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I’m not a fan of Virginia Woolf. Though admittedly I am not that familiar with most of her work. I started reading Mrs. Dalloway after I finished the atrociously bad (though such a clever idea!) The Hours. I didn’t get very far. Though I like her language, I had a hard time relating to her character (a woman planning a party - no surprise there, that’s not my style).
I had heard that she wrote a biography of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s dog Flush but I never thought to read it, since I was so turned off by her to begin with. But then I read another atrociously awful book How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved My Life and I thought, this could be interesting.
I love stories about famous folks’ dogs (the exception being the modern day Paris Hiltons with their little rats in bags) and one of the best books on the topic is The Pawprints of History by Stanley Coren (Flush was sadly omitted). Flush is more than that though, it’s the imagined biography of this dog told in a whimsical yet very canine oriented way. As the reader, you really feel as if you know what Flush was thinking, feeling, and smelling (and he did have many adventures!).
Flush’s bond with Elizabeth is palpable. Virginia herself had a cocker spaniel and it has been suggested that she used him as the model for this book. I’m sure he was. Clearly the author loved dogs in general and spaniels in particular, but one special dog clearly prompted this labor of love.
Interestingly though, this book is really a backdrop for the story of Elizabeth herself. Flush is with her when she elopes. He is with her when she flees to Italy. He is even with her for the birth of her child. And through it all he is unimpressed with her poetry and even her husband (though he softens a bit on that count). He is still very soundly a dog.
Maybe Ms. Woolf isn’t so bad after all. Anyone who can climb into the canine mind with such empathy and understanding must be a dog person.
And dog people are my people.
I bought this book thinking of Jesse, and how it would be a great book to read together. And then I remembered that Jesse is MIA, on this blog but also in real life. No worries, he’s alive and well but apparently distracted from blogging for the moment. I will send him this link and perhaps I can guilt, I mean, lure him back in.
This book was indeed the perfect book for us to have read together. So much so that I will probably be mailing it to him with the demand that he read it, like, immediately and report back. In the meantime I’ll be on to something else.
In other words, exactly how we used to be about books. I would recommend a book to Jesse and he would read it, many many months later, at which point I would have forgotten entirely what it was about or what my feelings or thoughts on it were.
Sigh.
I think it’s a neat phenomenon though, this idea of buying books with other people in mind. It certainly broadens one’s experience to pick up a book that you would choose for someone else and to read it yourself. I have done this with many times with Jesse and it has never led me astray (with other folks it has. Beware, you have to chose your reading muses carefully). It’s different too, than reading a book and thinking “So and so would like this very much.” It’s sort of a premeditated book choice instead of a referral.
It’s another way that reading can be a social, communal activity, even though the other person might not even know you are thinking of them. I’d advise if you do this, to let the other person know - “this book made me think of you.”
Unless of course it’s something along the lines of Tuesdays with Morrie.
That’s just mean.
I was worried about one of my pets, as I always do, when my mother said to me in frustration “Why don’t you just give away all your pets and. . .”
“Be miserable?” was my reply. Because despite my anxieties on their behalf (are they sick, are they happy, are they getting all that they need????) I can’t imagine living a life without the little critters.
Though I am not one of those delusional people who thinks of my pets as kids, they are certainly an important part of my family. I smile even while getting mauled by the dogs each day when I get home (what human would ever greet you with such happiness?). When away from home I cannot sleep, ironically, because it’s too quiet. Though a purring cat can be loud, it sure is comforting. Being flanked on either side by warm felines bodies leaves some folks cold, but I’ll take the subsequent crick in the neck for a few glorious moments of a group cat nap.
Though I spend a lot of time attending to my pets’ needs, as an chronic worrier, it’s nice to have a respite from my own issues, even if it means worrying a little about someone other than myself. When the dogs need to be fed or walked or the litter box cleaned, there is no time for self involvement - and that’s ultimately healthier than the alternative.
I’m not the first to delight in the soothing affect of pets. Ask any pet owner and you’ll get a litany of reasons why their pets are good for them (you may even get melodramatic or just highly dramatic accounts of noble acts and miracles, depending on the pet owner). And more recently science has supported such anecdotal evidence with studies that show pets lower blood pressure, decrease depression and increase feelings of social support in those who live alone.
So it’s not surprising that Bruce Goldstein’s therapist suggested that Goldstein, a manic depressive, get a dog. Where medicine and therapy failed, a tiny black lab puppy named Ozzy succeeded.
Jane Austen presaged the current obnoxious teenage girl, equipped with walks down country lanes rather than cell phones, and letters instead of text messages, in most of her stories. Clearly part of her popularity today is due to the fact that movies (like Clueless) can be made from her work that appeal to the modern teenage audience. She’s certainly the least painful of high school reading assignments.
Though Emma is her most finely drawn version, Northanger Abbey gives us Catherine, who is probably the worst uber-teen there is. She would have done well with Bratz dolls and Juicy sweatpants. Without a wit of commonsense and a lack of wit to boot, she’s the epitome of flighty, willfully silly girl. She’s got a brain she just won’t use,even when her future husband points the obvious out to her. One wonders how quickly the appeal of this student/teacher relationship will last. Poor Henry (and poor Catherine) in the age of no divorce, once her girlish charms become churlish wifeliness.
