great read, quick and effortless, but makes you think a lot along the way. The characters are (almost too) real, the writing is crisp and descriptive without being overly flowery, and there is a strong plot. The novel is a modern version of Edith Wharton's masterpiece, The House of Mirth, but you need not have read that book to enjoy this one. The setting of This Vacant Paradise is affluent Newport Beach, CA, in the early 1990s. I found it refreshing to read a book set during the time of my early adolescence (although in a far different locale than the one in which I grew up), and the pop culture and news references that Patterson sprinkles throughout brought back memories.
The main character of This Vacant Paradise is Esther Wilson. She is 33 years old and a stunning beauty. She is also single and lonely. Esther has been raised with one goal, "to marry well," but things are not going according to plan. Although she has dated a series of wealthy duds, her heart belongs to Charlie, a college professor who simply does not have the financial means to offer her the lifestyle she believes she must have.
At first glance, you may think that this novel has a simple premise: will Esther choose wealth or love? However, there is a lot more at play in Patterson's novel. Questions of beauty and age, social standing, greed, and familial acceptance are all raised. Esther is absolutely beautiful, but she's also perceptive and savvy. She knows that in another seven years, her looks will not serve her in the same way they currently do. There is a sort of desperation, as she tries to use her assets to secure her future, before she is left to rely on other methods. As a reader, you know that Esther is certainly smart enough to get by when her looks fade, but because of her surroundings and the way in which she was brought up, she has not yet realized this fact for herself. Whether or not she learns what we already know is something you'll have to find out by reading this great novel.
There are some interesting supporting characters in Esther's world, including her racist, verbally abusive Grandma Eileen; drug addicted brother, Eric; and Rick, a selfish man who works as Eileen's caretaker and turns her against the rest of her family (who, truth be told, are a bunch of selfish ingrates). Ultimately, though, This Vacant Paradise belongs to Esther. She is a flawed character, possessive of some of Grandma Eileen's prejudices, but more sympathetic since we are allowed a peek into her background (tragic childhood, etc.). Esther has a certain detachment that lends itself well to this book. At times, you feel she is living in a dream, but perhaps that's what happens when one's goals are so single minded and superficial.
Patterson is a talented, insightful writer, and I look forward to seeing where her career takes her.
I picked up This Vacant Paradise on a whim, because the summary on the book jacket appealed to me. I'm so glad I did. It's a great read, quick and effortless, but makes you think a lot along the way. The characters are (almost too) real, the writing is crisp and descriptive without being overly flowery, and there is a strong plot. The novel is a modern version of Edith Wharton's masterpiece, The House of Mirth, but you need not have read that book to enjoy this one. The setting of This Vacant Paradise is affluent Newport Beach, CA, in the early 1990s. I found it refreshing to read a book set during the time of my early adolescence (although in a far different locale than the one in which I grew up), and the pop culture and news references that Patterson sprinkles throughout brought back memories.
The main character of This Vacant Paradise is Esther Wilson. She is 33 years old and a stunning beauty. She is also single and lonely. Esther has been raised with one goal, "to marry well," but things are not going according to plan. Although she has dated a series of wealthy duds, her heart belongs to Charlie, a college professor who simply does not have the financial means to offer her the lifestyle she believes she must have.
At first glance, you may think that this novel has a simple premise: will Esther choose wealth or love? However, there is a lot more at play in Patterson's novel. Questions of beauty and age, social standing, greed, and familial acceptance are all raised. Esther is absolutely beautiful, but she's also perceptive and savvy. She knows that in another seven years, her looks will not serve her in the same way they currently do. There is a sort of desperation, as she tries to use her assets to secure her future, before she is left to rely on other methods. As a reader, you know that Esther is certainly smart enough to get by when her looks fade, but because of her surroundings and the way in which she was brought up, she has not yet realized this fact for herself. Whether or not she learns what we already know is something you'll have to find out by reading this great novel.
There are some interesting supporting characters in Esther's world, including her racist, verbally abusive Grandma Eileen; drug addicted brother, Eric; and Rick, a selfish man who works as Eileen's caretaker and turns her against the rest of her family (who, truth be told, are a bunch of selfish ingrates). Ultimately, though, This Vacant Paradise belongs to Esther. She is a flawed character, possessive of some of Grandma Eileen's prejudices, but more sympathetic since we are allowed a peek into her background (tragic childhood, etc.). Esther has a certain detachment that lends itself well to this book. At times, you feel she is living in a dream, but perhaps that's what happens when one's goals are so single minded and superficial.
Patterson is a talented, insightful writer, and I look forward to seeing where her career takes her.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Her Place In The Sun
Once again, I am straying from this blog's main topic, books. I do not want to let the day end without commenting on the passing of a true legend, one of the great actresses and humanitarians of our time: Elizabeth Taylor.
Elizabeth Taylor won two Academy Awards as Best Actress, first for Butterfield 8 in 1960, then for her riveting performance in "Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?" in 1966. Among her other major roles were "A Place In The Sun," "Cat On A Hot Tin Roof," "Suddenly, Last Summer," and the grandiose "Cleopatra."
In later years, Elizabeth became more known for her marriages and various health problems, but no amount of tabloid coverage could ever erase her indelible mark on the history of film. Although she did not continue to turn in stellar performances in the second half of her life, as Katherine Hepburn and Bette Davis did, she is certainly among the most famous actresses of all time, and one who was recognized both commercially (with box office hits) and critically (with a total of five Oscar nominations). Anyone who doubts her talent need only watch "Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf." And on a more superficial note, Elizabeth Taylor is certainly known as one of the greatest beauties from the history of cinema.
As a person, she was bold and generous, and along with Madonna, one of the few celebrities who called attention to the AIDS crises in its earliest years. Her tireless efforts to raise awareness of this disease were admirable.
There is no quick way to sum up the career of Elizabeth Taylor, but perhaps these words from the singer Madonna come closest:
"Elizabeth, by sharing your light, you have unconsciously given us permission to do the same. You are the most golden of stars."
This weekend, I imagine lots of people will watch a classic Liz Taylor movie in honor of a genuine Hollywood legend. May you rest in peace, Elizabeth. I hope you have found a beautiful place in the sun.
Elizabeth Taylor won two Academy Awards as Best Actress, first for Butterfield 8 in 1960, then for her riveting performance in "Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?" in 1966. Among her other major roles were "A Place In The Sun," "Cat On A Hot Tin Roof," "Suddenly, Last Summer," and the grandiose "Cleopatra."
In later years, Elizabeth became more known for her marriages and various health problems, but no amount of tabloid coverage could ever erase her indelible mark on the history of film. Although she did not continue to turn in stellar performances in the second half of her life, as Katherine Hepburn and Bette Davis did, she is certainly among the most famous actresses of all time, and one who was recognized both commercially (with box office hits) and critically (with a total of five Oscar nominations). Anyone who doubts her talent need only watch "Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf." And on a more superficial note, Elizabeth Taylor is certainly known as one of the greatest beauties from the history of cinema.
As a person, she was bold and generous, and along with Madonna, one of the few celebrities who called attention to the AIDS crises in its earliest years. Her tireless efforts to raise awareness of this disease were admirable.
There is no quick way to sum up the career of Elizabeth Taylor, but perhaps these words from the singer Madonna come closest:
"Elizabeth, by sharing your light, you have unconsciously given us permission to do the same. You are the most golden of stars."
This weekend, I imagine lots of people will watch a classic Liz Taylor movie in honor of a genuine Hollywood legend. May you rest in peace, Elizabeth. I hope you have found a beautiful place in the sun.
Monday, March 21, 2011
I Quit Facebook, Cold Turkey
I'm taking a break from book reviews and literary commentary to proclaim my freedom from the social networking site known as Facebook.
My on again, off again relationship with Facebook has lasted almost four years. I've used the site to keep in touch with friends across the country, to reconnect with old college chums, to view family photos, and to play many a fun game of Scramble. I've posted status updates ranging from song lyrics to where I'm eating lunch to exciting front row reports from concerts I've attended. Along the way, I've become disenchanted with the site, impatient with its constant image overhauls, and even downright annoyed with the self-importance I feel it fosters in all of us. I once deleted my page, only to come running back later that night to create a new one, access to which I vowed would be limited to only a select few close friends and family members. Alas, that page grew into the same elaborate, overcrowded quagmire that the original had been. What's a guy to do?
About a month ago, I wrote a blog on Facebook (well, technically a "Note," as blogs are called on FB) that addressed my annoyance with the site, with the amount of time I spent on the site, and with what I see as the general narcissism and self-indulgence Facebook encourages in us. I made promises that I would no longer post pointless status updates, and that I would use the "What's on your mind?" feature only to share book news, music news, or the occasional song lyric. I also swore that I would not change my default picture more than once a month, because that's just silly.
