Dramacon is by no means my first outing into comics, but I think I can officially call it my first successful outing into manga. It's a great book, about learning to stand up for yourself, and finding out that you are strong and talented, even if you didn't know it before. I love the fact that the main character is a high school girl who produces her own mildly successful comics. The focus, sense of purpose and identity that displays is exciting, and the confidence she finds in that over the course of the book is pretty rewarding.
It is (relatively) widely known that I kind of despise manga. I hate that all the characters look alike. I dislike the weird combination of realistic/idealized images with cartoonish pictures. I am turned off by those giant, shiny eyes. But honestly, what's really stopped me near the beginning of so many promising comics is that everyone is so shouty. Everyone's always sweating or screaming or crying or just OVERACTING. Even the serious drama (Eagle) and very American stuff (At Death's Door) just has so much shouting in it, it's emotionally reminiscent of watching the Three Stooges, something else I don't do voluntarily.
So I'm grateful for two things right now: the necessity of picking up and finishing Dramacon, which I now have to read the sequel to because he gets a girlfriend? But they're supposed to be together! And the necessity of picking up Manga and Anime, by Robin E. Brenner, which does a certain amount to demystify manga. At the very least, she's acknowledging my observations (criticisms!) and even explaining some of them.
The fact, for example, that manga writer/artists turn out at least 30 pages a week, instead of a team turning out 32 pages-minus-ads per month, allows me to forgive them a little bit for the characters that look the same. The fact that they're serialized in magazines that are considered somewhat disposable, more like the funnies in the newspaper than a novel, lets me cut some slack for shorthanding a lot of action through silly, simple conventions. That the Japanese consider themselves a "wet" or emotional people, as distinct from us dry, unemotional Westerners will never cause me to ignore the shouting, but at least it explains it.
Because of this long-standing hatred, I've thought a lot about why on earth people like this stuff. I love comics, but I'm pretty picky about the art. But of course I've noticed that a huge percentage of what's out there falls into the superhero category, which is not at all a broad range of appeal. Of course, the fantasy of being strong and competent, able to save the world and worthy to stand against all foes is a pleasing one, and escapist, and, I know, often dealt with in complex ways, but if you're not going to read a superhero comic, you're just not. And sure, there are other kinds of graphic novels (from Fables to Fun Home to Blankets to Persepolis), but not nearly enough.
This is where manga comes in. For sheer volume of stories, it can hardly be beat. And, unlike American comics, it's not nearly so weighted to the science fiction/action-adventure genres. There are comics marketed toward girls, tons of straight-out romance stories, personal drama, queer characters--just sheer breadth. There's something for everyone, and I think that the fast-paced, pop-culture appeal of comics draws in a lot of reluctant readers who are looking for a romance or a high school drama or any of the many characters and stories to see themselves in. You can find plenty of novels in any genre, but when it comes to comics, manga is where the variety is.
The very simplification of characters--good guys vs. bad guys vs. villains, loyalties and betrayals, characters who are mostly exactly who they appear to be--is probably very appealing for teenagers, hoping to fit everything they're seeing around them into familiar shapes and categories. If you can tell by the size of a character's eyes whether you're dealing with an ingenue, a rogue, or a villain, you can find the shape of the story, the lessons and patterns and familiarity, much faster.
----Amusing aside, from Manga and Anime, page 41
Apparently blood type is considered an indication of character in Japan, rather like astrological sign might be here. If your blood type is A, you're probably "a team player, industrious, trustworthy, needs leadership, can be inflexible." B is "independent, creative, honest, emotional, can be irresponsible." O is "ambitious, a planner, romantic, focused on status, can be superficial," and AB is "diplomatic, organized, sensible, moral, can be unforgiving." This I find to be kind of crazy-awesome, and I wanted to share. Thanks to Robin E. Brenner for the quotes.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
Can't Trust That Guy
I've recently come to the conclusion that I have a very shaky relationship with unreliable narrators. Seems perfectly natural, I suppose; that's what they're all about. But it seems funny to me that someone who reads as much as I do has so much trouble shifting gears to mistrusting the narrator. I guess it has to do with the fact that I read for entertainment, escape, fantasy, as opposed to the appreciation of literary style.
An excess of cleverness is one of my least favorite literary qualities. But I can't point at that problem as the issue with the unreliable narrator. I'm not sure which of these two problems turned me off of The Arsonist's Guide to Writer's Homes in New England; maybe it was just my dislike for the narrator. But I was talking with someone the other day about Kazuo Ishiguro, and this got me thinking. I read When We Were Orphans a few years ago, and I really loved it until the end. As the book progressed, though, I found myself getting mad at the author for these ridiculous assumptions that everyone in the book seemed to be making. He's going to find his missing mother after 20 years, when the authorities couldn't? And the people who moved into his house 20 years ago are going to happily vacate for him, now that he's back? What kind of fool's paradise is this? I asked myself.
Someone pointed out to me, last week (which is to say, about two years after I read the novel), that the narrator is completely unreliable, and all these things are probably not happening the way he recounts them exactly. And you know, while I realized he was unreliable during the scene near the end where everything gets all trippy, I have to say it never occurred to me that he's really very unreliable all the way through the book, and that you really can't assume any of those things happened the way he related them.
I don't think I'm giving much of anything away here--any reasonably bright person would have seen that. I, apparently, don't fit that description. I think this fits in with Ishiguro's (aside: how great is his name? I love saying it.) other books, at least the ones I've read: The Remains of the Day and Never Let Me Go. But in those, it was the emotional judgment of the narrator that you couldn't trust, not his/her recounting of the facts. Somehow this is very different to me. I understand that he has other books more like Orphans in their use of the narrator, but I haven't read them.
And this is not just an Ishiguro thing. I guess what it comes down to is that I throw myself into books in a way that makes it hard for me to judge their narrators objectively. I can do it if I'm given guidance from the author (Lolita, say), if I'm given space to step out with the author and observe the narrator. But if the author flies under the radar and leaves me in the room with a raving lunatic telling me his story, I will be nodding vigorously and scanning the skies nervously for the flying saucers full of little green men. I'm not proud of it, but there it is.
An excess of cleverness is one of my least favorite literary qualities. But I can't point at that problem as the issue with the unreliable narrator. I'm not sure which of these two problems turned me off of The Arsonist's Guide to Writer's Homes in New England; maybe it was just my dislike for the narrator. But I was talking with someone the other day about Kazuo Ishiguro, and this got me thinking. I read When We Were Orphans a few years ago, and I really loved it until the end. As the book progressed, though, I found myself getting mad at the author for these ridiculous assumptions that everyone in the book seemed to be making. He's going to find his missing mother after 20 years, when the authorities couldn't? And the people who moved into his house 20 years ago are going to happily vacate for him, now that he's back? What kind of fool's paradise is this? I asked myself.
Someone pointed out to me, last week (which is to say, about two years after I read the novel), that the narrator is completely unreliable, and all these things are probably not happening the way he recounts them exactly. And you know, while I realized he was unreliable during the scene near the end where everything gets all trippy, I have to say it never occurred to me that he's really very unreliable all the way through the book, and that you really can't assume any of those things happened the way he related them.
I don't think I'm giving much of anything away here--any reasonably bright person would have seen that. I, apparently, don't fit that description. I think this fits in with Ishiguro's (aside: how great is his name? I love saying it.) other books, at least the ones I've read: The Remains of the Day and Never Let Me Go. But in those, it was the emotional judgment of the narrator that you couldn't trust, not his/her recounting of the facts. Somehow this is very different to me. I understand that he has other books more like Orphans in their use of the narrator, but I haven't read them.
And this is not just an Ishiguro thing. I guess what it comes down to is that I throw myself into books in a way that makes it hard for me to judge their narrators objectively. I can do it if I'm given guidance from the author (Lolita, say), if I'm given space to step out with the author and observe the narrator. But if the author flies under the radar and leaves me in the room with a raving lunatic telling me his story, I will be nodding vigorously and scanning the skies nervously for the flying saucers full of little green men. I'm not proud of it, but there it is.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Barry Lyga, Wow.