Jane Austen is famously attributed to have said that girls are no use to anyone until they grow up. And though she illustrates this opinion broadly in Emma and specifically in Pride and Prejudice (especially with Lydia) there is no other book that tops the sneering, snarkiness of Northanger Abbey. It is called her most lighthearted book. But I think it her darkest, in the sense that she lets her real opinions on girls out. It is humor, but humor at someone’s expense.
This is the book in which I wholeheartedly embrace what I see as the real Jane Austen. The girl who saw other women’s mistakes and grew up to be the woman who did not repeat them. She chose not to get married to save her self and she chose not to tolerate the foolishness of others, regardless of gender.
Though she makes Catherine likable enough to keep the reader interested (she uses her heavy artillery on Isabella) she is almost certainly laughing at loud at her own creation’s naivete.
And that makes me like Jane all the more.
I would have bought this book for other reasons - it has a cute dog on the cover, it’s about veterinary medicine - but the real reason I bought this book is a little more selfish. The author, Nick Trout is a veterinarian and he did surgery on my childhood dog almost 20 years ago. That dog was 5 years old and for a while my parents thought they would have to euthanize him. But the surgery was successful and he lived another 9 years.
A small part of me wanted to see him in print, but his was not a sensational surgery or an emergency one. This book features both types of surgery, after all, who wants to read about the routine and mundane? That’s just not exciting and probably doesn’t sell many books.
The format of this book condenses 25 years of experience (including many patients and owners) into a “day in the life” of Dr. Nick Trout. It’s an exhausting day for him, but a vastly interesting one for the those of us reading. Of course you must have an interest in all things veterinary. This book is not for mere animal lovers; it’s not James Herriot (though he never shied away from the gross). There is some technical jargon which, if it’s confusing, you can probably skim, but for those of us who love anatomy it’s very intriguing.
There is one particular patient whose overarching story connects the book and you will get attached to her and her owner. In between there are dozens of other patients and scenarios, some lighthearted, some tragic, some funny and some just plain sad. Dr. Trout’s experience is vast and though he has the brain of a surgeon he has a heart big enough to hold all the patients he cares for.
To Kill a Mockingbird should never be read in school. Period.
I originally read it when I was 16; it was an assignment for some class or another. I rushed through it, impatiently endured the various discussions of race and class and prejudice and ultimately felt burdened by the fact that I was supposed to like it. That was, I think, a typical reaction to class reading assignments and I know I was not alone. And I was a reader, for goodness sake, and any educational system that gets readers to disregard truly great books is obviously doing something very wrong (and very very deterimental).
Harper Lee and her pal Truman Capote are in vogue right now, thanks to the movies Capote and Infamous and I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve caught the fever (I reread In Cold Blood about a year ago). I also just finished a awfully written novel surmising about their relationship post Cold Blood. It was called Capote in Kansas (skip it, it’s not worth the time) and it kicked off a sudden desire to read that slim novel collecting dust on my shelves.
Rereading this book now, as an adult, I realize that there are few books which can be read without cynicism (or maybe which I can read without cynicism, an entirely different thing) . An experienced reader learns to like books - with reservations. We learn to tolerate poor writing in the search for a good story. We forgive or willfully deny plot holes and wide spaces of imperfect style and content. In short, we learn to say “I liked it, but. . .” Because we think that we can’t do better. That all the good books we already read with abandon by the age of seven.
With Mockingbird there are no buts or reservations. This book is simply perfect. It belongs to a short list indeed; I can count on one hand the number of books that can claim such a grand achievement.
Which to me is all the reason I need to understand why Ms. Lee never wrote again. She’s already succeeded at the unattainable. Where else could she go but down?
“The Middle Place is about calling home. Instinctively. Even when all the paperwork — a marriage license, a notarized deed, two birth certificates, and seven years of tax returns — clearly indicates you’re an adult, but all the same, there you are, clutching the phone and thanking God that you’re still somebody’s daughter.”
So yeah, those little blurbs on the book jacket are supposed to make you buy the book. But I’m stronger than that. Maybe for most books, but this one pulls you into a big bear hug, like I imagine the author herself would do if I met her on the street.
I’m a huge fan of memoirs of “regular” people, by which I mean not Burroughs or James Frey but instead people like Judy Blunt, Alison Smith or Abigail Thomas. Woman with complicatedly simple lives which they live with extraordinary ordinariness. Real people. With real problems.
I read memoirs because they contain that spark of surprise - someone is like me!I like reading things that feel instinctually right, even though when I hear them in my own head I fear they are oftentimes weird or wrong. Call it my need for external validation but to see oneself in another is comforting, no matter who you are.
I was drawn to Kelly herself, but more importantly I was also drawn (as she said I would be; she’s so smart) to her father, George. He reminded me a lot of my late grandfather or at least how I like to remember him. At least I know that my mother felt similarly about her parents, her kind, easy going and fun-loving father and her capable, tough and pragmatic mother. As Kelly suggests, if you want to feel good or need twenty bucks, go see George. If you want something done, go see her mother. I remember thinking the same about my grandparents. My grandfather always had candy, though he was diabetic. My grandmother always had advice, usually of the unwanted variety.
While my relationships with my parents are quite different, I do feel Kelly’s need to be someone’s daughter. To know, that even when you are a parent yourself, there is someone in your corner willing to help you out. That you don’t need to have all the answers because someone else does. She thinks of this as a delaying of growing up, of staving off adulthood. But I think it gets to the heart of familial relationships. It’s certainly hard for parents to see their children as adults, but I think perhaps it’s harder for children to see themselves as such. It’s such a relief to let someone else take control, to know that someone else is in charge. It’s a dynamic that all children and parents work through.