As the month wore on, however, I began to ask myself what I was actually getting from Facebook. Don't get me wrong: I am not one of those people who is going to quit and suddenly act all holier-than-thou, like I'm too good for the site. That would make me a huge hypocrite, given the number of hours I've logged on FB over the years! I see the appeal, the allure, and certainly some very useful attributes of the most powerful social networking site in the world. Facebook truly allows you to stay in contact with a wide swath of people from your life (although some would argue that this is a problem unto itself: you know, worlds colliding and all of that), to easily post pictures from a vacation, to get news from the bands you love, and yes, to play those wonderful games like Farmville and the aforementioned Scramble.
To each their own. But as I asked myself what I was personally getting out of Facebook, the answer I came up with was quite clear: not much at all. First of all, I'm a somewhat private person. I don't particularly care to have hundreds of people viewing my "likes," "dislikes," and definitely not my political preferences. I also never quite adapted to the fact that family members, friends, co-workers, former teachers, and even exes are all gathered on the same darn page! I mean, let's be honest: we don't always act the same way around our parents as we do our friends; we wouldn't necessarily say things to our co-workers that we would say to our siblings. Yes, there is something to be said for having "an identity," but a great many lives are segmented, and there's something very strange about having individual segments all collide in a great big kaleidoscopic burst of photo comments, status updates, and LIKES!
I also feel that , for me, Facebook siphons away much needed free time. This, of course, comes down to how you use it. In a world of jobs, errands, and responsibilities, where free time to enjoy friends and hobbies is precious enough to begin with, even an hour a day on Facebook is arguably too much. Again, this is just my personal opinion, but when I think of the hours I've whittled away on that site, I cringe. There are too many books to read, movies to see, concerts to attend, brunches to enjoy, and trails to run. I don't have nearly enough time to enjoy my many hobbies and interests, but by cutting out Facebook entirely, I'll have at least a little bit more time.
Some people feel that by cutting ties to Facebook, you're cutting yourself off from the world. I say, quite the opposite: I'm throwing myself full force into my world. I have a cell phone, two e-mail addresses, a blog, and an account on Good Reads, so I'm certainly reachable. And in all honesty, when someone I care about gets a new car, lands a new job, or decides to get married, I would rather read a detailed e-mail or receive a personal phone call than read about it on Facebook.
I still have a good hour before I turn in for the night, and rather than check Facebook, I think I'll go read.
My on again, off again relationship with Facebook has lasted almost four years. I've used the site to keep in touch with friends across the country, to reconnect with old college chums, to view family photos, and to play many a fun game of Scramble. I've posted status updates ranging from song lyrics to where I'm eating lunch to exciting front row reports from concerts I've attended. Along the way, I've become disenchanted with the site, impatient with its constant image overhauls, and even downright annoyed with the self-importance I feel it fosters in all of us. I once deleted my page, only to come running back later that night to create a new one, access to which I vowed would be limited to only a select few close friends and family members. Alas, that page grew into the same elaborate, overcrowded quagmire that the original had been. What's a guy to do?
About a month ago, I wrote a blog on Facebook (well, technically a "Note," as blogs are called on FB) that addressed my annoyance with the site, with the amount of time I spent on the site, and with what I see as the general narcissism and self-indulgence Facebook encourages in us. I made promises that I would no longer post pointless status updates, and that I would use the "What's on your mind?" feature only to share book news, music news, or the occasional song lyric. I also swore that I would not change my default picture more than once a month, because that's just silly.
As the month wore on, however, I began to ask myself what I was actually getting from Facebook. Don't get me wrong: I am not one of those people who is going to quit and suddenly act all holier-than-thou, like I'm too good for the site. That would make me a huge hypocrite, given the number of hours I've logged on FB over the years! I see the appeal, the allure, and certainly some very useful attributes of the most powerful social networking site in the world. Facebook truly allows you to stay in contact with a wide swath of people from your life (although some would argue that this is a problem unto itself: you know, worlds colliding and all of that), to easily post pictures from a vacation, to get news from the bands you love, and yes, to play those wonderful games like Farmville and the aforementioned Scramble.
To each their own. But as I asked myself what I was personally getting out of Facebook, the answer I came up with was quite clear: not much at all. First of all, I'm a somewhat private person. I don't particularly care to have hundreds of people viewing my "likes," "dislikes," and definitely not my political preferences. I also never quite adapted to the fact that family members, friends, co-workers, former teachers, and even exes are all gathered on the same darn page! I mean, let's be honest: we don't always act the same way around our parents as we do our friends; we wouldn't necessarily say things to our co-workers that we would say to our siblings. Yes, there is something to be said for having "an identity," but a great many lives are segmented, and there's something very strange about having individual segments all collide in a great big kaleidoscopic burst of photo comments, status updates, and LIKES!
I also feel that , for me, Facebook siphons away much needed free time. This, of course, comes down to how you use it. In a world of jobs, errands, and responsibilities, where free time to enjoy friends and hobbies is precious enough to begin with, even an hour a day on Facebook is arguably too much. Again, this is just my personal opinion, but when I think of the hours I've whittled away on that site, I cringe. There are too many books to read, movies to see, concerts to attend, brunches to enjoy, and trails to run. I don't have nearly enough time to enjoy my many hobbies and interests, but by cutting out Facebook entirely, I'll have at least a little bit more time.
Some people feel that by cutting ties to Facebook, you're cutting yourself off from the world. I say, quite the opposite: I'm throwing myself full force into my world. I have a cell phone, two e-mail addresses, a blog, and an account on Good Reads, so I'm certainly reachable. And in all honesty, when someone I care about gets a new car, lands a new job, or decides to get married, I would rather read a detailed e-mail or receive a personal phone call than read about it on Facebook.
I still have a good hour before I turn in for the night, and rather than check Facebook, I think I'll go read.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
The Reader's Choice
I come from a family of readers. I also work in a public library, belong to a book group, and majored in English literature. Needless to say, I am surrounded by readers on a daily basis, and many of my friends are avid bookworms. However, every once in a while, I am reminded that, to some, we readers are an odd bunch.
Yes, that's right, there are people who do not read. And although that is their prerogative, some of them cannot understand the appeal that books have to us bibliophiles. It is fair to say that there is a certain stigma attached to book lovers in some quarters, perhaps a perception of us as "nerds," "geeks," or "dorks."
Even I become aware of this stigma at times, particularly on a Friday night when many of my friends are about to hit the bars, and I am settling in with a salad (and don't let me fool you, a piece of cake or a cookie will follow) and a good book. Don't get me wrong: I had my "going out" phase, but it was short-lived and I often felt somewhat out of place. I mean, I had fun, but always felt I was in a dream, or putting on some sort of act, secretly wishing I could escape to a comfortable chair and a book.
What some non-readers forget is that, for book lovers, reading is a hobby, an activity, a pleasure-provider. It's not passive, it's active. It's something we do. Just as some people have sports, camping, movies, or stamp collecting (people still collect stamps, right?); some people have scrapbooking, bar hopping, automobiles, or golf; we have reading. Some of us have reading and lots of other hobbies too, but somehow, reading is not always perceived as a legitimate passtime. In my circles, it certainly is, but trust me, there is a modicum of judgment out there.
I consider myself an avid reader, but there are those who outread me. Some of the patrons who come in to the library would put me to shame! They come in with a giant tote bag of books to return, and they don't leave until the bag is full again. And these are people who come in on a weekly basis! Yes, I know what you're thinking: do they read all of them? Yes, they do! They are serious about their books, and I love them all the more for that fact.
You can tell serious readers by the way they panic at the thought of not having a book, although if their homes are anything like mine, they probably have an arsenal of unread titles at their disposal. Still, though, they panic. If there's a storm on the horizon, we will be especially busy at work, as people stock up on books as though they were milk and bread. Also amusing are the people who are getting ready to go on vacation, and they want to make sure they are not without a book during their trip. These are my kinds of people.
The perception of readers as lonely individuals with no lives outside of their books is inaccurate. Sure, there are people like that, and I believe it's wonderful that they have books to turn to. But readers come in all stripes and varieties, and most have active, fulfilling lives. What non-readers don't always understand is that we enthusiastically choose to build books and reading into our lives. It's not that we don't have other stuff to do, it's that we choose to make reading a priority.
And you'll catch us reading just about anywhere: on busses, trains, and planes; in living rooms and on porches; curled up in bed, or sprawled out on the beach; on lunch breaks at work, or the five minutes before a meeting. Give us an opportunity, and out will come our book (or Nook, or Kindle).
Why we read, well, that's a topic for another day. But rest assured, we are a large group, and we are passionate. Reading is of the utmost pleasure, and it's something book lovers proudly claim as a hobby and a central part of our lives. So the next time you roll your eyes at the friend who chooses to curl up with a book on a Friday night, remember there's a good chance that she/he's having just as much fun as you will be when you drag your drunk self home from the bar.
Yes, that's right, there are people who do not read. And although that is their prerogative, some of them cannot understand the appeal that books have to us bibliophiles. It is fair to say that there is a certain stigma attached to book lovers in some quarters, perhaps a perception of us as "nerds," "geeks," or "dorks."