Boy Toy, by Barry Lyga, is not a book for everyone. This is the story of a high school boy who's still recovering from the aftermath of a sexual relationship that he had with his teacher when he was 12. It's harrowing, in a lot of ways--her manipulation is so well-chronicled--and though I wouldn't call it explicit, it's pretty frank about the sexual acts that are taking place.
What I find most impressive about the book, though, is the impressive voice of the viewpoint character. Most of the story takes place when he's 17, in high school, and starting to deal directly with some of the long-term effects of what happened. He's not happy, exactly, but he's got kind of an equilibrium that he's sustained, which has been thrown off completely. The author captures beautifully the balance between this really smart kid's understanding of the fact that it's not his fault, and the deep, unshakable feeling that he's messed up and will never be normal again. He's not an unreliable narrator; rather, the irrational but inevitable feelings he's struggling with are made unavoidable and real.
But there are also chunks of the book told in flashback, where he recounts the relationship and its aftermath. In these parts, he's 12, but he's also sort of 17 telling the story of when he's 12. And the author does a brilliant job with this, of conveying exactly how all of these events came across to him, his guilt, his compulsion. It was amazing, to watch this teacher seduce a child, and to be able to see the boy's anxiety and desire and confusion and his sense that this is really happening, this is how it is with adults, and at the exact same moment, to watch a predator moving in on her prey, and to see and feel how repulsive it is, even as he's feeling drawn in. It's such a balance, and you don't even really feel the author doing it till, say, you sit down to blog about it, and realize that it sort of bowled you over.
The thing that strikes me here, though, and really makes me think about how a teenager would see this book, is the almost perfect absence of adults who treat him like a person. Not even like an adult, but like any kind of person at all. His doctor. The female police officer. That's it. His parents go back and forth between seeing him as an object that has been damaged and a stupid, disobedient kid who maybe should have known better, or at least could have spared them all this trouble--besides being caught up in their disintegrating marriage. His teachers are either absent, condescending, or outright hostile. His best friend's parents are so awful as to not be worth discussing.
And yet, you don't feel like he expects anything else. He doesn't seem to feel alienated, or even really lonely, not the way depressed teens are so often portrayed. It's more like he sees solitude as natural, and his separation from so many people in his life as the natural running of the world. This sense of his strength in isolation is such a source of power to him, I feel like this is the part of the book teens would touch on. This kid is working his way through his stuff, not entirely alone (he has Zik, Rachel, Dr. Kennedy), but through his own power. Adults, other kids, it's all really just background to what's going on inside him, his struggle with himself, to figure out who he is and what he is capable of. And from the very beginning, even before he starts solving these problems, you can tell that this is a guy who is going to hold his act together, this is a guy who, even in the middle of a panic attack, has nothing to fear outside of himself. He finds his own support system, he creates it, he struggles with himself. He's not completely deprived of family support, his school has not written him off, he has a very few, very good friends. But this is a kid with strength in himself, and the sense of empowerment that spending time with Josh Mendel can give a reader is really pretty impressive.
So, after much rambling: hats off to Barry Lyga. Unlike a lot of brilliant authorship, you can't see him pulling the strings. You just get to the end and realize that every word of this amazing book came out of this guy. I'm impressed.
What I find most impressive about the book, though, is the impressive voice of the viewpoint character. Most of the story takes place when he's 17, in high school, and starting to deal directly with some of the long-term effects of what happened. He's not happy, exactly, but he's got kind of an equilibrium that he's sustained, which has been thrown off completely. The author captures beautifully the balance between this really smart kid's understanding of the fact that it's not his fault, and the deep, unshakable feeling that he's messed up and will never be normal again. He's not an unreliable narrator; rather, the irrational but inevitable feelings he's struggling with are made unavoidable and real.
But there are also chunks of the book told in flashback, where he recounts the relationship and its aftermath. In these parts, he's 12, but he's also sort of 17 telling the story of when he's 12. And the author does a brilliant job with this, of conveying exactly how all of these events came across to him, his guilt, his compulsion. It was amazing, to watch this teacher seduce a child, and to be able to see the boy's anxiety and desire and confusion and his sense that this is really happening, this is how it is with adults, and at the exact same moment, to watch a predator moving in on her prey, and to see and feel how repulsive it is, even as he's feeling drawn in. It's such a balance, and you don't even really feel the author doing it till, say, you sit down to blog about it, and realize that it sort of bowled you over.
The thing that strikes me here, though, and really makes me think about how a teenager would see this book, is the almost perfect absence of adults who treat him like a person. Not even like an adult, but like any kind of person at all. His doctor. The female police officer. That's it. His parents go back and forth between seeing him as an object that has been damaged and a stupid, disobedient kid who maybe should have known better, or at least could have spared them all this trouble--besides being caught up in their disintegrating marriage. His teachers are either absent, condescending, or outright hostile. His best friend's parents are so awful as to not be worth discussing.
And yet, you don't feel like he expects anything else. He doesn't seem to feel alienated, or even really lonely, not the way depressed teens are so often portrayed. It's more like he sees solitude as natural, and his separation from so many people in his life as the natural running of the world. This sense of his strength in isolation is such a source of power to him, I feel like this is the part of the book teens would touch on. This kid is working his way through his stuff, not entirely alone (he has Zik, Rachel, Dr. Kennedy), but through his own power. Adults, other kids, it's all really just background to what's going on inside him, his struggle with himself, to figure out who he is and what he is capable of. And from the very beginning, even before he starts solving these problems, you can tell that this is a guy who is going to hold his act together, this is a guy who, even in the middle of a panic attack, has nothing to fear outside of himself. He finds his own support system, he creates it, he struggles with himself. He's not completely deprived of family support, his school has not written him off, he has a very few, very good friends. But this is a kid with strength in himself, and the sense of empowerment that spending time with Josh Mendel can give a reader is really pretty impressive.
So, after much rambling: hats off to Barry Lyga. Unlike a lot of brilliant authorship, you can't see him pulling the strings. You just get to the end and realize that every word of this amazing book came out of this guy. I'm impressed.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Dear Readers
To my four loyal readers, and those other two kids who wander past sometimes, I feel the need to warn you: I have been called upon to blog for class. This should not be onerous, as I don't see how I'm going to have time to read anything non-class-related for the next few weeks--not even most of the 11 non-class library books I have out now. But we're talking about three novels per week, and a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do.
Anyway, the reason I give you, my audience, this heads-up, is that I will be talking a lot about developmental assets, which are "positive experiences and personal qualities that young people need to grow up healthy, caring, and responsible," according to the Search Institute. They're like a blueprint to a well-adjusted teenager. I didn't want anyone to think that I'd joined some sort of cult when my blog suddenly got a lot more focused--just a YA lit class.
I should also warn you that I'll be reading a Jodi Picoult book next week; we all know where that's going to end up.
Before I start this seven week journey, though, I want to add my thoughts on Remember Me 2: The Return. UGH. Christopher Pike started out as a writer of good thrillers. He has since then discovered transcendental meditation. I liked Sati, though I found its spirituality too simplistic. But he's managed to dumb his philosophy down even from that, AND his dialog at the same time. It's mushy (Earth is just one part of our mystical journey, and we're all part of the great Oversoul that is God), and contradictory (you can advance through evil instead of good, but everything is good because it's all part of the Oversoul that is God), and just plain derivative (Nirvana is a big beautiful field). Also, you get to come back to Earth as a Wanderer, if you want, by taking over another person's life.
Oh, and one of his main characters is supposed to be this great writer, and she's kind of a lousy writer. It's like--OMIGOD--like Christopher Pike has been taken over by an anti-Wanderer, and lost his writing skills!
