The Highest Hopes

Mary Doria Russell's The Sparrow has become one of my favorite books.  It deals with some of my favorite subjects—religion, anachronism, first contact—in a wonderful story.  And if the characters make mistakes that only someone who'd never seen an episode of Star Trek would make, well, I can suspend disbelief a little bit.  It's a stretch—I mean, have you never taken an anthropology class?  If not, why are you on a first contact mission?—but since this is really my single critique of the book (well, that and how did the Jesuits jump to such crazy conclusions? But really, just those two), I think that speaks to how well-written, well-thought-out, and well-researched it is.

The sequel, Children of God, is wonderful as well.  It's more about redemption and social evolution, and how time and experiences change us into people even we don't know.  The end is a bit facile, but it's so good.

So I hope you can imagine how excited I was to hear that Russell was releasing a novel about the life of Doc Holliday, famous gunslinger and friend to the Earp brothers, hero of the OK Corral.  I've been reading Doc for weeks now and barely made a dent in it, which makes me very sad.

It's actually not that it's not enjoyable.  It's well written, well researched, and easy to follow.  But it's not a very good novel.  It's actually a really good nonfiction book--a very readable biography.  Most of what happens is told rather than shown, and the parts that are shown are written in a style that makes it very clear that she's drawing from contemporary accounts, letters, and recorded recollections.  

There are also dramatized moments--a private conversation between Doc and his girl Kate, a description of an average day at the poker tables.  They are few and far between, and read like nonfiction.  I think these are the moments that forced the author and publishers to label this a novel.  I think that's a crying shame, because it doesn't work as a novel.  

All characterization is done from the outside, and it's done through the unskilled eyes of contemporaries, not through the careful application of relevant details that a novelist can envision but a researcher can't confirm.  We get almost no inner lives of the characters, but a lot of expository back story--including very thorough back stories what appear to be very minor characters.  This adds texture, but telling about the life of Wyatt Earp's friend Johnnie through the point of view of a train trip taken by his childhood pastor to perform a funeral is perhaps overkill.  Especially when you then get into the personal background of Johnnie's childhood pastor, just because (as often happens in nonfiction) that information is there.

Anyway, I'll finish it.  And I'll know a lot more.  But I will not have as clear a picture or sympathetic a portrait of Doc Holliday as I did after I watched Val Kilmer's wheezing, drawling, melodramatic performance in the very enjoyable movie, Tombstone. 

Ugh, Romance

Remember I was talking last time about Lord of Danger?  Yeah, I take back any optimism I had about that.  My hope now is that the amusement I'm feeling at how bad it is will coast me through to the finish line.

The premise is interesting--he's a mysterious court magician, educated, scheming--and she's a quiet, intelligent girl raised in a convent who's given to him in marriage by her wicked half-brother.  He's evil, but not really; she's innocent, but ready to become worldly.  Great setup, if somewhat cheesy writing.

But then...nothing.  More of the same.  They gaze, he longs, she burns.  You need something else--court intrigue, conspiracies, some kind of event besides stilted conversations and uncomfortable dinners, with the occasional stolen kiss.

I've let go of a lot of books lately, but I think I'm going to stick this one out.  Wish me luck.

Mmmm....Romance

If you look at my Goodreads sidebar, you might be wondering about a book called Lord of Danger, by Anne Stewart.  You might not be wondering, I suppose, but I like to think you look at the cover, and you look at a title like Lord of Danger, and you think that maybe it's a melodramatic romance.

Blame Unshelved.  Specifically, this strip.  I can't tell you what drew me in, but I've wanted to read this for months, ever since I read that corny, cheesy summary.  And I hadn't read a cheesy romance in ages and ages.  This is everything I could have hoped--simple, heavy-handed, trite, sexual.  I can't say I'm loving it--honestly, I might be able to write something of this quality--but I'm enjoying the heck out of it.

(Link fixed: sorry, loyal readers!)

Anthropological Ethics

I can't even remember where I happened upon The Unlikely Disciple; I heard of it, and the library had it, and suddenly, magically, I'm reading it.  There are a lot of layers to this book--even more than the author, Kevin Roose, intended, I think--and even more complexity to my reactions to the book.