Even I become aware of this stigma at times, particularly on a Friday night when many of my friends are about to hit the bars, and I am settling in with a salad (and don't let me fool you, a piece of cake or a cookie will follow) and a good book. Don't get me wrong: I had my "going out" phase, but it was short-lived and I often felt somewhat out of place. I mean, I had fun, but always felt I was in a dream, or putting on some sort of act, secretly wishing I could escape to a comfortable chair and a book.
What some non-readers forget is that, for book lovers, reading is a hobby, an activity, a pleasure-provider. It's not passive, it's active. It's something we do. Just as some people have sports, camping, movies, or stamp collecting (people still collect stamps, right?); some people have scrapbooking, bar hopping, automobiles, or golf; we have reading. Some of us have reading and lots of other hobbies too, but somehow, reading is not always perceived as a legitimate passtime. In my circles, it certainly is, but trust me, there is a modicum of judgment out there.
I consider myself an avid reader, but there are those who outread me. Some of the patrons who come in to the library would put me to shame! They come in with a giant tote bag of books to return, and they don't leave until the bag is full again. And these are people who come in on a weekly basis! Yes, I know what you're thinking: do they read all of them? Yes, they do! They are serious about their books, and I love them all the more for that fact.
You can tell serious readers by the way they panic at the thought of not having a book, although if their homes are anything like mine, they probably have an arsenal of unread titles at their disposal. Still, though, they panic. If there's a storm on the horizon, we will be especially busy at work, as people stock up on books as though they were milk and bread. Also amusing are the people who are getting ready to go on vacation, and they want to make sure they are not without a book during their trip. These are my kinds of people.
The perception of readers as lonely individuals with no lives outside of their books is inaccurate. Sure, there are people like that, and I believe it's wonderful that they have books to turn to. But readers come in all stripes and varieties, and most have active, fulfilling lives. What non-readers don't always understand is that we enthusiastically choose to build books and reading into our lives. It's not that we don't have other stuff to do, it's that we choose to make reading a priority.
And you'll catch us reading just about anywhere: on busses, trains, and planes; in living rooms and on porches; curled up in bed, or sprawled out on the beach; on lunch breaks at work, or the five minutes before a meeting. Give us an opportunity, and out will come our book (or Nook, or Kindle).
Why we read, well, that's a topic for another day. But rest assured, we are a large group, and we are passionate. Reading is of the utmost pleasure, and it's something book lovers proudly claim as a hobby and a central part of our lives. So the next time you roll your eyes at the friend who chooses to curl up with a book on a Friday night, remember there's a good chance that she/he's having just as much fun as you will be when you drag your drunk self home from the bar.
Monday, February 21, 2011
She Got The Beat
Although not a big reader of non-fiction, I do like my biographies, autobiographies, and memoirs. I enjoy reading about the lives of politicians, actors, authors, and musical artists, particularly if they are ones who have shaped me in some way.
As a young boy, I was a huge fan of a catchy pop single called "Mad About You," by a singer named Belinda Carlisle. At one point, it was my favorite song, and I remember buying the single and playing it on my stereo while looking at the picture of Belinda on the cover photo. Kids don't do that anymore, do they? Not in the era of digital songs and instant gratification. The next year, Belinda came out with another hit song, "Heaven Is A Place On Earth," and again, I was a big fan. Little did I know at the time that she had already had a successful career as lead singer of the pioneering band The Go-Go's, but I soon figured that out.
It was with great interest that I sat down to read Belinda's recent memoir, entitled Lips Unsealed in homage to the Go-Go's hit "Our Lips Are Sealed." A clever title for the book, as she would at long last be unsealing her lips to reveal the inside story behind her life and career.
You might not think that Belinda Carlisle's memoir would be a riveting read, unless you are a huge music buff and interested in the formation of one of the first all-female bands to write and play their own songs. A casual fan of Belinda's might debate reading this book, feeling that it couldn't possibly be as interesting as the recent Pat Benatar autobiography, or that her story couldn't be as scandalous as that of Stevie Nicks, Janet Jackson, Madonna, or other 80s superstars (wow, I can't wait until Stevie Nicks writes an autobiography). Trust me, though, this is a quick and interesting read, and quite well-written (that can sometimes be a problem with memoirs, because a talented actor or singer does not necessarily have to be a talented writer). And Belinda Carlisle was a true punk, a real rock rebel, who partied as hard and outrageously as any of her male counterparts.
For me, the main selling point of this book are the stories about the Go-Go's: how they formed, the writing process of their bestselling first album, Beauty And The Beat, and Belinda's thoughts on the success of that effort, which was the first album by a female band who wrote and played their own songs to hit Number One on the Billboard album chart. And I got all that from this book. Belinda goes into considerable detail about the night the band formed (basically, three girls were sitting on a curb in Venice, CA and decided to start a band), their initial rehearsals and first concert dates, and the wave of excitement surrounding the success of their songs "Our Lips Are Sealed" and "We Got The Beat."
The book follows her through all of the Go-Go's' albums, their eventual breakup, her successful solo career, the fizzling out of said solo career, the various Go-Go's' reunions, right up to 2009 and her stint on the reality television program Dancing With The Stars. Along the way, we learn of her heated affair with the late Michael Hutchence, lead singer of INXS; her jealousy over Madonna's thinness in the "Papa Don't Preach Video"; her excitement upon meeting Elton John; and a night of non-stop partying that the Go-Go's, then in their mid-40s, did with the young men of Green Day. In other words, there are lots of famous people and musical moments for rock history buffs.
However, the main theme throughout Lips Unsealed is of Belinda's incredible lack of self-worth, which started at a young age and resulted in horrible food issues and a devastating cocaine addiction. Her problems might not seem worse than those of any other rock star, but the way she details them is striking: she never blames anyone other than herself, and she calmly relates the manner in which, time and time again, she refused the help she needed and continued to jeapordize not only her own health, but her marriage, and her son's well-being as well. Her ability to take ownership for her mistakes is refreshing, and she comes across largely sympathetic, even if you roll your eyes by the twentieth time she refuses to go to rehab and takes up on another cocaine binge.
Her issues with food were almost as crippling as her drug addiction; in fact, they may have caused her to turn to drugs. It's a touching story, beginning with the kids who cruelly called her Belimpa as a child, but she never comes across as begging for sympathy. In fact, I was throughly impressed with her tone throughout the memoir, simply giving her life story, certainly adding commentary but never embellishing that much. Straightforward, that's how I would describe her style.
Eventually, Belinda Carlisle was able to admit that she needed help, and she quit drugs and drinking for good. When I finally reached that point in her story, I felt genuinely happy for her. There were many touching moments throughout Lips Unsealed, including the moment when her teenage son comes out to her; and several passages involving her husband Morgan, who has to be one of the most patient men on Planet Earth. And it was extremely inspiring to read the story of their marriage and his undying love for her. They have been married for more than twenty-three years, and that is a lot more than you can say for most Hollywood couples, including those with a lot less problems than these two had. Kudos to Morgan Mason, for his upstanding character and true devotion to his wife.
And hats off to Belinda Carlisle, for her role as lead singer in one of the most important bands in rock history, and for writing a genuinely good rock and roll memoir.
As a young boy, I was a huge fan of a catchy pop single called "Mad About You," by a singer named Belinda Carlisle. At one point, it was my favorite song, and I remember buying the single and playing it on my stereo while looking at the picture of Belinda on the cover photo. Kids don't do that anymore, do they? Not in the era of digital songs and instant gratification. The next year, Belinda came out with another hit song, "Heaven Is A Place On Earth," and again, I was a big fan. Little did I know at the time that she had already had a successful career as lead singer of the pioneering band The Go-Go's, but I soon figured that out.
It was with great interest that I sat down to read Belinda's recent memoir, entitled Lips Unsealed in homage to the Go-Go's hit "Our Lips Are Sealed." A clever title for the book, as she would at long last be unsealing her lips to reveal the inside story behind her life and career.
You might not think that Belinda Carlisle's memoir would be a riveting read, unless you are a huge music buff and interested in the formation of one of the first all-female bands to write and play their own songs. A casual fan of Belinda's might debate reading this book, feeling that it couldn't possibly be as interesting as the recent Pat Benatar autobiography, or that her story couldn't be as scandalous as that of Stevie Nicks, Janet Jackson, Madonna, or other 80s superstars (wow, I can't wait until Stevie Nicks writes an autobiography). Trust me, though, this is a quick and interesting read, and quite well-written (that can sometimes be a problem with memoirs, because a talented actor or singer does not necessarily have to be a talented writer). And Belinda Carlisle was a true punk, a real rock rebel, who partied as hard and outrageously as any of her male counterparts.