I'm a terrible, terrible person. But I really loved Remember Me. As far as I am concerned, it has no sequel.
Anyway, the reason I give you, my audience, this heads-up, is that I will be talking a lot about developmental assets, which are "positive experiences and personal qualities that young people need to grow up healthy, caring, and responsible," according to the Search Institute. They're like a blueprint to a well-adjusted teenager. I didn't want anyone to think that I'd joined some sort of cult when my blog suddenly got a lot more focused--just a YA lit class.
I should also warn you that I'll be reading a Jodi Picoult book next week; we all know where that's going to end up.
Before I start this seven week journey, though, I want to add my thoughts on Remember Me 2: The Return. UGH. Christopher Pike started out as a writer of good thrillers. He has since then discovered transcendental meditation. I liked Sati, though I found its spirituality too simplistic. But he's managed to dumb his philosophy down even from that, AND his dialog at the same time. It's mushy (Earth is just one part of our mystical journey, and we're all part of the great Oversoul that is God), and contradictory (you can advance through evil instead of good, but everything is good because it's all part of the Oversoul that is God), and just plain derivative (Nirvana is a big beautiful field). Also, you get to come back to Earth as a Wanderer, if you want, by taking over another person's life.
Oh, and one of his main characters is supposed to be this great writer, and she's kind of a lousy writer. It's like--OMIGOD--like Christopher Pike has been taken over by an anti-Wanderer, and lost his writing skills!
I'm a terrible, terrible person. But I really loved Remember Me. As far as I am concerned, it has no sequel.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
My Limits
I've always kind of had a problem with stories in which the plot is dependent on people acting in ways that don't seem reasonable to me. It's not about rational or irrational--making stupid decisions out of fear or desire or thoughtlessness is very natural and normal and doesn't turn me off. But the syndrome that turns me off is the one you see in thrillers, where the main characters don't go to the police for stupid reasons like "there's no time" or I don't even know what other dumb reasons. Or when the lovers don't admit they love each other (when it's so OBVIOUS that they both do) for--well, whatever reason. The whole point is that the choices are unreasonable. Or, at the very least, far from anything I would do, or could imagine doing.
For this reason, I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to read An Arsonist's Gudie to Writers' Homes in New England, by Brock Clarke. I picked it up randomly, and started it, and it's funny and strange and interesting. The premise (as far in as I got) is that this guy, as a teenager, accidentally burned down Emily Dickinson's house, and two people died. He served ten years in prison, got out, and is starting a new life--going to college, getting married. The writer is witty, the book is interesting, and there's a good amount of mystery to what's going on.
The problem is that the main character is not just an unreliable narrator; he's a compulsive liar. And when he lies to his wife, letting his wife believe that he's having an affair so he doesn't have to tell her what he did; when he tries to buy the goodwill of the guy whose parents died in the fire with a root beer; really, when he does or thinks or says anything, I just want to smack him. I don't want to follow his hilarious adventures anymore. I don't want to watch him grow as a person. I want to club him over the head and get him out of everyone's life so he won't bother them anymore.
Somehow, I didn't have this problem with Story of a Girl, by Sara Zarr. Thinking about this book is really what made me realize the difference between "unreasonable" and "irrational" in my constellation of annoyances. Because a lot of the stuff that happens in this book would normally irritate the heck out of me--people who are hurt but don't talk openly to each other, a girl whose life has been broken by a jerk but who is still hanging out with him anyway. Irrational ways of being. But somehow, I believed every minute; the emotional repression of the family in this book is painful, but not in an awful way. It made me cry, but I absolutely loved it.
It just goes to show again that it's all about the author. And I think it backs a personal corollary of mine, which is that an excess of cleverness is almost always a bad thing, but a nice, modest dose of sincerity will do a lot for the world.
Of course, I already mentioned Seventeenth Summer, which proves that sincerity is not a panacea, and can be dangerous in large doses.
For this reason, I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to read An Arsonist's Gudie to Writers' Homes in New England, by Brock Clarke. I picked it up randomly, and started it, and it's funny and strange and interesting. The premise (as far in as I got) is that this guy, as a teenager, accidentally burned down Emily Dickinson's house, and two people died. He served ten years in prison, got out, and is starting a new life--going to college, getting married. The writer is witty, the book is interesting, and there's a good amount of mystery to what's going on.
The problem is that the main character is not just an unreliable narrator; he's a compulsive liar. And when he lies to his wife, letting his wife believe that he's having an affair so he doesn't have to tell her what he did; when he tries to buy the goodwill of the guy whose parents died in the fire with a root beer; really, when he does or thinks or says anything, I just want to smack him. I don't want to follow his hilarious adventures anymore. I don't want to watch him grow as a person. I want to club him over the head and get him out of everyone's life so he won't bother them anymore.
Somehow, I didn't have this problem with Story of a Girl, by Sara Zarr. Thinking about this book is really what made me realize the difference between "unreasonable" and "irrational" in my constellation of annoyances. Because a lot of the stuff that happens in this book would normally irritate the heck out of me--people who are hurt but don't talk openly to each other, a girl whose life has been broken by a jerk but who is still hanging out with him anyway. Irrational ways of being. But somehow, I believed every minute; the emotional repression of the family in this book is painful, but not in an awful way. It made me cry, but I absolutely loved it.
It just goes to show again that it's all about the author. And I think it backs a personal corollary of mine, which is that an excess of cleverness is almost always a bad thing, but a nice, modest dose of sincerity will do a lot for the world.
Of course, I already mentioned Seventeenth Summer, which proves that sincerity is not a panacea, and can be dangerous in large doses.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
A Certain Kind of Girl
Of late I've been reading a book for school, called Seventeenth Summer, by Maureen Daly. It was written in 1942, and is the pre-class reading--what would be "summer reading," if it wasn't a summer class, in which, I suppose, all reading is technically summer reading. Given the nature of the rest of the syllabus, which is very recent in publication date and modern in style, I have to assume this book is just for contrast.
Rarely have I found a book this hard to read. Honestly, I would have put it down if it wasn't for a grade, and I would have skimmed it if I wasn't awful at skimming. As it is, I dodged through many a long paragraph about how her garden is coming up or what the wind of the lake is doing to the grass and tree branches. If it had chapter breaks, it might have been more skimmable, but it doesn't. It's just three long months of the main character, Angie, falling in love during the summer after high school and before college.
I was walking up the street yesterday and I passed a rose bush, with huge yellow roses just at the end of themselves--wide open to the point of drooping, where the petals begin to part from each other and no longer quite form a coherent blossom. The smell was rich and lush, and what I thought when I saw them is that Angie is the kind of girl who would find full-blown roses uncomfortably sexual. She wouldn't be able to define it that way, but she'd sense that something wanton and sensual was going on and probably blush and avert her eyes, for fear of spoiling her innocence. This is not a person you would ever meet today.
I'm also listening to Rebecca, by Daphne DuMaurier, which is long overdue, I have to say. The main character of that book is also this type of person--I think, in fact, that she actually, literally turns her eyes away from full-blown roses at some point in the book specifically because they're so embarrassing. It's hard to remember--English gardens take up so much of the text, it's hard to remember exactly which flowers have been gawked at already.
I've seen the movie of Rebecca, with Joan Fontaine and Lawrence Olivier, so I know the outline of the story. And I've had the differences between the book and the movie explained to me, so I have a clear idea of where we're going with this book. It's interesting, because it's clearly a story that is all about innocence vs. --what? Experience? Guilt? Ennui? All of those things. It's about being 19, and how you don't really know what's going on at all in the world then. Which is not how the world today seems to think--that the wisdom of 19 isn't worth anything, and that you're not really a person with your wits about you till you're 36.