Kelly’s story of her family and her life is inspiring and I don’t say that lightly. She’s a real person with real fears and needs and triumphs. I won’t tell you any specifics, because I expect you to go out and read it. Now. Because it was with regret that I put down this book.
Why do I read such long books? Arguably something like Gone with the Wind is worth the 1,000 pages. I would say each of the Harry Potters was enjoyable even when topping over 400 pages each.
Ken Follett, not so much. We know he can write a long book, certainly, this one caps at a little over 900 pages. But can he write a good one? Of that I’m not so sure. Which is not to say that World Without End is a bad book (or perhaps I’m just trying to justify my continued dedication to it) but Mr. Follett seems to think that his own book is too long. Clearly he doesn’t believe any reader will continue to pay attention. He’s constantly reminding you of characters (remember him? He was back on page 200? He’s still a hunchback, in case you forgot) and events (oh yeah, just in case you forget pages 400-476, here’s what happened, they got married and had a baby and here’s how old it is now).
As a reader of lots of books, and longish books usually, I find this incredibly annoying. I AM paying attention, and if I’m not it’s YOUR fault, Mr. Follett, not mine. I have the same complaints as I did about Pillars of the Earth - too much rape, too much sex and too many inane, repetitive details (do we have to hear about that damn cat again? Unless he turns into a pivotal character, even I don’t want the feline interludes all the time).
I’ve been reading like crazy lately, so it seems strange that I haven’t had time to blog. It looks like I haven’t done anything, if I assume that anyone’s actually reading this. I may have been quiet, but I was cranking through some serious bookage these past weeks. Unlike the industry, which seems to think that summer reading is more prolific, winter is, for me, the best time to stay inside and warm, snuggle up with some good stories (besides I hate sand in my books).
Here’s a quick summary to keep you posted:
I’m not a huge fan of what may be called Chick Lit, but I did read two books lately which could be considered as such. One is a charming little fantasy novel called Garden Spells. Though it probably borrows too heavily from Like Water for Chocolate and often seems to be a new rendition of the terrible movie Simple Irresistible, it is a cute read, worth it if you borrow it from the library or from a friend (sorry, I gave mine away already). The other, is a deceptively simple novel called The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox. I read this book in an afternoon and enjoyed this story of two sisters and a granddaughter. The Esme of the title resurfaces into society after 61 years in a mental institution, but it’s not about her reintroduction to the world, it’s about delving into the past to see how she got there in the first place. The desultory ramblings of her sister, well within the iron fist of Alzheimer’s, adds the necessary counter opinion. This book is good in the reading, but where it hits you is later, when you’ve put it down and tried to move on. It just won’t leave you. I found myself thinking about the implications of this books for weeks afterward. Is that what reviewers mean by “haunting?”
In retrospect it seems I was trying to cleanse all estrogen by picking up Dennis Lehane next. He’s someone I summarily dismissed for many years because he’s so popular and well, I’ve seen the movies. But Sacred and A Drink Before the Warwere all the fun of watching a movie without the $10.00 ticket fee (or Sean Penn’s ugly mug). Lehane obviously writes in certain genre, with movie dialogue, but I can embrace a good PI story, especially one set in my home state.
Finally I picked up Anna Quindlen. I just finished her book Good Dog. Stay. and of course bawled my eyes out when the dog dies (I didn’t ruin it for you, of course it’s coming). I’ve decided I want her career of writing small books that capture people’s emotions. How Reading Changed My Life isn’t so much about how it changed her life as how it forged her life. In this Anna and I have much in common. We’re both that girl who would rather squish into an over-sized armchair with a book about far off place, then squashed into a plane seat on our way to said faraway place. She’s the kind of reader I was and am and will be and it’s good to know that there are more of us in the world.
I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships lately. With everyone I know getting married, it’s inevitable that I’d ponder what marriage means, particularly when everyone is trying to push me into it (and I’m digging in my heels as hard as I can). I can’t help but feel that they are all pushing me into marriage without any consideration or respect for the relationship that I already have. Because to me that is what is important - what exists between two people, not how they go about it.
There are as many treatises singing the praises of marriage as the salvation of society as there are polemics about why it is the road straight to destruction. Marriage as a social construct has been studied to death (or divorce). But very rarely does a reader uncover a fine-focused discussion about what is the relationship between two people. Or what such a relationship could be, freed from the trappings of social obligation.
I read this book when I was a teenager, with no personal conception of love or committment or monogamy. I was “in love” with a new boy every five minutes (more if class just got out and everyone was milling around the hallway). I was not exactly the target audience and to be honest I don’t even remember where or why I picked it up. Still something about this book clearly resonated it’s dog eared like crazy.
Everyone knows how I feel about Oprah books. And while I’d love to give myself the luxury of scrambling up on the soapbox and tearing down the woman for her choice of reading, I will at this moment gracefully decline to do so.
Do not, fair readers, fear that I have gone soft or that I have gained a holiday spirit during this festive time of year. No, I will refrain from an all out attack per se, but only because I have a very specific beef with Ms. Winfrey.