For me, the main selling point of this book are the stories about the Go-Go's: how they formed, the writing process of their bestselling first album, Beauty And The Beat, and Belinda's thoughts on the success of that effort, which was the first album by a female band who wrote and played their own songs to hit Number One on the Billboard album chart. And I got all that from this book. Belinda goes into considerable detail about the night the band formed (basically, three girls were sitting on a curb in Venice, CA and decided to start a band), their initial rehearsals and first concert dates, and the wave of excitement surrounding the success of their songs "Our Lips Are Sealed" and "We Got The Beat."
The book follows her through all of the Go-Go's' albums, their eventual breakup, her successful solo career, the fizzling out of said solo career, the various Go-Go's' reunions, right up to 2009 and her stint on the reality television program Dancing With The Stars. Along the way, we learn of her heated affair with the late Michael Hutchence, lead singer of INXS; her jealousy over Madonna's thinness in the "Papa Don't Preach Video"; her excitement upon meeting Elton John; and a night of non-stop partying that the Go-Go's, then in their mid-40s, did with the young men of Green Day. In other words, there are lots of famous people and musical moments for rock history buffs.
However, the main theme throughout Lips Unsealed is of Belinda's incredible lack of self-worth, which started at a young age and resulted in horrible food issues and a devastating cocaine addiction. Her problems might not seem worse than those of any other rock star, but the way she details them is striking: she never blames anyone other than herself, and she calmly relates the manner in which, time and time again, she refused the help she needed and continued to jeapordize not only her own health, but her marriage, and her son's well-being as well. Her ability to take ownership for her mistakes is refreshing, and she comes across largely sympathetic, even if you roll your eyes by the twentieth time she refuses to go to rehab and takes up on another cocaine binge.
Her issues with food were almost as crippling as her drug addiction; in fact, they may have caused her to turn to drugs. It's a touching story, beginning with the kids who cruelly called her Belimpa as a child, but she never comes across as begging for sympathy. In fact, I was throughly impressed with her tone throughout the memoir, simply giving her life story, certainly adding commentary but never embellishing that much. Straightforward, that's how I would describe her style.
Eventually, Belinda Carlisle was able to admit that she needed help, and she quit drugs and drinking for good. When I finally reached that point in her story, I felt genuinely happy for her. There were many touching moments throughout Lips Unsealed, including the moment when her teenage son comes out to her; and several passages involving her husband Morgan, who has to be one of the most patient men on Planet Earth. And it was extremely inspiring to read the story of their marriage and his undying love for her. They have been married for more than twenty-three years, and that is a lot more than you can say for most Hollywood couples, including those with a lot less problems than these two had. Kudos to Morgan Mason, for his upstanding character and true devotion to his wife.
And hats off to Belinda Carlisle, for her role as lead singer in one of the most important bands in rock history, and for writing a genuinely good rock and roll memoir.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
The Power of Solar
Ian McEwan is one of those authors who became a bona fide favorite of mine based on just two novels, the epic Atonement and the beautifully rendered On Chesil Beach. The former is one of my all time favorite books, and more than five years after reading it, I still cringe at what humans can do to those they love. The latter is a book so understated yet emotionally poignant that its ending will stay with me forever. I have yet to read any of McEwan's well-regarded earlier works, nor have I tackled the Booker-winning Amsterdam or the much praised Saturday. All in good time.
Solar, his latest novel, got good reviews, but was generally considered less outstanding than his other works. I got the feeling, reading the reviews, that literary critics thought they had to give it high marks because it's new McEwan, but that they thought he might be resting on his laurels. A music critic once said, in reviewing Madonna's American Life album, that if you stack it up next to her Ray Of Light, it falls flat ... but then quickly added, "to be fair, most pop albums do." Thus is the hallowed status of Ray Of Light. One could similarly write of Solar ... "Stack it up next to 'Atonement' and it falls flat ... but to be fair, most modern novels do." However, why should an artist who has created a masterpiece (or more than one) have to endure the shadow of his masterpiece forever, suffering through every subsequent novel being compared to an all time great?
So I vowed to take Solar on its own terms, and not compare it to either Atonement or On Chesil Beach, and guess what? It's a damn good book, with some exquisite writing, great characterization, and touches of laugh-out-loud humor. I was never bored, and that's saying something, because physics plays a large role in this book, and let's just say that was the class that saw my Honor Roll train go screeching off its tracks during my junior year of high school.
Solar has a decent, identifiable plot (a couple of them, actually), but largely, it's a character study. The character is Michael Beard, a pompous, arrogant Nobel winner who has been coasting on his reputation for several decades, and sort of falling through the cracks as younger, more forward-thinking physicists are coming up through the ranks (there is an interesting tangent on the nature of scientists who think in terms of saving the world, vs. those who are more single-minded [selfish?] in their focus). Beard spends his time giving lectures, serving on committees, basically selling his name to help universities and various scientific projects rake in grant money. Along the way, he has managed to divorce four women, and as the novel opens, his fifth marriage is about to implode. The way in which it does so is quite fun to watch, in spite of some tragic consequences. There is a lot of dark comedy at play in Solar, and McEwan presents it brilliantly.
One criticisim I read of the book is that its three distinct sections, which each occur a few years apart, do not hold together well. I disagree. I felt that they all served to show how stagnant Beard is, how he doesn't really change or try to better himself in spite of the horrible things he's done, and the lessons he should have learned. Some readers will be pleased by the comeuppance Beard gets in the final act. I can't say that I really hated his character. It's often hard for me to loathe a character who is the centerpiece of a novel, if the author does his or her job correctly. I mean, we are basically going on a journey with Michael Beard, and seeing his reactions, thoughts, and dreams as they are rendered by McEwan ... which ultimately creates a portrait of a flawed, but not evil, man.
At the end of the day, the real pleasure for me in reading Solar was McEwan's gift as a wordsmith. I can't think of another contemporary novelist who sends me to the dictionary (well, Google) with as much frequency as this guy, but it's worth it for the words I learn, and the perfect way in which he employs them. And his writing is just so damn good, as evidenced by this sentence:
"She did not tease or taunt or flirt with him - that at least would have been communication of a sort - but steadily perfected the bright indifference with which she intended to obliterate him."
Ah, he is such a fine writer. I got a lot out of Solar: moments of laughter, engagement with the plot, a few new words to add to my vocabulary, some insight into solar power and physics, but mostly, an even greater appreciation for a man who ranks among our greatest contemporary novelists. I look forward to many more nights lost between the pages with Ian McEwan.
Solar, his latest novel, got good reviews, but was generally considered less outstanding than his other works. I got the feeling, reading the reviews, that literary critics thought they had to give it high marks because it's new McEwan, but that they thought he might be resting on his laurels. A music critic once said, in reviewing Madonna's American Life album, that if you stack it up next to her Ray Of Light, it falls flat ... but then quickly added, "to be fair, most pop albums do." Thus is the hallowed status of Ray Of Light. One could similarly write of Solar ... "Stack it up next to 'Atonement' and it falls flat ... but to be fair, most modern novels do." However, why should an artist who has created a masterpiece (or more than one) have to endure the shadow of his masterpiece forever, suffering through every subsequent novel being compared to an all time great?
So I vowed to take Solar on its own terms, and not compare it to either Atonement or On Chesil Beach, and guess what? It's a damn good book, with some exquisite writing, great characterization, and touches of laugh-out-loud humor. I was never bored, and that's saying something, because physics plays a large role in this book, and let's just say that was the class that saw my Honor Roll train go screeching off its tracks during my junior year of high school.
Solar has a decent, identifiable plot (a couple of them, actually), but largely, it's a character study. The character is Michael Beard, a pompous, arrogant Nobel winner who has been coasting on his reputation for several decades, and sort of falling through the cracks as younger, more forward-thinking physicists are coming up through the ranks (there is an interesting tangent on the nature of scientists who think in terms of saving the world, vs. those who are more single-minded [selfish?] in their focus). Beard spends his time giving lectures, serving on committees, basically selling his name to help universities and various scientific projects rake in grant money. Along the way, he has managed to divorce four women, and as the novel opens, his fifth marriage is about to implode. The way in which it does so is quite fun to watch, in spite of some tragic consequences. There is a lot of dark comedy at play in Solar, and McEwan presents it brilliantly.
One criticisim I read of the book is that its three distinct sections, which each occur a few years apart, do not hold together well. I disagree. I felt that they all served to show how stagnant Beard is, how he doesn't really change or try to better himself in spite of the horrible things he's done, and the lessons he should have learned. Some readers will be pleased by the comeuppance Beard gets in the final act. I can't say that I really hated his character. It's often hard for me to loathe a character who is the centerpiece of a novel, if the author does his or her job correctly. I mean, we are basically going on a journey with Michael Beard, and seeing his reactions, thoughts, and dreams as they are rendered by McEwan ... which ultimately creates a portrait of a flawed, but not evil, man.
At the end of the day, the real pleasure for me in reading Solar was McEwan's gift as a wordsmith. I can't think of another contemporary novelist who sends me to the dictionary (well, Google) with as much frequency as this guy, but it's worth it for the words I learn, and the perfect way in which he employs them. And his writing is just so damn good, as evidenced by this sentence:
"She did not tease or taunt or flirt with him - that at least would have been communication of a sort - but steadily perfected the bright indifference with which she intended to obliterate him."