Seventeenth Summer also thinks this. Angie is 17, has graduated from high school, and is not allowed to go steady. Her parents don't approve of how much time she spends with Jack, and even she doesn't believe she can really feel this way, because she's so young. Have you, in your life today, ever encountered someone who didn't believe that a person of 17 could feel passionately in love with someone? It's the most terrifying time for that sort of feeling--it's all that those kids are going through, all the time.
Between these two books, I'm being subsumed into a world of naivete, sweet romance, and confusion about the world. I know that Rebecca will put an end to my stay at this saccharine hotel very soon, but I think I'm going to have to read something base and violent very soon, just to get a hold of myself. The new James Bond book, maybe, or something I picked up at the library called The Arsonist's Guide to Literary Homes of New England. How can you go wrong with a title like that?
Rarely have I found a book this hard to read. Honestly, I would have put it down if it wasn't for a grade, and I would have skimmed it if I wasn't awful at skimming. As it is, I dodged through many a long paragraph about how her garden is coming up or what the wind of the lake is doing to the grass and tree branches. If it had chapter breaks, it might have been more skimmable, but it doesn't. It's just three long months of the main character, Angie, falling in love during the summer after high school and before college.
I was walking up the street yesterday and I passed a rose bush, with huge yellow roses just at the end of themselves--wide open to the point of drooping, where the petals begin to part from each other and no longer quite form a coherent blossom. The smell was rich and lush, and what I thought when I saw them is that Angie is the kind of girl who would find full-blown roses uncomfortably sexual. She wouldn't be able to define it that way, but she'd sense that something wanton and sensual was going on and probably blush and avert her eyes, for fear of spoiling her innocence. This is not a person you would ever meet today.
I'm also listening to Rebecca, by Daphne DuMaurier, which is long overdue, I have to say. The main character of that book is also this type of person--I think, in fact, that she actually, literally turns her eyes away from full-blown roses at some point in the book specifically because they're so embarrassing. It's hard to remember--English gardens take up so much of the text, it's hard to remember exactly which flowers have been gawked at already.
I've seen the movie of Rebecca, with Joan Fontaine and Lawrence Olivier, so I know the outline of the story. And I've had the differences between the book and the movie explained to me, so I have a clear idea of where we're going with this book. It's interesting, because it's clearly a story that is all about innocence vs. --what? Experience? Guilt? Ennui? All of those things. It's about being 19, and how you don't really know what's going on at all in the world then. Which is not how the world today seems to think--that the wisdom of 19 isn't worth anything, and that you're not really a person with your wits about you till you're 36.
Seventeenth Summer also thinks this. Angie is 17, has graduated from high school, and is not allowed to go steady. Her parents don't approve of how much time she spends with Jack, and even she doesn't believe she can really feel this way, because she's so young. Have you, in your life today, ever encountered someone who didn't believe that a person of 17 could feel passionately in love with someone? It's the most terrifying time for that sort of feeling--it's all that those kids are going through, all the time.
Between these two books, I'm being subsumed into a world of naivete, sweet romance, and confusion about the world. I know that Rebecca will put an end to my stay at this saccharine hotel very soon, but I think I'm going to have to read something base and violent very soon, just to get a hold of myself. The new James Bond book, maybe, or something I picked up at the library called The Arsonist's Guide to Literary Homes of New England. How can you go wrong with a title like that?
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Where Does the Time Go?
Seriously, I thought I'd be posting all the time now that I have free time. But you know, my reading life has been seriously pathetic lately, and not only am I a little ashamed of it, it also leaves me with sadly little fodder for blogging.
So I'm still reading The Queen's Fool, by Philippa Gregory, but because I don't ride the train much, it doesn't make it out of my bag very often. In the waiting room at the optometrist (which sounds way more like "optimist" than my eyesight warrants) I'll probably get through another chunk, and now that I have lawn chairs, I'm hoping to read outside a bit this week. I need to get over my feeling that sitting outside in the shade doesn't count as enjoying the lovely outdoor weather--I just recognized this prejudice in myself, and I blame it on my family history of toiling in the fields all day. Sitting under a shade tree on the lawn just doesn't cut it.
Wow, two digressions in one short paragraph. Anyway, I'm puttering between three or four slow-moving books upstairs. It's quite possible that I'll be reading Star-Spangled Manners for the next couple of years, which is probably how it should be read, so I have no regrets there, except it's messing with my quotas. Children of God, which is the sequel to The Sparrow, by Mary Doria Russell, is not bad, but it's rich, and I think I jumped the gun when I started it. Also, it messes a little with the ending from the previous book, which makes me a little mistrustful.
I'm also reading Fisherman on the Inland Sea, which is a book of short stories by Ursula LeGuin, who I'm pretty fond of, actually. Her books are hit or miss for me, but when they hit I love them, because they do an excellent job of being very well-thought-out science fiction that is still very human-centered. I didn't love Wizard of Earthsea, though I liked it, but I did love The Tombs of Atuan, which I found haunting, partly because it seemed more "feminine." Anyway, this book of stories begins with a great essay about non-sci-fi readers, and what makes sci fi feel inaccessible to people, sometimes justifiably so. This is something I think about a good deal, and there are a few good essays about it out there, and the preface to this book is one of them. Most of the stories are very good, whether light or deeper, but the last few are getting too philosophical and tech-heavy for my full enjoyment.
So that's it. I've finished THREE books this month. Isn't that sad? We're more than halfway through, and I'm not near the end of anything. And that includes the audiobook I listened to! (Oh, I'm also listening to Rebecca, by Daphne DuMaurier, and who do the unabridged versions of audiobooks always have the worst readers and the hyper-abridged versions the best? Mike claims it's because good readers are expensive. Someone should hire me; I'm pretty good, if I do say so myself.)
I'm not even going to count the digressions herein contained. We'll call this a five book month and strive to make it so.
So I'm still reading The Queen's Fool, by Philippa Gregory, but because I don't ride the train much, it doesn't make it out of my bag very often. In the waiting room at the optometrist (which sounds way more like "optimist" than my eyesight warrants) I'll probably get through another chunk, and now that I have lawn chairs, I'm hoping to read outside a bit this week. I need to get over my feeling that sitting outside in the shade doesn't count as enjoying the lovely outdoor weather--I just recognized this prejudice in myself, and I blame it on my family history of toiling in the fields all day. Sitting under a shade tree on the lawn just doesn't cut it.
Wow, two digressions in one short paragraph. Anyway, I'm puttering between three or four slow-moving books upstairs. It's quite possible that I'll be reading Star-Spangled Manners for the next couple of years, which is probably how it should be read, so I have no regrets there, except it's messing with my quotas. Children of God, which is the sequel to The Sparrow, by Mary Doria Russell, is not bad, but it's rich, and I think I jumped the gun when I started it. Also, it messes a little with the ending from the previous book, which makes me a little mistrustful.
I'm also reading Fisherman on the Inland Sea, which is a book of short stories by Ursula LeGuin, who I'm pretty fond of, actually. Her books are hit or miss for me, but when they hit I love them, because they do an excellent job of being very well-thought-out science fiction that is still very human-centered. I didn't love Wizard of Earthsea, though I liked it, but I did love The Tombs of Atuan, which I found haunting, partly because it seemed more "feminine." Anyway, this book of stories begins with a great essay about non-sci-fi readers, and what makes sci fi feel inaccessible to people, sometimes justifiably so. This is something I think about a good deal, and there are a few good essays about it out there, and the preface to this book is one of them. Most of the stories are very good, whether light or deeper, but the last few are getting too philosophical and tech-heavy for my full enjoyment.
So that's it. I've finished THREE books this month. Isn't that sad? We're more than halfway through, and I'm not near the end of anything. And that includes the audiobook I listened to! (Oh, I'm also listening to Rebecca, by Daphne DuMaurier, and who do the unabridged versions of audiobooks always have the worst readers and the hyper-abridged versions the best? Mike claims it's because good readers are expensive. Someone should hire me; I'm pretty good, if I do say so myself.)