I first read Pillars of The Earth when I was about 14 or 15. I kept that battered mass paperback copy through college, many moves and life upheavals. I didn’t think about it until recently, when I heard that Mr. Follett wrote a sequel to it called World Without End (which I quickly bought) and I thought perhaps it warranted a re-read, particularly considering the roughly 15 years since I had last read it. I went in search of my dog eared mass paperback and alas I could not find it. I think it was collateral damage from our last and greatest move.
I’ve written before about how I develop ( oftentimes extreme) author crushes. Chabon and Maguire are two of the my biggest. They make me want to a be better writer (which is to say a good writer), they make me feel ashamed that I have never created the kind of sentences they do, seemingly effortlessly. I often stop and reread, particularly in Chabon’s case, a phrase that is a brain teaser, something you have to really sit and ponder before you really get it.
Suffice to say, I love these guys. I adore them. If I were a worshipful person, I might even deify them.
Which is why these two books were such a fist-in-the-gut disappointment.
If I were to create my idea of the perfect fantasy love child of, well, fantasy literature, I would take the best of Neil Gaimen and Clive Barker and meld them into one. I would stir gently the darker tones of Clive and fold them into the fluffy yet dense snarkiness and black humor of Neil. I would take the intimidating strength of Neil’s solid characters and plant them into Clive’s firmly rooted geography.
The result would likely be very much like this book.
Perhaps because I’m an atheist I can love stories about angels and demons without any of the resulting fear or guilt. It makes for great story telling that is endlessly entertaining, particularly if you aren’t worried about your immortal soul.
Though this book was described as bone chilling I found it mostly amusing and even in parts, affecting. Mr. B. Gone is a low class demon with a certain amount of charm. He directly threatens, cajoles and otherwise manipulates the reader, all in an attempt to get you to burn the book. In between such tirades he tells the story of how he came to be stuck in the book itself.
I finished Mr. B. Gone (I’ll get to that later) and needed a new book for today’s commute, so I picked up this one. I like nothing more than a good feud. Historical, epic feuds are best. And with Elizabeth I and Mary Queen of Scots on the cover, how could I resist? Two of my favorites in the world of political cat fights.
Alas, I only made it only to page 7.
That’s right page 7 - wherein Mr. Colin Evans, the author of this book, said that Mary Queen of Scots was the daughter of James IV of Scotland and Margaret Tudor, sister of Henry VIII.
I had to read it three times, each time more desperately trying to find the loophole. Some word or another that I’d missed that was changing the meaning of the sentence. Because, you see she was actually their granddaughter. Her parents were James V of Scotland and Mary of Guise (who was French). But no, the sentence was unfortunately very very wrong.
How does such a blatant, glaring, easily discovered, easily fixed error get into such book? Let alone STAY in such a book. Where are all the ever eager intern researchers? How did this slip through the cracks?
Unfortunately this is way beyond my tolerance level. Though I understand that not everyone is the Anglo-phile that I am. I know that most people in this country know all the American presidents instead of all the British monarchs from the Saxons to Elizabeth II. I know that I have a bit of an obsession. But that is beside the point because due to this blinding beacon of an error I now have no trust that the rest of his information is correct, which of course makes reading the book a useless endeavor.
Into the book swap at work it goes. Too bad, because it might have been interesting.
I read an article this morning in the latest Horn Book Magazine about Peter Pan. In the article, Peter Pan. I am he. I am not, the author, Emily Jenkins, mourns the fact that while the stage version of the story allows for girls to imagine they are Peter Pan, the book and Disney movie version do not. This saddens her. She describes her extreme dislike of Wendy and her love for Peter thus:
“I couldn’t bear to be boxed in as Wendy boxes herself, with Peter’s complicity: she sews on pockets and prepares meal in the underground lair, spending her Neverland time playing Edwardian household rather than having adventures. I didn’t want to be her, I wanted to be Peter. And therefore I wanted to be a boy.”
When I was younger I thought I was the only little girl to feel this way. To be indignant that the boys got the snakes and snails and puppy dog’s tails (the greatest injustice, for I loved puppies) and girls were left with sugar and spice and everything nice (yes, I loved sugar, but as much as puppies? No way!). I now know many women who felt that way. To know that it’s not weird and that these are the women I tend to respect more anyway is a a great validation.
I have a really hard time choosing books for trips. What you may ask, just take one of the three books you are currently reading! Ah, but you would be quite mistaken. First, I am very likely (unless I just started it) to finish any of them while in the middle of the trip (or worse, halfway through a plane flight). Second, especially on a vacation, I want to bring something new and potentially exciting. I don’t want the same old book I’ve been reading before bed. I want a vacation book!
So alright, I’ll bring an entirely new book. Except well, that too leaves me open to problems. What if, on the plane on the way there, I decide I’m not really that “into” the book I brought. Perhaps I brought the wrong book for the mood (often a hard thing to gauge when one embarks on a journey) or maybe the book just stinks. Then what?
Let me try this again. Clearly new books are the way to go, but I’ll need a backup. To be safe probably two backups. Of course if I’m going on a trip of more than a few days, one with some downtime for reading, I will likely read one book at least, so to be quite certain I’ll need three backups.
OK got it. Four new books. Read the rest of this entry »
I’ve said before that I’m a reluctant short story reader (and I can see why you may think I protest too much, for I do read more short fiction than I honestly should for someone who claims to dislike it). My biggest difficulty with it is that I always end up wanting more.