Let's start with the very top level of my reaction; am I the only one who's kind of put off by all these "I did this kooky thing for a year so I could write a book about it" books?  Even when the actual thing they're doing is very interesting to me, even when it's lighthearted, even when it's straightforward, it's kind of--opportunistic?  Mercenary?  And the fact that this guy is barely 20--there's something presumptuous about it.  That's the word--presumptuous.

The author is a sophomore at Brown University who decides that he needs to de-other-ize Christian fundamentalists by spending a semester at Jerry Falwell's Liberty University, an evangelical Christian college.  He does this on his own, not through academia--he gets a semester off from Brown, applies to Liberty University, and heads off.

Okay, another level of my reaction--this is amateur anthropology.  This is a college kid doing something that an entire academic discipline has perfected over the course of generations.  They have a very strict set of ethics and standards of behavior that have been developed.  An anthropologist going "under cover" to do fieldwork has to plan out ahead of time what they're going to tell people, how much they're going to lie, etc.  Then they have to run this plan by a board of their peers for feedback, to evaluate how the subjects/natives/etc. will be affected emotionally and psychologically by finding out the truth. 

Kevin makes a lot of decisions based on what kinds of conversations would be awkward.  He describes the process of making these decisions as though the thought this 20-year-old kid put in is the equivalent of a peer review board.  He lied on his application, lies regularly about his testimony--all definitely necessary to fit in, and mentioned, but not really dealt with on the higher level I'd like to see.

At first I thought it was an inconsistency that he seemed to conceive the project based in large part around the political views of the conservatives he expected to meet, but his experience at the school is based a lot more around the social experience he's having.  I think the social story is more compelling, in large part because the author is a college student.  He's clearly very smart and thoughtful, but there's a lot more depth to his social perception than there is to his political discussion.  He's a thoughtful liberal whose opinions are well-considered, but ten years in the world will give him more exposure to people along the political spectrum than half a Brown education could, and his perceptions would be different in that case.

But Liberty is a different enough social experience--gender relations, the omnipresence of God, the purposeful life these kids are working so hard on--is enough to make a very interesting book.  Roose writes well, does plenty of research, and presents what he has to say really well.  There's an element of watching him coming of age amid the broader cultural observations, which can be a little distracting, but it doesn't detract much from the book. 

For me, the most interesting part is just seeing how these kids live.  However I feel about evangelical Christianity, the fact is that these students are driven, focused, and part of what looks like (and tries to be) a monoculture.  Meeting them individually, seeing how they process it and what questions they ask of their world, is definitely worth the read.

A Little Off Topic

It's sort of a book--Gunnerkrigg Court.  It's actually a webcomic that I learned about when Amazon sent me their "what's new in comics" email.  I've been reading it voraciously online for a few days now, to the point where I just sent a donation to the guy's website because I'm so grateful for this free awesomeness. 

It's fantasy about a girl named Antimony, who was raised in the hospital where her mother was an invalid and her father a surgeon.  Her mother has died, and now she's come to a boarding school, Ginnerkrigg Court. 

The school appears to be located in an enormous, largely abandoned industrial complex.  I won't say "strange things start to happen," because it's just a strange place, and Antimony is not so normal herself.  Across the river is the deep forest; various creatures populate hidden rooms, and instructors may or may not have other responsibilities besides teaching.


Antimony is a quiet, somewhat odd girl, but she is quickly befriended by the perky science fiend Kat, and the two best friends explore the school and learn more about ghosts, robots, fairies, and the various gods of the dead. 

The illustration is clean, the lettering elaborate, and the pace snappy.  There's no unwieldy exposition, but you're never confused for more than a panel.  The chapters are self-contained enough to keep things moving, but there are definitely overarching stories, mysteries, and characters to learn about.


I kind of wish I had more to say about it, because I'm enjoying it so much.  But I guess what I like best is that, from the very beginning, I felt like an "insider."  That great feeling when something happens in the book you're reading that only people who know and love it as well as you do could appreciate?  It's right here, from page one.  Well, maybe page 5, but still--so good.  I highly recommend it.