I'm not even going to count the digressions herein contained. We'll call this a five book month and strive to make it so.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Running Behind
No more school, no more books, no more teachers, dirty looks!
Well, way more books, actually, because now that I've turned in my evaluation books and even my reference book for a whopping $31 (less than 1/3 of what I paid for them, and I shake my fist menacingly at my former coworkers in the textbook industry. Though to be honest, they really needed to produce a new edition of that reference book--the technology in 2001 is now obsolete, and the book is full of remarks that read like "this whole internet thing is really starting to look like it might take off," including a conviction that video chat would be the online communication wave of the future for things like electronic reference services. Which, I have to say, is wrong, as evinced by David Foster Wallace's not-so-distant future in Infinite Jest, where everybody gets a video phone before realizing that most people multitask on the phone, and no one really wants to stare at you while you plan what time you're going to meet for coffee, so everyone gets a picture of themselves and hangs it in front of the videophone camera, and it becomes more like a phone conversation with an avatar. I think DFW was right about videophone, even if the book was incredibly long and impossible to read in parts. But I think I might have digressed.)
So now that I'm rid of my textbooks, I can--nay, must--turn my attention to the more pleasing literary world. I have a month off before my summer class starts, and when it does, it's a young adult literature class, so that should be fun. The pre-class homework consists of reading two books--one from the 40s, when they didn't even have YA books, and one that's very modern and About Sex. I also have to watch Juno and Superbad. Can you already tell what an onerous class this will be? (And they'll make me read manga. I can't stand manga! Everyone's always shouting at everyone else! Shout shout shout! With big squeezed shut eyes!)
So in addition to my pre-reading, I have a bunch of stuff to get through before class starts and I can't read anything but assignments. I checked out a Jodi Picoult book, Keeping Faith, but now I'll have to return it unread, because if I read two Jodi Picoult books within two months of each other, my brain will explode. This is what happened when I read Plain Truth and The Pact in quick succession--I realized how similar they were and my brain exploded. Not pretty.
I've got a jumble of other stuff lined up--some shots in the dark from the library, including some Ursula LeGuin short stories, Rebecca, by Daphne DuMaurier (which I've still never read!) and my first Patricia McKillip book, Alphabet of Thorn. Plus I'm still reading Star Spangled Manners, which will take a while, and Children of God, which is the sequel to The Sparrow.
It's sad that I can't bring this level of ambition to any other aspect of my life. If only reading paid better than $15 per book at the agency. Ah, well, for God and country, onward!
Well, way more books, actually, because now that I've turned in my evaluation books and even my reference book for a whopping $31 (less than 1/3 of what I paid for them, and I shake my fist menacingly at my former coworkers in the textbook industry. Though to be honest, they really needed to produce a new edition of that reference book--the technology in 2001 is now obsolete, and the book is full of remarks that read like "this whole internet thing is really starting to look like it might take off," including a conviction that video chat would be the online communication wave of the future for things like electronic reference services. Which, I have to say, is wrong, as evinced by David Foster Wallace's not-so-distant future in Infinite Jest, where everybody gets a video phone before realizing that most people multitask on the phone, and no one really wants to stare at you while you plan what time you're going to meet for coffee, so everyone gets a picture of themselves and hangs it in front of the videophone camera, and it becomes more like a phone conversation with an avatar. I think DFW was right about videophone, even if the book was incredibly long and impossible to read in parts. But I think I might have digressed.)
So now that I'm rid of my textbooks, I can--nay, must--turn my attention to the more pleasing literary world. I have a month off before my summer class starts, and when it does, it's a young adult literature class, so that should be fun. The pre-class homework consists of reading two books--one from the 40s, when they didn't even have YA books, and one that's very modern and About Sex. I also have to watch Juno and Superbad. Can you already tell what an onerous class this will be? (And they'll make me read manga. I can't stand manga! Everyone's always shouting at everyone else! Shout shout shout! With big squeezed shut eyes!)
So in addition to my pre-reading, I have a bunch of stuff to get through before class starts and I can't read anything but assignments. I checked out a Jodi Picoult book, Keeping Faith, but now I'll have to return it unread, because if I read two Jodi Picoult books within two months of each other, my brain will explode. This is what happened when I read Plain Truth and The Pact in quick succession--I realized how similar they were and my brain exploded. Not pretty.
I've got a jumble of other stuff lined up--some shots in the dark from the library, including some Ursula LeGuin short stories, Rebecca, by Daphne DuMaurier (which I've still never read!) and my first Patricia McKillip book, Alphabet of Thorn. Plus I'm still reading Star Spangled Manners, which will take a while, and Children of God, which is the sequel to The Sparrow.
It's sad that I can't bring this level of ambition to any other aspect of my life. If only reading paid better than $15 per book at the agency. Ah, well, for God and country, onward!
Friday, May 02, 2008
Shame
You know, I suppose it's really appropriately blogger-like to write a lot of entries about things I'm embarrassed about, but when I think about the number of posts that start with an admission or confession, I still blush. Still, these are not my true sources of shame, so here I go again, trumpeting my ignominy to the anonymous cyberworld.
Ready? Here we go: I'm really enjoying The Queen's Fool.
Yes, that's right. Philippa Gregory, whose last book made me laugh out loud (not the author's intent, I assure you), feel sorry for my fellow book club member who selected it, and want those hours of my life back, whose work I certainly would never have thought I ought to invest in again...she who wrote the phrase "the chase of sex that ends in bed," (TQF, p. 1), yes, SHE has drawn me into her damnable web by writing a book about the intriguing subject of Jews trying to escape the Inquisition and, well, persecution in general in the 1500s (a sadly losing proposition), as well as by creating a character with something some backbone (unlike OtherGirl Boleyn, whose name I don't even remember).
Whew! So much for a run-on sentence. I'm not that far into the book, but, in spite of that awful prologue, this story appears to have at least a twinge more subtlety than the brick-through-the-front-window that was The Other Boleyn Girl. I can't say I'll be running out to grab her newest gem, but I'm not disappointed to be reading this. I'll probably pick up something a bit meatier when classes are over in a week, and I have nothing to worry about but reading (and insurance, and a new roof for the garage, but you know. That kind of nothing.)
Ready? Here we go: I'm really enjoying The Queen's Fool.
Yes, that's right. Philippa Gregory, whose last book made me laugh out loud (not the author's intent, I assure you), feel sorry for my fellow book club member who selected it, and want those hours of my life back, whose work I certainly would never have thought I ought to invest in again...she who wrote the phrase "the chase of sex that ends in bed," (TQF, p. 1), yes, SHE has drawn me into her damnable web by writing a book about the intriguing subject of Jews trying to escape the Inquisition and, well, persecution in general in the 1500s (a sadly losing proposition), as well as by creating a character with something some backbone (unlike OtherGirl Boleyn, whose name I don't even remember).
Whew! So much for a run-on sentence. I'm not that far into the book, but, in spite of that awful prologue, this story appears to have at least a twinge more subtlety than the brick-through-the-front-window that was The Other Boleyn Girl. I can't say I'll be running out to grab her newest gem, but I'm not disappointed to be reading this. I'll probably pick up something a bit meatier when classes are over in a week, and I have nothing to worry about but reading (and insurance, and a new roof for the garage, but you know. That kind of nothing.)
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Need to Share
I may have already mentioned this here somewhere, because it could easily be why I gave up on the book my first time around. But it's just too delightfully trashy not to offer up to the public.
(Warning: the following quote gets a little saucy, so send the kids out of the room!)
On page 1 of Philippa Gregory's The Queen's Fool, a nobleman is chasing his teenage stepdaughter around the garden while his wife looks on, valiantly ignoring the flirtatious subtext. She says something like, "Can't catch me!" and...
"'I can catch you any time I want to,' he said, thinking of the chase of sex that ends in bed."