I like to read in large time increments - settling down on a cold winter’s evening under a blanket, wiling away a Sunday afternoon, passing time on a long commute. Short fiction tends to disrupt my flow, making me break the surface of reality too soon. And since it doesn’t do justice to the next story to jump right in before you’ve digested the last one I’m often at a loss at to what to do when I’m finished.
So one would intelligently ask Why then are you reading essays?
Good question.
The answer is twofold: 1) I LOVE Anne Fadiman - I would read a cereal box she composed and 2) I’ve recently found myself with only short snippets of time to read so essays fit just right.
Of course there is always the danger that when you are in transition from one essay (or story) to the next one that your interest will be stolen away by another, more time consuming endeavor. Sadly such was the case for me this week. I was taken against my will into Borders where I bought a dog book (aka my crack) and I’ve been reading that ever since. I’ll get back to Anne in due time.
She’s a good companion right before sleep sets in. Except when she makes me laugh too hard.
“As much as I admire and value intellectualism and experimentation, I’ve discovered that unless a book has a throbbing heart as well as a sexy brain, I feel like the story is a specimen in a sealed glass jar and not a living, breathing creature I want to take by the hand and talk to for hours on end.”
Myla Goldberg from this Slate article.
[Author's note: I'm taking off on a tangent today, so don't be alarmed. The blog format will stay as usual, this is just a jaunt into a new direction. I've been sick for over a week, so you can blame the cold medicine if you wish. I certainly am. *I have not read this book* But I want to really, really badly. Unfortunately I will need to wait a) to get it from the library or b) until it comes out in affordable paperback to read it. But that doesn't meant I can't start talking about it. It's a little thing we in the biz call buzz.]
I’ve only very recently become the kind of person who reads the NY Times Sunday Book Review. Before this, I had always found my books in a very haphazard, but still pleasantly random kind of way. Now I read reviews. I try to follow what’s new and exciting. Actually it’s taken some getting used to; it’s a little unsettling to be aware of books when they come out (or before) as opposed to picking up a stray paperback from a pile in a store. Moreover it’s not healthy for my book buying habit - because, for me, to be aware of the new hardcovers is to buy them.
We’ve talked about this before. A poorly written book with a good story at its core can still be very interesting. In fact in a lot of cases, it will be wildly popular and ridiculously lucrative. A badly written book can still compel you to keep reading. Even as you wince and groan at the language, you keep pursuing the ending. You want to see the story unfold, so you stick with it.
Unfortunately.
For the past two weeks, I’ve been slogging through the over 600 pages of The Historian, lugging its hardcover heft to work and back (so much so the binding broke) and all I can think is that 1) Thankfully I read this book when I was commuting by train again and 2) I’m glad I only paid $6 for this book.
This book commits a crime greater than just being poorly written. It’s a repetitive, drab, pedantic history lesson yes, but that could be forgiven (I loath little more than a character summarizing what another character has just said - apparently for the remedial reader’s benefit). The problem is that between verbose and awful, awful prose (example - ”It was too serious to not be taken seriously”) there are hidden gems like this one:
“. . .but it seemed to me now that a Catholic church was the right companion for all these horrors. . .I somehow doubted that the hospitable plain Protestant chapels that dotted the university could be much help; they didn’t look qualified to wrestle with the undead. ”
Sounds intriguing right?
Let’s face it, readers are at least a little bit geeky. And I don’t mean you Opera Book Club, Joyce Carol Oates, or Nora Roberts fans (I continue to slam them, knowing there is no chance they are reading this right now). I mean real readers of real books. You know, the kind who read (or write) a book blog.
That geekiness doesn’t always have to be a bad thing. I began liking to read because in my early elementary school years the readers were the smart kids. And I very much wanted to be one of the smart kids, especially when I learned in the 3rd grade what “straight A’s” meant. What started out as purely academic and competitive turned into something more. I got hooked on all the wonderful stories out there.
As I got older and being smarter made me less popular I hung onto reading (which, it needs to be said, my peers were dropping it as fast as they could to become “cool” or a reasonable facsimile) because it is a solitary but never lonely activity. It’s an excuse to be alone with your thoughts and a clearly identifiable activity which doesn’t make you (that) weird. Parents don’t hound you for reading too much. You can opt out of the latest innane schoolyard game quietly and without embarrassment by sitting on the grass with a new volume. If you’re home on a Saturday night you’ve always got something to do.
If you’re reading others don’t hang out with you because they think you are too smart for them (and therefore boring) , not necessarily because you’re a loser. Or they call you “bookish” which sounds suspiciously like a compliment given to less social, but reading kids. In school the smart kids are somehow allowed more leeway in the social awkwardness category (actually in life, for those of you who have ever met a brilliant but painfully awkward MIT grad). There’s at least one positive thing about you - usually a way to get homework copied, or the answers on a test.
Or it’s possible that these are all the reasons I’ve constructed to make my inner geek feel better.
{Full disclosure: I’m a little defensive lately. My best friend got married in the last of the weddings for this season (what a relief) and we didn’t make it to rehearsal dinner before the “When are you getting married?” questions started. I’ve mentioned before that reading keeps me sane and my choices this week are no exception.}
I’ve had my anti-bride rant already so I’m moving on to bigger prey. In a long hot summer filled with wedding after wedding (really it was only three, almost four, but it seemed like exponentially more) I’ve become increasingly frustrated by social expectations being laid at my feet. Everyone wants to marry me off.