Ah, he is such a fine writer. I got a lot out of Solar: moments of laughter, engagement with the plot, a few new words to add to my vocabulary, some insight into solar power and physics, but mostly, an even greater appreciation for a man who ranks among our greatest contemporary novelists. I look forward to many more nights lost between the pages with Ian McEwan.
Friday, February 11, 2011
That Damnable Glass Ceiling?
http://www.tnr.com/article/books-and-arts/82930/VIDA-women-writers-magazines-book-reviews
In the first few hours after this article appeared online in The New Republic, one of my friends posted it to my Facebook page, and two others sent me text messages telling me about it. All three knew I would have strong opinions about these "shocking" statistics, and it seems fitting that I should address those opinions in my blog.
First, I should say that these statistics are no more shocking to me than the fact that there is a literary glass ceiling at all. Obviously there is one, and it doesn't take an article in the venerable New Republic to teach me what I've known for years. Back in 1998, when the Modern Library released its controversial list of the 100 Best Novels of the 20th Century, featuring just nine books by female authors, the reality of a glass ceiling sank in pretty fast. I don't think anyone is suggesting that a list needs to be divided equally between the genders, but nine books by women in a century that boasted Margaret Atwood, Harper Lee, Dorris Lessing, Toni Morrison, Flannery O'Connor, and Virginia Woolf? Come on, Modern Library, get real.
There are certainly those who will find these statistics surprising, upsetting, unjust. There are others who will be indifferent. And, finally, there are those who will claim it doesn't matter, like Peter Stothard, editor of the Times Literary Supplement, who is quoted in the above-mentioned article as saying he "refused to make a fetish" of having an equal number of male and female literary contributors to his publication. His comment puts things in perspective and gets to the heart of the issue for me:
Literature should be judged on its inherent qualities, review space should be devoted to the most important books, and lists of "the best" should be based on books' merits, not gender, race, or what not of the authors. However, we need to ask ourselves, as this article does, who is making these decisions as to quality, importance, merit, etc. And, more importantly, what defines quality, importance, and merit for our present day society. I believe the problem of gender bias is in some ways a modern phenomenon. Disagree? That's fine, but please remember that the 19th Century British Novel did not discriminate against women. In fact, it was a pretty even playing field as far as gender neutrality (equality?) goes, with Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Emily Bronte, George Eliot, and the poets Christina Rossetti and Elizabeth Barrett Browning taking pride of place alongside Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, William Makepeace Thackeray, and Anthony Trollope. And this is not just in retrospect. Although Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights was not a hit at the time, Charlotte's novels were very successful, George Eliot sold well and was critically acclaimed, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning was even more popular than her husband Robert in their heyday.
So if 19th century Britain could produce an equal playing field, just what the heck is wrong with us in the 21st Century? Whenever a list of "the greatest whatever's of all time" comes out, whether in literature or music, you'll find that women are underrepresented. So we must ask ourselves, is this because we actually feel that men have produced more works of quality? Or is it that the people making these decisions, and these lists, are primarily men? I have to say no to both of these questions. I just can't accept that anyone who reads seriously, or listens to music passionately, could legitimately claim that men consistently produce better work. I'm sure as heck not saying that everything needs to be 50-50, but nine novels out of 100 is appalling.
Let's look at another list: in 2005, Time Magazine picked the 100 best English-language novels since 1923. Their list was considerably better than the Modern Library's, with 20 novels by women and 80 by men. Still, though, something seems amiss. As for the people making the decisions, well, the above-mentioned article shows us that the majority of book reviewers are male, but I'm not willing to let women off the hook completely. When Rolling Stone magazine chose the 500 Greatest Albums of All Time in 2003, their list was heavily skewed toward male singers and male-fronted bands, but the panel of judges included a significant number of women, ranging from singers like Shirley Manson of Garbage (a renowned feminist) to journalists like Elysa Gardner.
These issues are weighty, and they cannot be condensed to soundbites. However, they are obviously problematic to many people, otherwise articles like this one in the New Republic would not be written, and prizes like the Orange Prize (given to the best full length English-language novel written by a woman in any given year) would not have been created. Some cry foul at the existence of the Orange Prize, claiming that if women want to be judged equally, on their own merits, then an award devoted only to female authors is unjust. However, it's a double edged sword: until female authors are treated equally, given the same amount of review space, nominated for prizes with the same frequency as their male counterparts, then why shouldn't an award exist to honor the wonderful books that are falling by the wayside?
I have noticed a certain discrimination myself, as a lifelong avid reader, one that manifests itself in a few different ways. For example, when asked to list some of my favorite authors, I might reply, off the top of my head : "Joyce Carol Oates, Stephen King, Anne Tyler, Sue Miller, John Irving, Toni Morrison, and Ian McEwen." I have, in fact, rattled off this very list before, and gotten the response (more than once): "Wow, you read a lot of female authors." Well, no. I just provided a cursory list of favorites that includes four females and three males. Somehow, though, this is interpreted as reading "a lot of female authors." Same situation arises when people look at my vast CD collection. "Wow, Shane, you like a lot of female singers." Yes, I sure do. And a lot of male singers, too. Why is it that people feel the need to mention the number of females as some sort of oddity? Is it because I'm a man? Certainly, if someone said they read John Grisham, Tom Clancy, Brad Thor, Patricia Cornwell, and Robert Crais, the response would not be "Wow, you read a lot of male authors." Come on, people, you know I'm right about this one.
The other thing I've noticed, somewhat disturbingly, is that people (both men and women) feel perfectly comfortable saying "I don't read female authors." I have heard this three times in the past year, from two men and one woman. As an avid reader, I cannot even conceive of ruling out an entire gender and denying myself a wealth of good reads, but to each their own.
I guess the reason this article in The New Republic bothers me so much is that part of me wants literature to be the place where true equality really does exist, where writers of both genders, all races, different religious beliefs, social classes, and sexual orientations change lives through the power of the written word.
This blog has been all over the map, and I have a lot more that I could say. However, it's a complicated issue and one that reflects certain biases and issues that exist in society at large. Since I'm feeling tired, I will let someone else speak. This is a quote from a review of Sue Miller's The Lake Shore Limited, written by a male reviewer, that appeared in The Washington Post when the book came out last year. It summarizes so much of what I feel, and it warms my heart that this man is writing reviews read by thousands of people:
"There are several contenders (Anita Shreve, Gail Godwin), but Sue Miller might be the best poster child for the poison condescension bestowed by the term "women's literature." She didn't publish her first novel, "The Good Mother" (1986), until she was in her 40s, but since then she's been prolific and popular (another mark against her), writing about families and marriages, infidelity and divorce -- what we call "literary fiction" when men write about those things. Last year, a grudging review of "The Senator's Wife" in That Other East Coast Newspaper claimed that Miller's novels "feature soap-opera plots," a mischaracterization broad enough to apply to any story that doesn't involve space travel or machine guns."
Hats off to you, Mr. Ron Carlson. May you continue to review great books for many years to come!
In the first few hours after this article appeared online in The New Republic, one of my friends posted it to my Facebook page, and two others sent me text messages telling me about it. All three knew I would have strong opinions about these "shocking" statistics, and it seems fitting that I should address those opinions in my blog.
First, I should say that these statistics are no more shocking to me than the fact that there is a literary glass ceiling at all. Obviously there is one, and it doesn't take an article in the venerable New Republic to teach me what I've known for years. Back in 1998, when the Modern Library released its controversial list of the 100 Best Novels of the 20th Century, featuring just nine books by female authors, the reality of a glass ceiling sank in pretty fast. I don't think anyone is suggesting that a list needs to be divided equally between the genders, but nine books by women in a century that boasted Margaret Atwood, Harper Lee, Dorris Lessing, Toni Morrison, Flannery O'Connor, and Virginia Woolf? Come on, Modern Library, get real.
There are certainly those who will find these statistics surprising, upsetting, unjust. There are others who will be indifferent. And, finally, there are those who will claim it doesn't matter, like Peter Stothard, editor of the Times Literary Supplement, who is quoted in the above-mentioned article as saying he "refused to make a fetish" of having an equal number of male and female literary contributors to his publication. His comment puts things in perspective and gets to the heart of the issue for me:
Literature should be judged on its inherent qualities, review space should be devoted to the most important books, and lists of "the best" should be based on books' merits, not gender, race, or what not of the authors. However, we need to ask ourselves, as this article does, who is making these decisions as to quality, importance, merit, etc. And, more importantly, what defines quality, importance, and merit for our present day society. I believe the problem of gender bias is in some ways a modern phenomenon. Disagree? That's fine, but please remember that the 19th Century British Novel did not discriminate against women. In fact, it was a pretty even playing field as far as gender neutrality (equality?) goes, with Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Emily Bronte, George Eliot, and the poets Christina Rossetti and Elizabeth Barrett Browning taking pride of place alongside Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, William Makepeace Thackeray, and Anthony Trollope. And this is not just in retrospect. Although Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights was not a hit at the time, Charlotte's novels were very successful, George Eliot sold well and was critically acclaimed, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning was even more popular than her husband Robert in their heyday.