Helping Yourself

I've heard the arguments about Kathryn Stockett's The Help--that it's pandering, trivializing of the Civil Rights movement, and especially that there's something squicky about a white woman writing a story like this, where colorful black folks are given their power and their voice by a non-racist white lady.  Most of the things that I've hard in those conversations are factually true, and I can't argue with them.

But I have to say, I'm enjoying the book.  I think its redeeming feature is the fact that it's not trying--not at all--to be an insightful discussion of race or the Civil Rights struggle.  It doesn't claim to be the Great American Novel.  It's not literary fiction--it's popular fiction. 

This is a mainstream, feel-good novel about women being friends and touching each other's lives.  It's a Fried Green Tomatoes book, a Ya-Ya Sisterhood book.  By setting it in an historically important, tense, pivotal time--and by filling it with lists of cultural touchstones like Bob Dylan and To Kill a Mockingbird and Medgar Evers (which, to be fair, took place within the context of the story)--the author gives the book more of a promise of heft than it really earns, which opens it up to the criticism it's received.

I'm not the first person to say this (although many of them are talking about the movie).  Not even remotely.  It's worth linking to the New York Times's take on it.  I really don't have anything to add to the argument, except that I agree that the book tells a very narrow story--the experiences of a few women--and that some of the treatments are, if not actually icky, then almost shamefully naive.

But I'm enjoying the book.  And not just, I think, on a white guilt level, but also on the kind of level where I'm pretty sure everyone will get what's coming to them.  (Note: I'm about halfway through, so these predictions aren't spoilers.)  It's soothing, like all feel-good stories are--Skeeter will get published, and Aibileen will find her voice and justice will be served and the bad guys will come to nothing and poo on them.  This is a book about the schoolgirl cruelties of adult women--not the true viciousness that people are capable of.  It's not about racial problems, it's about suburban ones.

The more I think about it, the more I think that it does overreach, and that there's some irresponsibility in--I want to call it "opening a can of worms," but then there's my problem.  The phrase itself is kind of dismissive, kind of ugly.  If you want to write a book that ISN'T profound, is it right or wrong to let it anywhere near a powder keg like race in the '60s in Jackson, Mississippi? 

Ultimately, Stockett wrote the book she wanted to write, and succeeded enormously at what she was trying to do.  The fallout is about whether that was a worthy, respectable, respectful thing to do, and whether all of us who are reading it and enjoying it are cretins or racists or both.  If the book hadn't been so enjoyable, no one would ever have asked the question.

Surrender Monkey

I have been inspired by Nancy Pearl.  If you're surprised by that, it's only because it's taken me so long to be inspired by her.

Lately, Adam's been playing with my Nancy Pearl Action Figure.  I have the deluxe model that comes with a book cart, computer, and stacks of books.  He really likes stacking the books on and off the book cart.  Where do you suppose he gets that one? 

Anyway, this sent me to Nancy's website, where I read her Rule of Fifty.  This is very similar to my 10% rule, and it basically says not to spend too much time on a book you're not enjoying.  There's no prize or reading a book you don't enjoy.  How is it that I need outside people to tell me this?

So my recent library kick has now been neatly bookended (I'd say no pun intended, but would you believe me?) by a recent spate of my interest fizzling out.  I still find it incredibly liberating to let myself off the hook; what I can't figure out is why I require so much convincing, but somehow I do, every time.  I guess that's why these come in batches.

Anyhow, a quick summary just to keep you updated.  I sent The Last Four Things, by Paul Hoffman, back to the library after the first page.  It was only a two week loan; I was on vacation during one of those weeks and didn't have any time to read it.  And, with the perspective provided by distance, I realized that I didn't really care for the first book in the series, The Left Hand of God.  The plot was fast-paced enough that I put the sequel on my list, but in retrospect, I had a lot of problems with it.  There were some flaws in the writing, and some of the characters seemed inconsistent.  The worst part was that I could list the number of female speaking parts on one hand, and they were universally one-dimensional, and almost-universally nasty and insipid.  There are so many good books to read, there's no reason to do this to myself.