It still amazes me how rude some people can be. When are you getting married is not, by any means, an innocuous or polite question. And yet it’s completely socially acceptable. Even if we excuse the blatant invasion of privacy there are issues with the semantics. Firstly there is the “when” of it which implies there is no choice not to - it’s pretty clear that this is not a question of “if” after all. Secondly there is the fact that the questioner even has to ask the question, which implies that you’re taking too long (the poor, frustrated souls, I really feel for them). This questions belongs, along with its sister when are you having kids, to a society where people had no choices in the matter - matrimony and childbirth were inevitable - and frankly, they had nothing better to talk about. I for one think we’ve moved past that and our social manners should evolve as such. Unfortunately it appears that I’m in the minority on this one.
In my opinion superstrength should not be considered a true super power. What good is it against all the other guys who have it too? I’ve decided instead that superstrength is a given (or should be) and is only really a super power if partnered with say, super speed, force fields or lazers, X ray vision, mind control or flying capabilities.
As a young girl my first infatuation was, not surprisingly, with superstrength. Because really, what power does a small female child have less of in today’s (or -I guess - yesterday’s) world? My childhood heroes were Hefty Smurf (was he really endowed with special powers or did he just work out a lot? Either way he could perform super Smurfian feats) and Popeye (my mother could only convince me to eat spinach - which I still hate - by telling me my biceps would grow that big. Sadly, they didn’t).
Over the years, I’ve moved past the mere consideration of super strength. Super genius now tops the list. I’m also a bit obsessed with telekinesis. In general I flatter myself in thinking that my super power philosophies have evolved a bit since I was five years old, when I was impressed if someone merely lifted a stationwagon.
Of course that assumes that the discussion of super powers can be considered mature. I believe it can be, as I’m sure Jesse and Devin would agree. The desire for super powers is, I think, one of the few things that most people can agree on. We all want to be greater than we are and it’s fun (and not to mention revealing) to imagine what powers would enhance us. We may want to be smarter, stronger, or more beautiful. Or maybe we just want to be able to walk through walls or move metal with our minds (another of my personal favorites).
The pressures of Ms. Prose notwithstanding (yes, she has a point; she’s just sending me in the wrong direction), my goal with this blog was to slow down my reading. To allow myself to digest what I am reading. To pause and enjoy each story for itself, as a journey instead of a notch on my bookshelf. Though it may not seem like it, I have actually slowed down considerably.
I still read a lot because reading is what I love to do. It’s what relaxes me; it keeps me sane. It makes all that time spent inside my own head not only normal but productive. I used to think I was weird, but I’m beginning to realize I’m not abnormal. Just perhaps in the wrong profession. I’m sure I would love to hang out with popular fiction writers (except Robert B. Parker who is a notorious - and arrogant - non reader. Could be why his books stink). Earlier this week I read an article about J.K. Rowling and her words only solidified my love for her:
“I never need to find time to read. When people say to me, ‘Oh, yeah, I love reading. I would love to read, but I just don’t have time,’ I’m thinking, ‘How can you not have time?’ I read when I’m drying my hair. I read in the bath. I read when I’m sitting in the bathroom. Pretty much anywhere I can do the job one-handed, I read.”
Exactly.
Truly obsessive readers (i.e. people like me) have been known, on occasion, to read two books at once. There are really only two successful ways to do this a) you can read two completely different books (one nonfiction and one fiction is a good idea) or b) you can read two books that complement each other, but only if one requires less “work” than the other. This past week, in an attempt to fill the Harry Potter void, I chose option b and I picked my two books carefully - Reading like a Writer and The Top Ten: Writers Pick Their Favorite Books.
Books about books (or about reading) are the sole realm of serious bibliophiles. Readers wandering into Barnes and Noble or mindlessly exploring Amazon.com aren’t intrigued by these titles. More often than not, they can’t even find them. My favorite independent book store appreciates this small subset of readers and has a shelf entirely for us (entitled, obviously - Books about Books), but that’s unusual. There are no book clubs for these kinds of books and even if there was, there is no cool way to tell someone you’re reading a book about reading (believe me, I tried this morning. Fortunately I outed myself to a fellow enthusiast), unless in the context of a class assignment (which, though it’s an adequate explanation and will save you some face, precludes it being “cool”)
[Editor's Note: OK, we really don't have an editor (yes, there is an argument to made that maybe we should). I just wanted to add that I'm trying like hell not to spoil this book for anyone, so if you don't want to know what happens in this book DON'T READ AFTER THE JUMP! If you've read the book or don't care to have the ending ruined, feel free to read on.]
I didn’t wait in line to buy my book at midnight this past Friday, in magical costume, with signs expressing my Potterfilia. On the other hand, I also didn’t pre-order at Amazon - because they couldn’t guarantee delivery until 7pm which would have meant a loss of too many prime reading hours. Instead I drove to my favorite independent book store and paid (gasp) full price, eschewing all the various sales and discounts. I imagined that Harry would have been proud of me standing up for the little guy.
Once I got there things went a little funny. The store’s subdued reaction to this release (maybe they were exhausted from their partying the night before?) was mirrored by my own. Though they had huge stacks of pre-orders behind the desk, there was no front window display (they had gratuitous ones for book five and six). I actually had to go into the children’s section and look for it. I did find it (one of three copies strewn upon various surfaces) but I reached for it with little excitement this time, finally fully realizing that, good or bad, this was the end.