So if 19th century Britain could produce an equal playing field, just what the heck is wrong with us in the 21st Century? Whenever a list of "the greatest whatever's of all time" comes out, whether in literature or music, you'll find that women are underrepresented. So we must ask ourselves, is this because we actually feel that men have produced more works of quality? Or is it that the people making these decisions, and these lists, are primarily men? I have to say no to both of these questions. I just can't accept that anyone who reads seriously, or listens to music passionately, could legitimately claim that men consistently produce better work. I'm sure as heck not saying that everything needs to be 50-50, but nine novels out of 100 is appalling.
Let's look at another list: in 2005, Time Magazine picked the 100 best English-language novels since 1923. Their list was considerably better than the Modern Library's, with 20 novels by women and 80 by men. Still, though, something seems amiss. As for the people making the decisions, well, the above-mentioned article shows us that the majority of book reviewers are male, but I'm not willing to let women off the hook completely. When Rolling Stone magazine chose the 500 Greatest Albums of All Time in 2003, their list was heavily skewed toward male singers and male-fronted bands, but the panel of judges included a significant number of women, ranging from singers like Shirley Manson of Garbage (a renowned feminist) to journalists like Elysa Gardner.
These issues are weighty, and they cannot be condensed to soundbites. However, they are obviously problematic to many people, otherwise articles like this one in the New Republic would not be written, and prizes like the Orange Prize (given to the best full length English-language novel written by a woman in any given year) would not have been created. Some cry foul at the existence of the Orange Prize, claiming that if women want to be judged equally, on their own merits, then an award devoted only to female authors is unjust. However, it's a double edged sword: until female authors are treated equally, given the same amount of review space, nominated for prizes with the same frequency as their male counterparts, then why shouldn't an award exist to honor the wonderful books that are falling by the wayside?
I have noticed a certain discrimination myself, as a lifelong avid reader, one that manifests itself in a few different ways. For example, when asked to list some of my favorite authors, I might reply, off the top of my head : "Joyce Carol Oates, Stephen King, Anne Tyler, Sue Miller, John Irving, Toni Morrison, and Ian McEwen." I have, in fact, rattled off this very list before, and gotten the response (more than once): "Wow, you read a lot of female authors." Well, no. I just provided a cursory list of favorites that includes four females and three males. Somehow, though, this is interpreted as reading "a lot of female authors." Same situation arises when people look at my vast CD collection. "Wow, Shane, you like a lot of female singers." Yes, I sure do. And a lot of male singers, too. Why is it that people feel the need to mention the number of females as some sort of oddity? Is it because I'm a man? Certainly, if someone said they read John Grisham, Tom Clancy, Brad Thor, Patricia Cornwell, and Robert Crais, the response would not be "Wow, you read a lot of male authors." Come on, people, you know I'm right about this one.
The other thing I've noticed, somewhat disturbingly, is that people (both men and women) feel perfectly comfortable saying "I don't read female authors." I have heard this three times in the past year, from two men and one woman. As an avid reader, I cannot even conceive of ruling out an entire gender and denying myself a wealth of good reads, but to each their own.
I guess the reason this article in The New Republic bothers me so much is that part of me wants literature to be the place where true equality really does exist, where writers of both genders, all races, different religious beliefs, social classes, and sexual orientations change lives through the power of the written word.
This blog has been all over the map, and I have a lot more that I could say. However, it's a complicated issue and one that reflects certain biases and issues that exist in society at large. Since I'm feeling tired, I will let someone else speak. This is a quote from a review of Sue Miller's The Lake Shore Limited, written by a male reviewer, that appeared in The Washington Post when the book came out last year. It summarizes so much of what I feel, and it warms my heart that this man is writing reviews read by thousands of people:
"There are several contenders (Anita Shreve, Gail Godwin), but Sue Miller might be the best poster child for the poison condescension bestowed by the term "women's literature." She didn't publish her first novel, "The Good Mother" (1986), until she was in her 40s, but since then she's been prolific and popular (another mark against her), writing about families and marriages, infidelity and divorce -- what we call "literary fiction" when men write about those things. Last year, a grudging review of "The Senator's Wife" in That Other East Coast Newspaper claimed that Miller's novels "feature soap-opera plots," a mischaracterization broad enough to apply to any story that doesn't involve space travel or machine guns."
Hats off to you, Mr. Ron Carlson. May you continue to review great books for many years to come!
Sunday, February 6, 2011
And Then There Were None
I was familiar with the name Agatha Christie from an early age. My Mom used to read her books voraciously and has probably read all of them at this point, some more than once. I remember her checking out books with titles like Hallowe'en Party and The Mirror Crack'd from the Whitman Memorial Library, while I stocked up on The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew.
I didn't read my first Agatha Christie novel until the age of 22. I started with The Pale Horse, one of relatively few titles in her oeuvre that does not feature Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple. I liked the book a lot and soon after found myself engrossed in Murder On The Orient Express, which I knew to be one of her more famous titles. This one had a shocking, clever ending, and I could definitely see what all the fuss was about. There are some things that are just so good they will never go out of style: I Love Lucy, Beatles songs, The Wizard Of Oz, and Agatha Christie books among them. You learn of them from an early age and grow up with an acute awareness of them. It may take you years to investigate for yourself (I didn't watch an I Love Lucy rerun until I was 23), but when you do, you silently acknowledge that, yes, you understand what the fuss is about.
I was a mystery fan from a young age, so it's no surprise that I enjoyed Agatha Christie. I went on to read several more of her titles over the next five years: The Mysterious Affair At Styles, The Murder Of Roger Ackroyd, Third Girl, and Why Didn't They Ask Evans? I kept putting off Miss Marple, much as I have put off reading Anne Tyler's Dinner At The Homesick Restaurant, because I wanted to prolong the joy I just knew I would get from her. Yes, I'm a geek.
Last week, I finally read And Then There Were None, which I bought in paperback last June (just goes to show how far behind my pile of "to be read books" I can get). This is generally considered, along with The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, to be Christie's finest novel, and it also holds the distinction of being the bestselling mystery novel in the history of the world. It's hard to review a mystery, because you don't want to give away anytthing. And this book, much like the movie The Sixth Sense, will surely never have the same impact after your first time reading it. Most are familiar with the premise, as it has been copied and paid homage to multiple times in the decades since And Then There Were None was originally published: ten strangers are lured to an island, each of them holding a dark secret, and one by one they are offed in various fashions (some more gruesome than others). So who is the killer among them? You'll have to see for yourself.
Each time I read an Agatha Christie book, I am truly awed by the sheer genius of her mind. I am thankful that I have so many of her books still awaiting.
I didn't read my first Agatha Christie novel until the age of 22. I started with The Pale Horse, one of relatively few titles in her oeuvre that does not feature Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple. I liked the book a lot and soon after found myself engrossed in Murder On The Orient Express, which I knew to be one of her more famous titles. This one had a shocking, clever ending, and I could definitely see what all the fuss was about. There are some things that are just so good they will never go out of style: I Love Lucy, Beatles songs, The Wizard Of Oz, and Agatha Christie books among them. You learn of them from an early age and grow up with an acute awareness of them. It may take you years to investigate for yourself (I didn't watch an I Love Lucy rerun until I was 23), but when you do, you silently acknowledge that, yes, you understand what the fuss is about.
I was a mystery fan from a young age, so it's no surprise that I enjoyed Agatha Christie. I went on to read several more of her titles over the next five years: The Mysterious Affair At Styles, The Murder Of Roger Ackroyd, Third Girl, and Why Didn't They Ask Evans? I kept putting off Miss Marple, much as I have put off reading Anne Tyler's Dinner At The Homesick Restaurant, because I wanted to prolong the joy I just knew I would get from her. Yes, I'm a geek.
Last week, I finally read And Then There Were None, which I bought in paperback last June (just goes to show how far behind my pile of "to be read books" I can get). This is generally considered, along with The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, to be Christie's finest novel, and it also holds the distinction of being the bestselling mystery novel in the history of the world. It's hard to review a mystery, because you don't want to give away anytthing. And this book, much like the movie The Sixth Sense, will surely never have the same impact after your first time reading it. Most are familiar with the premise, as it has been copied and paid homage to multiple times in the decades since And Then There Were None was originally published: ten strangers are lured to an island, each of them holding a dark secret, and one by one they are offed in various fashions (some more gruesome than others). So who is the killer among them? You'll have to see for yourself.