Wow. Just wow. Did you see the episode of The Simpsons where Marge writes a romance novel, and it's just awful? It cannot be awfuller than that line. We should all be Philippa Gregory.
P.S. My spellchecker acknowledges the existence of the word awfuller. What is the world coming to?
(Warning: the following quote gets a little saucy, so send the kids out of the room!)
On page 1 of Philippa Gregory's The Queen's Fool, a nobleman is chasing his teenage stepdaughter around the garden while his wife looks on, valiantly ignoring the flirtatious subtext. She says something like, "Can't catch me!" and...
"'I can catch you any time I want to,' he said, thinking of the chase of sex that ends in bed."
Wow. Just wow. Did you see the episode of The Simpsons where Marge writes a romance novel, and it's just awful? It cannot be awfuller than that line. We should all be Philippa Gregory.
P.S. My spellchecker acknowledges the existence of the word awfuller. What is the world coming to?
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Precipice
So I finished Pardonable Lies last night. I'm relieved that Maisie seems to really like her boyfriend, and appears to have smiled spontaneously (rather than in an effort to express pleasantness to another person) at the end of this last book. She still seems like a bit of a cold fish, though. I might read the next one, in hopes that she warms up.
And I'm almost to the end of Then We Came to the End. I like the book, and I think I get what he's doing. I'm curious about how the "payoff" I've heard about at the end works. I have to say that figuring out whether they'll come up with good ad campaigns is probably getting me more mileage than it as an idea is entitled to.
But now I'm at an impasse--what to read next? I'm not quite out of library books, but Anarchy and Old Dogs is another mystery, and I'm just not enough of a mystery person to be confident in that. I'll try it, but one book, dear people, is not going to tide me over.
I guess that technically I'm still in the middle of Star Spangled Manners, the extended Miss Manners essay on how American etiquette came to be what it is, and why it's so awesome (in a nutshell: egalitarianism). It's a good book, but being long and essaylike, better for dipping into than bolting down.
I'm supposed to go to the library with Sheila next week, which will open up a whole new world of possibilities. I'm thinking I might wait till then. But that means dipping again into the Shelves to pick the next big thing. Which way to go? The Pillars of the Earth looks good, but I'm pretty sure I shouldn't start anything that significant till classes end in two weeks. The Queen's Fool looks dumb, but Lord, The Other Boleyn Girl was so bad I laughed through most of it. Still, I bought the darned book. Maybe that's the way to go.
Not like I don't have enough borrowed books on my shelf, but I'm not hauling Brenda's gorgeous Richard Yates compendium on the train with me.
Oh, I can't forget to mention Escape, the crazy fringe Mormon cult plural marriage runaway story. I love fringe religion memoirs, both noble (nun biographies) and scandalous (cult escapees), so this is just what I'm looking for in an audiobook. Thumbs up.
In we dive. See you after finals on Thursday!
And I'm almost to the end of Then We Came to the End. I like the book, and I think I get what he's doing. I'm curious about how the "payoff" I've heard about at the end works. I have to say that figuring out whether they'll come up with good ad campaigns is probably getting me more mileage than it as an idea is entitled to.
But now I'm at an impasse--what to read next? I'm not quite out of library books, but Anarchy and Old Dogs is another mystery, and I'm just not enough of a mystery person to be confident in that. I'll try it, but one book, dear people, is not going to tide me over.
I guess that technically I'm still in the middle of Star Spangled Manners, the extended Miss Manners essay on how American etiquette came to be what it is, and why it's so awesome (in a nutshell: egalitarianism). It's a good book, but being long and essaylike, better for dipping into than bolting down.
I'm supposed to go to the library with Sheila next week, which will open up a whole new world of possibilities. I'm thinking I might wait till then. But that means dipping again into the Shelves to pick the next big thing. Which way to go? The Pillars of the Earth looks good, but I'm pretty sure I shouldn't start anything that significant till classes end in two weeks. The Queen's Fool looks dumb, but Lord, The Other Boleyn Girl was so bad I laughed through most of it. Still, I bought the darned book. Maybe that's the way to go.
Not like I don't have enough borrowed books on my shelf, but I'm not hauling Brenda's gorgeous Richard Yates compendium on the train with me.
Oh, I can't forget to mention Escape, the crazy fringe Mormon cult plural marriage runaway story. I love fringe religion memoirs, both noble (nun biographies) and scandalous (cult escapees), so this is just what I'm looking for in an audiobook. Thumbs up.
In we dive. See you after finals on Thursday!
Friday, April 25, 2008
Then We Came to...Well, Here.
It's interesting, I'm in the middle of Then We Came to the End, and the lack of plot hasn't bothered me (or rather, the smallness of the plot--I think I figured out which of the little threads of anecdote were supposed to drive the story). But when Mike asked, "What's going on your book?" about 100 pages in, I had to think for about 10 seconds and say, "Nothing."
But what has sort of gotten to me is the idea of looking at people in an office environment as drones who THINK they're interesting and unique people. I guess there's this corporate stereotype that everyone is a faceless drone. But then when you're in the trenches, you see past the stereotype to the fact that each of you is a real person with a full life, a special and unique snowflake. But then by stepping back another step and seeing each of those separate lives as meaningless and swallowed up by the droning corporate world, without much of an internal life and with NO non-pathetic internal life, it just feels like it's unnecessarily reducing people. It's a book about quiet desperation that you don't even know is desperate. It's a friendly condescension, someone who's clearly looking at his own life that way, but since this guy wrote a book and presumably doesn't work in a cube farm anymore, or has proven himself to be non-pathetically extracurricular, well, he's exempt.
And the thing about it is, we look at people who work other jobs, now or historically, and there isn't this sense of drone-ness, of condescension, as though they'd given up basic humanity and weren't they foolish for it? You don't look at industrial workers who work a machine in a factory all day and turn up your nose at their lack of an internal life. You don't look at a farmer on his tractor getting heatstroke and skin cancer in the sun all day, pulling muscles and putting his back out without medical insurance and smile sadly at how hard he has to labor for so little payback (though, as an aside, I can say firmly that a farmer on his tractor has a rich, fertile internal life). Is it because they're less than us white-collars, and couldn't be expected to understand our wasted talent? Is it because of the inherent dignity of working with your hands? Is it because they are presumed to have only that job standing between them and starvation, while we, the white-collars, would have that factory job (or, more likely, a gig as a barista at Starbucks, or that book we always meant to write) to fall back on?
Oh, who knows? I'm overreacting, thinking not only about this book, but about articles I've read and just a vibe I perceive in the world. Think about The Office, and Jim's slow transformation into Michael Scott. Think about all the times you've wanted to give it all up to weave baskets to sell at Renaissance Faires, or to write music reviews for the Phoenix in your garret.
And I don't mean this as a condemnation, because the book is quite good. It captures the balance between work and interaction, the weird intimacy and yet anonymity of an office life, the boss you all respect and love and fear (hairy eyeball, anyone?), the scramble to look busy and the intense draw of gossip and distraction and cleverness. Their office has more outrageous characters than mine ever did, and more frantic energy, but it's also a dot com office, which accounts for a lot of the difference--I remember, even in my stable, never-at-risk job, the sense of more-more-more coming to a complete end, and the bewildered, lost feeling that goes along with it.
I'm no longer in the office, and before too long, I'll be joining the service sector. But I'll still have coworkers, and I'll still spend a lot of time fretting about budgets and doing what someone else tells me, and cleaning up crap (God, I hope just figuratively). I don't think any of us are going somewhere where our lives won't have those factors in them, except those special few novelists among us. I wish them good luck, but I hope they don't forget us white collars on their climb to the top.