Upon arrival home I paced from room to room, carrying it without opening it, feeling its heft and gathering the courage I didn’t know I would need. I knew once I began that I would read until I was finished. I am hard core in that respect; I would finish by Monday. Beyond small breaks to catch my breath, eat a snack or stretch my legs, I didn’t stop. Really, I couldn’t stop. The action starts on page one and doesn’t let up for 748 pages. I read it on the 15 minute ride to my parents’ house for dinner. Had I somehow found a way to walk the dog or shower and read the same time, I would have done it.
Unfortunately life did interrupt such an ambitious reading session. I’m not a kid on summer vacation who can stay up all night if I want to. Last night, after various fits and spurts and more than two hours past my normal bedtime, I finally closed the book. I sat silently for a few moments. Probing myself for any emotional injures, I realized I was left with a hollow feeling of sorrow which had nothing to do with the various deaths within the pages. Have no doubts about this -there were many deaths (two before page 80), some of them shocking, others heartbreaking and one in particular which brought tears to my eyes.
My sorrow was really for the answered questions (and yes, they are all answered).
I’ve already mentioned that I’m a huge Jane Austen fan so it’s no surprise that I would pick up a book with the subtitle Pride and Prejudice Continues (there are dozens of them, but, dismissing the old adage, I picked this one because of its cover art). Not all characters are interesting enough to follow after their story has ended but Elizabeth and Darcy are certainly two that are. One can imagine a future relationship of adventure, love and shared wit. Something interesting was happening there, which surely would continue. But what exactly did their happily ever after include?
According to the author - lots and lots of sex.
One of the characters in this book, (and I’m getting the feeling she will add to the intrigue later in the story) is Juliette Clisson, daughter of a French Viscountess. She is the unofficial mistress and well paid escort of Mr. Darcy for many years before he weds. She is rich, beautiful and decidedly high class despite her profession.
Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (and yes, I can only imagine the title is meant to be ironic, because it seems like all he does is take her - in the bath, in the carriage, on the grounds of Pemberly) is similar to Ms. Clisson in many ways, but mostly because they are both high brow smut. Don’t get me wrong, this book does not aim to hide the nature of its story, in fact it’s likely the book’s main selling point. Alas, however, I expected a story in there somewhere.
My life, like a lot of others, is not made up of epiphanies. It’s the continual presence of small, evolving thoughts that make the biggest changes in my perspective, rather than the cataclysmic breaks from ideology. I couldn’t tell you when I first learned about evolution, though my current interest and study is clearly the result of some early interest piqued and nurtured. Nor could I pinpoint the moment I broke my covenant with God (an agreement made by others for me, before I was able to make it). It was too gradual to know when I finally parted ways with the Catholic Church.
I used to envy those with faith, thinking that by lacking it I was lacking something else far more important (turns out maybe I just don’t have the ‘god gene’). But over the years I’ve become more comfortable letting that (Catholic) guilt go. Ultimately I’ve realized that by being an unbeliever I haven’t missed out on anything and in many ways it’s kept me above (or below or around) the fray. When the Church scandals came out I was able to feel the simple human emotions of revulsion and anger instead of loss and betrayal.
There is a stigma with admitting to atheism. People react as if you just admitted you don’t like you grandmother (personal experience talking here). There is an intense pressure to explain yourself, to say what you do believe in, as if people fear that a flood or burning bush or lightening may strike you down and they might get caught in the divine punishment cross fire.
My vacation was too short. I had so many plans, so many things to do and so many books to read. All of which I didn’t do.
Choosing a books (or multiple books if you are me) for vacation is difficult to do well. Though I normally eschew nonfiction for mind candy fiction (hence Mr. Hitchens was put on hold), my brain would just not cooperate this past week. Nothing suited me. The plain Jane book I was reading (The God of Animals) was dispensed with too quickly on Day One. Day Two consisted of Jon Katz new book (Dog Days) dependably pleasant as always but also too quickly gone.
So I was left to sullenly and contrarily perused my shelves, standing in amazement (again!) that I have read them all (seriously how does that happen?) and ultimately went to the store and bought The Yiddish Policemen’s Union: A Novel by Michael Chabon. But put it down; it was too Jewish for vacation (don’t ask me what that means, I don’t really know. I partially blame the aforementioned Mr. Hitchens however) and would likely to require some thought. So I turned to Melissa Bank (The Wonder Spot), whose first book of stories left me cold, but her “new” novel was on sale for $5. It too, turned out to be too Jewish. What to do?
Fantasy - it was my only answer. Read the rest of this entry »
This blog would be remiss if one of us didn’t at least mention Harry Potter, so here’s a brief note. Harry and J.K. have weathered some harsh criticisms over the years (and it’s been a decade, can you believe it? If you were eleven like Harry when you read book one, you can read Deathly Hallows at a bar!) but I for one am willing to forgive practically everything (I say practically because I don’t know what is in store for the finale. I hope and pray J.K. will not let us down). I unabashedly adore Harry Potter and turn a conscious blind eye and ear to such criticisms.