Each time I read an Agatha Christie book, I am truly awed by the sheer genius of her mind. I am thankful that I have so many of her books still awaiting.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The Bonds We Forge As Readers
For an avid reader, few things are more satisfying than making an "author connection" with another avid reader. It's sort of thrilling, albeit in a geeky, reader sort of way, when you mention a favorite author to someone, and his or her face lights up. There's a look she gets in her eyes, a smile spreading fast on his face, and just like that, you've gone and done it: you've made an author connection!
Seriously, though, it's really cool when you discover that someone is as enthused about an author as you are. Luckily, I am able to make these sorts of connections every day, due to the nature of my job. Recommending books is something I have to do, day in and day out, and I love it. And it's also exciting when a library member turns me on to a book or author that I'm not overly familiar with.
Today, as the little storm that was supposed to be a prelude to the blizzard (but ended up being a sizable event unto itself) swirled its white magic around Winthrop, I made an awesome author connection. I was sitting at the circulation desk when a woman walked in the door and headed to the new non-fiction bookcase. She is quite friendly, as most people in Winthrop are, and what I would call a semi-regular at the library. "I need a good book," she said, with just a hint of desperation. I put on what I like to call my Non-Fiction face, which is something I have to put on for our non-fiction readers. It's a face I make when I journey inside myself and pray that I'll be able to recommend something even half as successfully as I would if they were asking for fiction titles. Yes, I admit it, I am one of those fiction lovers who vows every year to expand my non-fiction horizons.
Now, of course I am a professional, and years of working in bookstores and libraries have given me a lot to work with when it comes to non-fiction. And I am admittedly well-read when it comes to music and literary criticism, and sort of well-rounded in biography. Anyway, I was going to suggest The Island Of Lost Maps, but at the last minute, something caused me to inquire "do you prefer non-fiction?" to which she responded, "Only when it reads like fiction." This gave me pause, and I as I thought about my next move, she said, "I wouldn't mind reading a novel tomorrow during the storm." Well, with that I was up and across the floor, putting on my Fiction Face (which is animated, enthusiastic, and excited), saying "Well, I can recommend lots of those! Who are your favorite authors?"
And this is where the author connection took place. "I like Richard Russo," she responded, "Amy Tan. Sue Miller." Trying to maintain my professional demeanor, I practically shouted at the top of my lungs, "I love Sue Miller; she is one of my favorite authors EVER!"
"Oh, I have read everything by her," she replied, smiling the smile that people smile when they are making an author connection.
"Did you read The Lake-Shore Limited?" I shouted. Not really, but I was animated.
"No," she said, "I don't think I have!"
"It just came out last year," I replied, almost jumping up and down, suddenly unconcerned with the blizzard that is about to dump another foot-plus of snow on my state.
"I didn't know she had a new one!" she responded, almost shouting herself.
"Yes!" I exclaimed. "It was my book of the year for 2010," and I practically sprinted into the stacks to retrieve the novel, which I brought to her and handed over like a treasured Christmas present.
"Well, I guess I have found my book," she said, hardly able to contain her enthusiasm.
As she dug out her library card and I prepared to check-out the novel, I decided to take the risk that avid readers often take after making a successful author connection: the risk of suggesting a second author, holding our breath as we wait to see whether this new bond is going to grow stronger or simply rest at this happy plateau. Now, those who know me might think that I asked her if she liked Anne Tyler, but oh no: I took this one step further and formed the sentence: "Do you like Jane Hamilton?" "I love Jane Hamilton," she said, and I kid you not, I just about teared up. Before I could say anything, she continued: "I had two copies of The Short History Of A Prince for the longest time, but I finally gave one to my friend."
Silence for half a second as I collected myself.
WHAT I SAID: "That is so awesome. She is another one of my favorite authors EVER!"
WHAT I THOUGHT: "Oh my God, you are so cool and easily one of the greatest people I have ever met in my life, and I am so, so glad that I am working today and not at lunch, because that would have been tragic."
So, needless to say, I had a great day at work. Honestly, though, that is the sort of thing that has happened to me many times throughout my years working in bookstores and libraries. Author connections are moments that I treasure. They are what remind me that I am lucky to have a job that I love, and that when I feel like a geek for being a tried and true book addict, I need only remember the kindred spirits out there, clutching Sue Miller books as they head into the snowy day, to drive home and read. I sure hope she likes the book!
Seriously, though, it's really cool when you discover that someone is as enthused about an author as you are. Luckily, I am able to make these sorts of connections every day, due to the nature of my job. Recommending books is something I have to do, day in and day out, and I love it. And it's also exciting when a library member turns me on to a book or author that I'm not overly familiar with.
Today, as the little storm that was supposed to be a prelude to the blizzard (but ended up being a sizable event unto itself) swirled its white magic around Winthrop, I made an awesome author connection. I was sitting at the circulation desk when a woman walked in the door and headed to the new non-fiction bookcase. She is quite friendly, as most people in Winthrop are, and what I would call a semi-regular at the library. "I need a good book," she said, with just a hint of desperation. I put on what I like to call my Non-Fiction face, which is something I have to put on for our non-fiction readers. It's a face I make when I journey inside myself and pray that I'll be able to recommend something even half as successfully as I would if they were asking for fiction titles. Yes, I admit it, I am one of those fiction lovers who vows every year to expand my non-fiction horizons.
Now, of course I am a professional, and years of working in bookstores and libraries have given me a lot to work with when it comes to non-fiction. And I am admittedly well-read when it comes to music and literary criticism, and sort of well-rounded in biography. Anyway, I was going to suggest The Island Of Lost Maps, but at the last minute, something caused me to inquire "do you prefer non-fiction?" to which she responded, "Only when it reads like fiction." This gave me pause, and I as I thought about my next move, she said, "I wouldn't mind reading a novel tomorrow during the storm." Well, with that I was up and across the floor, putting on my Fiction Face (which is animated, enthusiastic, and excited), saying "Well, I can recommend lots of those! Who are your favorite authors?"
And this is where the author connection took place. "I like Richard Russo," she responded, "Amy Tan. Sue Miller." Trying to maintain my professional demeanor, I practically shouted at the top of my lungs, "I love Sue Miller; she is one of my favorite authors EVER!"
"Oh, I have read everything by her," she replied, smiling the smile that people smile when they are making an author connection.
"Did you read The Lake-Shore Limited?" I shouted. Not really, but I was animated.
"No," she said, "I don't think I have!"
"It just came out last year," I replied, almost jumping up and down, suddenly unconcerned with the blizzard that is about to dump another foot-plus of snow on my state.
"I didn't know she had a new one!" she responded, almost shouting herself.
"Yes!" I exclaimed. "It was my book of the year for 2010," and I practically sprinted into the stacks to retrieve the novel, which I brought to her and handed over like a treasured Christmas present.
"Well, I guess I have found my book," she said, hardly able to contain her enthusiasm.
As she dug out her library card and I prepared to check-out the novel, I decided to take the risk that avid readers often take after making a successful author connection: the risk of suggesting a second author, holding our breath as we wait to see whether this new bond is going to grow stronger or simply rest at this happy plateau. Now, those who know me might think that I asked her if she liked Anne Tyler, but oh no: I took this one step further and formed the sentence: "Do you like Jane Hamilton?" "I love Jane Hamilton," she said, and I kid you not, I just about teared up. Before I could say anything, she continued: "I had two copies of The Short History Of A Prince for the longest time, but I finally gave one to my friend."
Silence for half a second as I collected myself.
WHAT I SAID: "That is so awesome. She is another one of my favorite authors EVER!"
WHAT I THOUGHT: "Oh my God, you are so cool and easily one of the greatest people I have ever met in my life, and I am so, so glad that I am working today and not at lunch, because that would have been tragic."
So, needless to say, I had a great day at work. Honestly, though, that is the sort of thing that has happened to me many times throughout my years working in bookstores and libraries. Author connections are moments that I treasure. They are what remind me that I am lucky to have a job that I love, and that when I feel like a geek for being a tried and true book addict, I need only remember the kindred spirits out there, clutching Sue Miller books as they head into the snowy day, to drive home and read. I sure hope she likes the book!
Monday, January 31, 2011
National Book Critics Circle Award Nominees Announced!
I am a big awards buff (is that even a word?), and I follow most of the major prizes, not just in literature, but film and music as well.
After the surprising verdict at the National Book Awards (well, surprising to me at any rate), where Jaimy Gordon won for Misrule, I was quite looking forward to the nominees for the prestigious Book Critics Circle Award. Alas, I have not read one of the five contenders ... yet. And, shockingly, there is not a single duplicate from the National Book Award nominees list, and that includes Gordon's novel!
So here is who made the cut: Jennifer Egan for "A Visit From The Goon Squad" (not surprising, as she was on almost everybody's best-of-the-year list), Jonathan Franzen for "Freedom" (ditto), David Grossman for "To The End Of The Land" (which I confess I had never heard of before this announcement), "Comedy In A Minor Key" by Hans Keilson (sort of a surprise; and what's really awesome is that he's 101 years old), and Paul Murray for Skippy Dies. So, one woman, two books translated into English from another language, one blockbuster, and one sort of hip, wild card (Murray).