But what has sort of gotten to me is the idea of looking at people in an office environment as drones who THINK they're interesting and unique people. I guess there's this corporate stereotype that everyone is a faceless drone. But then when you're in the trenches, you see past the stereotype to the fact that each of you is a real person with a full life, a special and unique snowflake. But then by stepping back another step and seeing each of those separate lives as meaningless and swallowed up by the droning corporate world, without much of an internal life and with NO non-pathetic internal life, it just feels like it's unnecessarily reducing people. It's a book about quiet desperation that you don't even know is desperate. It's a friendly condescension, someone who's clearly looking at his own life that way, but since this guy wrote a book and presumably doesn't work in a cube farm anymore, or has proven himself to be non-pathetically extracurricular, well, he's exempt.
And the thing about it is, we look at people who work other jobs, now or historically, and there isn't this sense of drone-ness, of condescension, as though they'd given up basic humanity and weren't they foolish for it? You don't look at industrial workers who work a machine in a factory all day and turn up your nose at their lack of an internal life. You don't look at a farmer on his tractor getting heatstroke and skin cancer in the sun all day, pulling muscles and putting his back out without medical insurance and smile sadly at how hard he has to labor for so little payback (though, as an aside, I can say firmly that a farmer on his tractor has a rich, fertile internal life). Is it because they're less than us white-collars, and couldn't be expected to understand our wasted talent? Is it because of the inherent dignity of working with your hands? Is it because they are presumed to have only that job standing between them and starvation, while we, the white-collars, would have that factory job (or, more likely, a gig as a barista at Starbucks, or that book we always meant to write) to fall back on?
Oh, who knows? I'm overreacting, thinking not only about this book, but about articles I've read and just a vibe I perceive in the world. Think about The Office, and Jim's slow transformation into Michael Scott. Think about all the times you've wanted to give it all up to weave baskets to sell at Renaissance Faires, or to write music reviews for the Phoenix in your garret.
And I don't mean this as a condemnation, because the book is quite good. It captures the balance between work and interaction, the weird intimacy and yet anonymity of an office life, the boss you all respect and love and fear (hairy eyeball, anyone?), the scramble to look busy and the intense draw of gossip and distraction and cleverness. Their office has more outrageous characters than mine ever did, and more frantic energy, but it's also a dot com office, which accounts for a lot of the difference--I remember, even in my stable, never-at-risk job, the sense of more-more-more coming to a complete end, and the bewildered, lost feeling that goes along with it.
I'm no longer in the office, and before too long, I'll be joining the service sector. But I'll still have coworkers, and I'll still spend a lot of time fretting about budgets and doing what someone else tells me, and cleaning up crap (God, I hope just figuratively). I don't think any of us are going somewhere where our lives won't have those factors in them, except those special few novelists among us. I wish them good luck, but I hope they don't forget us white collars on their climb to the top.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Maisie Dobbs: Robot Detective
So this--Pardonable Lies--is the third Maisie Dobbs novel, and the third that I've read. I felt the first one dragged a bit, and that the second one was a lot better. They are meandering stories, full of character studies and lessons about trusting your instincts and meditating; I find that, with detective novels, especially, you have to get used to whatever your author is doing with the pacing before you can really dig in. Is it character-driven, and more about the detective than the case? Is it action packed, unrelenting adventure? Or maybe it's more about the mystery itself and the characters involved, with the detective just your reliable anchor of a narrator guiding you through the labyrinth of diabolical doings?
Maisie is the former--these books are about her detecting style, and the atmosphere of post-WWI London. I'm not against this; in fact, I'm really enjoying the setting, and how, ten years after the war, everyone's life is still touched by it, everyone's story is deeply affected by where they were, what they did, who they lost. This aspect is really poignant, well-researched, and lovely.
But Maisie herself needs to climb off her high horse. Seriously, the girl is an ice queen. On one hand, it does follow from her life--she was a parlormaid who, through brains and sponsorship, became a "psychologist and detective;" she was a war nurse who lost her love, she was a scholarship student at a women's college before 1920. These are things that are not easy to do, and that will cast a spirit of iron. But she is as cold a fish as ever I've seen. She has a beau, and she likes him a lot (as do I), but she is always thinking about her work when they're together and hopes like heck that he won't propose. Why? I'm not sure. Because she's so busy being a detective. Which is great, but if she's supposed to be such a student of they human psyche, shouldn't she learn a lesson about actually relaxing when you're away for the weekend? Balance?
Even before she had a business, when she was in love with Simon during the war, she didn't want to accept his proposal, because she "knew" something awful would happen. This is a good point--she was afraid to lose him to the war--but you don't feel her love, just her hesitation. Also, she doesn't do humor. She smiles and is pleasant, but she's never laughed that I can recall, or bantered, or even enjoyed someone's bantering without bringing them swiftly back around to the topic at hand.
I'd blame it on the author, but other characters are warm and affectionate. I'd say it was a plot point, but it's been three books now, and it's not really getting much better. I think it might be an examination of the ultimate reserved woman. And I suppose it's doing that very well. But I'm starting to side with Dr. Dene (her gentleman friend)--I feel the rejection on his behalf. And I'm half hoping he'll find a lovely, bright young thing to settle down with.
Prove me wrong, Maisie! Prove me wrong.
Maisie is the former--these books are about her detecting style, and the atmosphere of post-WWI London. I'm not against this; in fact, I'm really enjoying the setting, and how, ten years after the war, everyone's life is still touched by it, everyone's story is deeply affected by where they were, what they did, who they lost. This aspect is really poignant, well-researched, and lovely.
But Maisie herself needs to climb off her high horse. Seriously, the girl is an ice queen. On one hand, it does follow from her life--she was a parlormaid who, through brains and sponsorship, became a "psychologist and detective;" she was a war nurse who lost her love, she was a scholarship student at a women's college before 1920. These are things that are not easy to do, and that will cast a spirit of iron. But she is as cold a fish as ever I've seen. She has a beau, and she likes him a lot (as do I), but she is always thinking about her work when they're together and hopes like heck that he won't propose. Why? I'm not sure. Because she's so busy being a detective. Which is great, but if she's supposed to be such a student of they human psyche, shouldn't she learn a lesson about actually relaxing when you're away for the weekend? Balance?
Even before she had a business, when she was in love with Simon during the war, she didn't want to accept his proposal, because she "knew" something awful would happen. This is a good point--she was afraid to lose him to the war--but you don't feel her love, just her hesitation. Also, she doesn't do humor. She smiles and is pleasant, but she's never laughed that I can recall, or bantered, or even enjoyed someone's bantering without bringing them swiftly back around to the topic at hand.
I'd blame it on the author, but other characters are warm and affectionate. I'd say it was a plot point, but it's been three books now, and it's not really getting much better. I think it might be an examination of the ultimate reserved woman. And I suppose it's doing that very well. But I'm starting to side with Dr. Dene (her gentleman friend)--I feel the rejection on his behalf. And I'm half hoping he'll find a lovely, bright young thing to settle down with.
Prove me wrong, Maisie! Prove me wrong.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Confession is Good for the Soul
1) I am a terrible, terrible, evil person. I did not feed the cat. I couldn't sleep Sunday night. Brenda, Jason, Jasmine, I'm so sorry.
2) How does anyone get through school? How on earth did I do this as an undergraduate? With four classes, and papers and--man, I had FOUR concurrent jobs in college--I opened the day care center, managed the AV office, worked as a research assistant, and had a regular babysitting gig. Plus all the frigging homework. Jesus, there must be something wrong with me. Confession: dude, I have been skipping the assigned readings. Sigh.
3) The Sparrow was a fabulous book. It's a wonderful first contact story about making contact with an alien race, but it's also about the limitations of faith, and trying to comprehend life. Mary Doria Russell has written a sequel too. I can't wait to read it.
More soon; I'm so behind!
2) How does anyone get through school? How on earth did I do this as an undergraduate? With four classes, and papers and--man, I had FOUR concurrent jobs in college--I opened the day care center, managed the AV office, worked as a research assistant, and had a regular babysitting gig. Plus all the frigging homework. Jesus, there must be something wrong with me. Confession: dude, I have been skipping the assigned readings. Sigh.