I spent the majority of last night ignoring my dirty house, my pets and Tim so I could finish Harry Potter. In preparation for the newest book I used to read the entire series, something that is near impossible nowadays with the number of books and their inordinate length (oh yeah and my lack of time). So this time I settled for a Half Blood Prince re-read. I’m glad I did. I estimate that I’ve read about 200 books since this book came out two years ago (and yeah, I bought it the first day and read it the next day!). It’s hard to keep stories straight when they’re so involved (although one of the criticisms that J.K. recieves is that she offers clues to past stories in each of her books. I say THANK YOU, since I’m an old lady with a failing memory lately - not a vibrant 10 year old with nothing else to worry about. I need the help).
Now I’m ready.
Or am I? Despite my excitement, it’s still hard to believe that the next book is the last book.
To delve into a book completely is, to me, the greatest part of reading. There is great freedom in suspending your own internal voices and embracing a story without reservation. Which isn’t easy when the voices in your head are used to being listened to (as mine are). Oftentimes part of this suspension is allowing yourself to be easily led where the author wants you to go. Which can be exactly where you don’t want to go and sometimes it can be away from something you want to see. They lock the doors and take the lights out on the stairs. All we can do is turn away and go where the path is open.
I make a habit of not reading book sleeve synopses. If I did, I might have been forewarned. Angelica is divided into four parts. I was only two sentences into part two when I realized I had been duped. Part one is centered on Mrs. Barton (Constance) and a pernicious spector haunting her life. I believed it all without reservation - it’s a great ghost story through and through. Of course she’s haunted. Of course she’s unable to remove it. Of course she hires someone to expel it from the house. Of course her husband has something to do with it.
I don’t usually have any embarrassment about what I’m reading in public. One notable exception was when I realized that I was reading The Position while in the waiting room at a pediatrician’s office. Oops. Fortunately all the patients were too young to read (or were too enthralled with Sponge Bob).
Since I started reading it, I’ve been quietly tucking One Perfect Day away in certain company and deftly hiding the title when on the subway. I carry it back cover out as I walk down the street.
I feel so guilty about hating weddings.
No one wants to be that asshole who rains on someone’s parade. And not just any parade - a wedding is the biggest ticker-tape, socially acceptable, self-congratulatory parade we have in our society. No other event (except perhaps the birth of a child) holds so much sway over everyone.
Hating weddings is like hating baseball, babies, apple pie or the Bush Administration. Admit it and you’re sure to be on a list of dissenters somewhere. You’re considered the worst kind of anti-American. You’re dangerous and must be stopped.
What to read next? It’s probably one of the most exciting and frustrating questions a reader can ask. It’s a tough question. Tougher still if you are a discerning reader looking for something new and interesting.
Though I like a good mind candy, beach read book as much as the next person, I’m a little more demanding when it comes to “good reads.” If it’s currently on the NYT bestseller list (Harry Potter being the exception), I don’t read it. If I see more than two people on the subway reading, I skip it. If it’s in the top 100 on Amazon or Barnes and Noble, I’ll pass. A good website for fiction for the anti-masses is bas bleu though they have been known to be very wrong (the Hazards of Good Breeding and Lucy are two notable examples).
The safest bet is to ask other reader friends. Reading is an experience made more enjoyable by sharing. The simple phrase “You gotta read this!” makes what is necessarily a solitary activity suddenly a social one. It’s the one thing guaranteed to drag us - hard core readers that is - out of our shells. We hold up our titles like recent travellers with a photo album. We want others to read - to see what we saw and to live what we lived.
I can say (somewhat truthfully) that Mary Roach gave me this book.
OK, so the author didn’t give it to me. I almost bought this book a while ago because I work with a woman named Mary Roach. Since she’s our resident expert on all things medicine, and mysterious about everything else in her life, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she secretly authored this book (of course the author photo would have been doctored har har). When I told her this, she not only laughed, she said she had the book and brought it in for me.
I wasn’t really sure if I was actually going to like this book. I’ve read many treatises on obscure, seemingly interesting topics and most of them, though well intended, fail miserably to be interesting.
Not so this book.
There are many stories about warped or slightly skewed fairy tales. This is certainly one of them, but not quite.
The most important difference is of course the quality of writing. This is my first experience with John Connolly, but it will decidedly not be my last. He has a eye for imagery and a gentle but persistent grasp on plot. This man knows how to tell a good story.
The second reason is that the warping of the classic tales in this story are not for political purposes (don’t tell that to the communist 7 dwarfs though). Or for simply humorous ones (although it is quite humorous at times). It is for one simple reason: The characters themselves made it that way. Each of the monsters and magical perversions in this world is someone’s fear, based in the foundation of sometimes horrific children’s tales. The rulers of this kingdom are stolen children, trapped in a world they don’t know or understand. They make sense of it the best way they can - through the lens of tales they grew up on.
OK, I have an assignment for you.
Go out to the bookstore or library.
Get The 13 1/2 Lives of Captain Bluebear.
Read it, preferably aloud, to a loved one.
Finished?
Good, now that you’ve had a little taste of Moers, you’re probably good and soundly addiction. Go straight back out and get Rumo (sorry, I should have told you that the first time).
I’m not a fan of sequels, and thankfully this one is not. You will see recurring characters and creatures from Blue Bear, but you will not see (at least I haven’t so far) Blue Bear himself. For the uninitiated, this tale of Zamonia will seem like a bunch of nonsensical balderdash.
Readers of Blue Bear will know it’s a bunch of nonsensical balderdash.