I hope to read most of these before the winner is announced in March, and as always, I'll keep you updated on my progress.
After the surprising verdict at the National Book Awards (well, surprising to me at any rate), where Jaimy Gordon won for Misrule, I was quite looking forward to the nominees for the prestigious Book Critics Circle Award. Alas, I have not read one of the five contenders ... yet. And, shockingly, there is not a single duplicate from the National Book Award nominees list, and that includes Gordon's novel!
So here is who made the cut: Jennifer Egan for "A Visit From The Goon Squad" (not surprising, as she was on almost everybody's best-of-the-year list), Jonathan Franzen for "Freedom" (ditto), David Grossman for "To The End Of The Land" (which I confess I had never heard of before this announcement), "Comedy In A Minor Key" by Hans Keilson (sort of a surprise; and what's really awesome is that he's 101 years old), and Paul Murray for Skippy Dies. So, one woman, two books translated into English from another language, one blockbuster, and one sort of hip, wild card (Murray).
I hope to read most of these before the winner is announced in March, and as always, I'll keep you updated on my progress.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
50 Book Challenge
I decided to take the 50 Book Challenge this year, at the invitation of my friend Casey on Facebook. On first thought, I should not have any trouble reading this number of books over the course of twelve months. However, in spite of the fact that I am always reading (and typically reading multiple titles), I am not always the fastest reader. I like to think this is because I am a close reader, one who reads every word and pauses often to absorb things. At any rate, I'll be doing my best to reach the hallowed goal of 50. Between my two book groups and all my other reading, I think I'll make it with no problem. And I plan to update my progress via this journal.
So, I started the year off with Exley, the third novel by Maine resident Brock Clarke, which just happened to be the January pick for my work book group, The Bailey Title Waves. Brock Clarke spoke at the library at which I work (Bailey Public, in Winthrop), and he was fun, engaging, and animated. He read a couple of passages from the book. I enjoyed the novel, which chronicles a boy named M's search for the author Frederick Exley, whom his father is obsessed with, in the hopes that meeting Exley will help heal said father, who is in the hospital after a stint in the Iraq War. Or is he? I won't give away too much, but let's just say Clarke has created a very unreliable narrator in this novel. I gave the book three stars, and then moved on to a non-fiction book, Talking To Girls About Duran Duran, by one of my favorite music journalists, Rob Sheffield. This book is right up my alley, with Sheffield using songs from the 80s (by artists as diverse as Ray Parker, Jr., Madonna, and Psychedelic Furs) as touchstones for certain periods in his life, and the memories attached to those periods. Beautiful writing, filled with great analyses of the pop music I love so much. Five stars for this one!
Now, on to Book #3 in the 50 Book Challenge, one of Agatha Christie's most well-regarded mysteries, And Then There Were None, which I've wanted to read for years!
So, I started the year off with Exley, the third novel by Maine resident Brock Clarke, which just happened to be the January pick for my work book group, The Bailey Title Waves. Brock Clarke spoke at the library at which I work (Bailey Public, in Winthrop), and he was fun, engaging, and animated. He read a couple of passages from the book. I enjoyed the novel, which chronicles a boy named M's search for the author Frederick Exley, whom his father is obsessed with, in the hopes that meeting Exley will help heal said father, who is in the hospital after a stint in the Iraq War. Or is he? I won't give away too much, but let's just say Clarke has created a very unreliable narrator in this novel. I gave the book three stars, and then moved on to a non-fiction book, Talking To Girls About Duran Duran, by one of my favorite music journalists, Rob Sheffield. This book is right up my alley, with Sheffield using songs from the 80s (by artists as diverse as Ray Parker, Jr., Madonna, and Psychedelic Furs) as touchstones for certain periods in his life, and the memories attached to those periods. Beautiful writing, filled with great analyses of the pop music I love so much. Five stars for this one!
Now, on to Book #3 in the 50 Book Challenge, one of Agatha Christie's most well-regarded mysteries, And Then There Were None, which I've wanted to read for years!
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Underworld: A Discussion Over Al's Pizza
And so it was that The Book Whores gathered for the eleventh time, meeting this time at the residence of Eryne in Hallowell (we rotate as hosts). The topic of discussion: Underworld by Don Delillo. The food: due to one member (me) feeling antisocial, we opted not to dine out, and simply ordered pizza from local favorite, Al's. I had not eaten pizza from Al's in years, since moving back to Augusta from Portland (but, I digress).
Underworld was a milestone in my life as a reader. It's the book that finally broke me of a curse whose spell I've long been under: having to finish every single book I begin. That's right, I cannot stand to put down a book once I've moved beyond, oh, page three. This has resulted in a few wearysome battles, but overall, I like what I read. Even books that I don't like, I usually glean something from. In all honesty, I cannot recall an instance of not finishing a book in my adult life, with one exception, and that was Stephen King's The Eyes of the Dragon. Putting that one down had nothing to do with the book's quality, but with the circumstances of my life at that time. Other than that, though, I have finished everything, even an extremely boring book on Arctic exploration that nearly did me in. And now, Underworld. As I suffered through the ungodly prologue, which involves baseball (not my favorite passtime, so sue me), I reminded myself again and again that Delillo is one of America's best-reviewed authors. Ultimately, I decided that I am getting older, there are hundreds (no, thousands) of books I want to read before I die, and why should I waste time on something as pretentious and dull as this. Unfair? Perhaps. And knowing me, I'll go back to the book someday. After all, I am the same guy who put an asterisk next to the handful of books I did not finish during high school and college, and went back to complete them years later, mainly so that I could remove the asterisk from my list of books completed.
So, Underworld broke me. At least for now. Eryne was the only one who finished the book, but she did not judge us. In fact, she had encouraged the three of us not to finish it, as she thought it was so awful! Still, we felt a little bad that she had expended all that energy and time. However, our slight guilt was assuaged by Eryne's delicious apple crisp and some excellent pumpkin cookies made by Abigail.
We are usually a group of talkers, but this conversation consisted of little more than complaints about why we didn't enjoy the novel. And we were not too proud to resort to banal umbrella statements: "It was boring," "He goes off on too many tangents," "The characters are unlikeable," etc. Jen interjected that she liked the section with the nuns, with which I agreed. However, I said it would have worked better as a novella and had no business taking up space in what was already a door stopper level book. Eryne reaffirmed her hatred of Nick Shay and his wife. Abbie hated them also. Jen kept saying that she actually liked the writing, just not the storyline, getting more firm in her sentiments as the hour wore on. Basically, she was the closest Delillo had to a supporter in that room.
We took the usual twenty minutes deciding on our title for next month, and our decision was momentous: Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead. I have never read her work, so this will indeed be an interesting month.
Underworld was a milestone in my life as a reader. It's the book that finally broke me of a curse whose spell I've long been under: having to finish every single book I begin. That's right, I cannot stand to put down a book once I've moved beyond, oh, page three. This has resulted in a few wearysome battles, but overall, I like what I read. Even books that I don't like, I usually glean something from. In all honesty, I cannot recall an instance of not finishing a book in my adult life, with one exception, and that was Stephen King's The Eyes of the Dragon. Putting that one down had nothing to do with the book's quality, but with the circumstances of my life at that time. Other than that, though, I have finished everything, even an extremely boring book on Arctic exploration that nearly did me in. And now, Underworld. As I suffered through the ungodly prologue, which involves baseball (not my favorite passtime, so sue me), I reminded myself again and again that Delillo is one of America's best-reviewed authors. Ultimately, I decided that I am getting older, there are hundreds (no, thousands) of books I want to read before I die, and why should I waste time on something as pretentious and dull as this. Unfair? Perhaps. And knowing me, I'll go back to the book someday. After all, I am the same guy who put an asterisk next to the handful of books I did not finish during high school and college, and went back to complete them years later, mainly so that I could remove the asterisk from my list of books completed.
So, Underworld broke me. At least for now. Eryne was the only one who finished the book, but she did not judge us. In fact, she had encouraged the three of us not to finish it, as she thought it was so awful! Still, we felt a little bad that she had expended all that energy and time. However, our slight guilt was assuaged by Eryne's delicious apple crisp and some excellent pumpkin cookies made by Abigail.
We are usually a group of talkers, but this conversation consisted of little more than complaints about why we didn't enjoy the novel. And we were not too proud to resort to banal umbrella statements: "It was boring," "He goes off on too many tangents," "The characters are unlikeable," etc. Jen interjected that she liked the section with the nuns, with which I agreed. However, I said it would have worked better as a novella and had no business taking up space in what was already a door stopper level book. Eryne reaffirmed her hatred of Nick Shay and his wife. Abbie hated them also. Jen kept saying that she actually liked the writing, just not the storyline, getting more firm in her sentiments as the hour wore on. Basically, she was the closest Delillo had to a supporter in that room.
We took the usual twenty minutes deciding on our title for next month, and our decision was momentous: Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead. I have never read her work, so this will indeed be an interesting month.
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