So Much Pretty, by Cara Hoffman, seemed promising at first.  It's a missing-girl-in-a-small-town book, but I couldn't tell if it was a character study or police procedural or thriller or even ghost story.  Turns out it was a literary novel.  Now, I've grown enough not to use that term pejoratively; that didn't make it bad.  But, as I mentioned in a previous post, it was all authorial voice.  The story switched from character to character between chapters, some in first person and some in third.  All the voices sounded the same.  In a book where one of your themes is about the sense of belonging in a small town, that's a huge handicap.

Which brings me to Which Brings Me To You.  This epistolary novel by Steve Almond and Julianna Baggott has the clever structure of a series of letters written between a man and woman who met at a wedding and decided that they might have the potential to be more to each other than just another coat-closet hookup.  This was was a tougher call, because it wasn't awful.  The writing was good--clearly the two voices were different (different authors), though you'll never convince me that either character is anything but a writers, given the way elaborate descriptions are deftly woven through with conclusions about the nature of the universe.  Mostly, though, I just didn't like either of the characters; I thought they were both sad and kind of pathetic, but also proud of it.  I guess I'm saying that not only did I not like the characters, I think the authors DID like them, and I stopped reading the book.

The Emperor's Winding Sheet was the biggest disappointment.  Jill Paton Walsh wrote Knowledge of Angels, a book I loved.  It was insightful and enjoyable, and it worked on the level of drama and also on the level of allegory.  This book--which won the Whitbread Prize in 1974, a prize I know nothing about--seems to be much more about the research that the author did than the story she wants to tell.  Constantine is the last emperor of Rome (though of course he doesn't know that yet, he may see it coming), and Vrethiki is the name given to an English boy whose ship was lost at sea, and who finds his way into the Emperor's garden.  Taken up as a talisman of good luck, Vrethiki is effectively enslaved and spends a lot of pages observing 15th century Constantinople.  The point at which I allowed myself to surrender (75 pages in, so well past Nancy Pearl's limit) was when I started counting how many pages of description they could have before someone said something, or did something besides interact with their environment.  It was three--three pages of banquets and jewel-encrusted things and complicated clothing.  Then there's a scene where the kid breaks a dish, and then a lot more pages of the walls around the city and what the streets look like.  Very travelogue, is what I'm saying, and not my cup of tea.

So, here I am.  Young Miles and Doc on Bessie, and I have things to say about them, and The Ninth Wife(which, by the way, refers to sequential, not concurrent, wives), which is not bad at all, from the library, plus The Help (post coming up about that) from Audible.  I'm really happy with this current crop, which makes me glad that I didn't spend any more time cultivating the stuff that didn't interest me.  Ever forward, as they say.

Unstoppable

For a little while there--a few weeks, at least--I had no library books.  It would have been a bizarre experience, but I was caught up in the pangs of first love and focusing on other things.

Then I turned up a couple of non-electronic books I was dying to read, and all of a sudden I'm back on the library bandwagon.  It's partly because I have so many books on Bessie already that I haven't started yet; it feels stupid to run out and get more, no matter how badly I want to read them.  But on the other hand, I'm really bad at picking my next book from the pile available, rather than rushing around following my urges.

So here I am with a big pile of library books.  It's kind of thrilling, actually.  It's nice to know that it's not all over--the library still has a lot to offer me.  Though I'm going to have to get used to spending money on books at some point. 

Quick list, for the curious:  How Professors Think: Inside the Curious World of Academic Judgement, by Michele Lamont - nonfiction, behind the scenes of academia.  Love that stuff.; Hereville: How Mirka Got Her Sword, by Barry Deutsch - kids' comic book about a young Jewish girl who wants to fight dragons; The Ninth Wife, by Amy Stolls - who would marry a man who's had eight wives before her?; The Tragedy of Arthur, by Arthur Phillips - a novel about the messed up life of a guy who discovered Shakespeare's lost play--including the text of the play itself.  Possibly too postmodern and/or clever to be read; So Much Pretty, by Cara Hoffman - I have it checked out but decided not to read it after the first few pages.  When a city slicker character drives through farmland for the first time and sees a tractor graveyard, they are not able to pick out the threshers from the mowers.  This book was all authorial voice and description.

Oh, there's more.  There's always more.  But that's enough for now.  I'll keep you posted!