3) The Sparrow was a fabulous book. It's a wonderful first contact story about making contact with an alien race, but it's also about the limitations of faith, and trying to comprehend life. Mary Doria Russell has written a sequel too. I can't wait to read it.
More soon; I'm so behind!
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Glutty
Well, never let it be said that I finished a book or three before starting another three.
Specials, by Scott Westerfield, is the third book in the Uglies series, and I had it out of the library for about 15 minutes before I started it. Those books always take a while to get into, because they use a lot of strange slang. The great part is that it feels very natural when you get into it, and isn't that hard to follow, but it's a zone you need to be in, if you know what I mean.
Something called Brit-Think, Ameri-Think, which is an entirely too precious title for a short, cute little treatise on the cultural differences between America and England (key difference: Americans think death might just be optional, and if you work hard enough you can beat it. Brits think everything is inevitable, and there's no point in trying too hard, because it all ends up the same in the end). I was practically reading this one at the stoplights on the ride home. Another layer to that book is that it was written in 1987, so a lot of the American aesthetics are based around shag carpeting and Dallas.
I'm still reading The Sparrow, which is beautiful and harrowing. I'm finding the middle a little weak, because the nature of the flashback structure means that I know how the story ends (no big giveaway: everyone but Sandoz dies), so the parts are not driving directly toward this end or its fallout are starting to make me impatient. But in a kind of a scared way--I know it's all going to go horribly wrong, but I have no idea where it's going to come from, and it's a little like a quiet moment in a funhouse--you know they're going to jump out at you.
There's more--oh, God, there's more--but I have no time now. Let's not even talk about the articles on articles on articles for school....
Specials, by Scott Westerfield, is the third book in the Uglies series, and I had it out of the library for about 15 minutes before I started it. Those books always take a while to get into, because they use a lot of strange slang. The great part is that it feels very natural when you get into it, and isn't that hard to follow, but it's a zone you need to be in, if you know what I mean.
Something called Brit-Think, Ameri-Think, which is an entirely too precious title for a short, cute little treatise on the cultural differences between America and England (key difference: Americans think death might just be optional, and if you work hard enough you can beat it. Brits think everything is inevitable, and there's no point in trying too hard, because it all ends up the same in the end). I was practically reading this one at the stoplights on the ride home. Another layer to that book is that it was written in 1987, so a lot of the American aesthetics are based around shag carpeting and Dallas.
I'm still reading The Sparrow, which is beautiful and harrowing. I'm finding the middle a little weak, because the nature of the flashback structure means that I know how the story ends (no big giveaway: everyone but Sandoz dies), so the parts are not driving directly toward this end or its fallout are starting to make me impatient. But in a kind of a scared way--I know it's all going to go horribly wrong, but I have no idea where it's going to come from, and it's a little like a quiet moment in a funhouse--you know they're going to jump out at you.
There's more--oh, God, there's more--but I have no time now. Let's not even talk about the articles on articles on articles for school....
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Mixed Messages
I'm very proud of myself, and also not. On the plus side: I'm reading two books that I own! Hooray! On the minus side, I'm waiting for 4 BPL deliveries, and checked 3 out of the Arlington library yesterday, because I was there and had ten minutes to spare and so of course couldn't NOT find a bunch of stuff to read.
The Sparrow, by Mary Doria Russell, is so far just as good as I had hoped, which is wonderful. It was one of those ones where I SO wanted it to be great that I was afraid to read it in case it wasn't. But it is. There's a central mystery--it's told mostly in flashback--around the only survivor of man's first contact with an alien race. But there's so much information about what happened, that you rally just want the story. It's laced with sadness, but not depressing, which is hard to do.
Star Spangled Manners by Judith Martin. Miss Manners on American etiquette, which is dense (because her essays are always dense when they're not tempered by the question-and-answer format of her column) but interesting. I'm looking forward to a lot of info on where manners come from--the American fork-in-right, knife-in-left, then-reverse-to-take-a-bite is actually an older system than the British fork-left-knife-right-period system. This is because we adopted the fork more gradually, so most people ate primarily with a knife, then put the knife down to use the fork. Or something like that; anyway it's interesting.
I'd list all my library books, but I have to get to class. Another Maisie Dobbs, something by Georgette Hayer (who's supposed to sound like Jane Austen, and appears to), and some other stuff. More when I pick them up!
The Sparrow, by Mary Doria Russell, is so far just as good as I had hoped, which is wonderful. It was one of those ones where I SO wanted it to be great that I was afraid to read it in case it wasn't. But it is. There's a central mystery--it's told mostly in flashback--around the only survivor of man's first contact with an alien race. But there's so much information about what happened, that you rally just want the story. It's laced with sadness, but not depressing, which is hard to do.
Star Spangled Manners by Judith Martin. Miss Manners on American etiquette, which is dense (because her essays are always dense when they're not tempered by the question-and-answer format of her column) but interesting. I'm looking forward to a lot of info on where manners come from--the American fork-in-right, knife-in-left, then-reverse-to-take-a-bite is actually an older system than the British fork-left-knife-right-period system. This is because we adopted the fork more gradually, so most people ate primarily with a knife, then put the knife down to use the fork. Or something like that; anyway it's interesting.
I'd list all my library books, but I have to get to class. Another Maisie Dobbs, something by Georgette Hayer (who's supposed to sound like Jane Austen, and appears to), and some other stuff. More when I pick them up!
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Trippy
Enna Burning...well, it had an excellent core, an excellent story. But sometimes, when a fantasy novel starts talking about what magic is like as an internal experience, it can start to sound like a crazy drug trip. And this book was about magic that makes you addicted, that hurts when it's taken away, that takes over and becomes your only motivation. To paraphrase that prince of all wisdom, Homer Simpson, fire magic is both the cause of and solution to all of Enna's problems.
So there are long passages about what it feels like to be burning up and obsessed and want and hate the wanting and then give in and say you'll never do it again, and feel it build again...etc. That said, the ending is kind of sweetly awesome.
This marks very nearly almost the last thing I have out from the library right now. I really don't want to count Stacey vs. the BSC, in which the title character gets a boyfriend and alienates the rest of the Babysitter's Club. I understand she ends up on probation at the end of the book. Thrilling.
So what's up next? Nothing's really appealing to me lately, for some reason. Out of sheer disinterest, I might come back to reading some of the books that I own. I'm not going to get my hopes up, but if that happens, I'll be so proud. I'll be back here ranting about it, I'm sure.
So there are long passages about what it feels like to be burning up and obsessed and want and hate the wanting and then give in and say you'll never do it again, and feel it build again...etc. That said, the ending is kind of sweetly awesome.
This marks very nearly almost the last thing I have out from the library right now. I really don't want to count Stacey vs. the BSC, in which the title character gets a boyfriend and alienates the rest of the Babysitter's Club. I understand she ends up on probation at the end of the book. Thrilling.
So what's up next? Nothing's really appealing to me lately, for some reason. Out of sheer disinterest, I might come back to reading some of the books that I own. I'm not going to get my hopes up, but if that happens, I'll be so proud. I'll be back here ranting about it, I'm sure.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Like Being 15 Again
You wonder where I've been? Nowhere. I feel like saying "school suxx!" like I'm a high school sophomore again (though I was never that sophomore; I disapprove of such spelling, I hated exclamation points at that time in my life, and since it was pre-internet, capitalization and misspelling were not yet considered a language of their own). But I don't think school really sucks, so much as the novelty is wearing off. After all, I never claimed to want to go to school. And while I'm pretty psyched about my YA Lit class this summer, Reference is a TON of work--interesting work, but SO much--and I'm having trouble keeping up. And you know how the more you slip behind, the harder it is to keep from slipping more? Yeah, story of my life.
I've also been feeling under the weather, schlumpy and tired for a while. That's not really better. One thing I can say about school, though, is that once I've dragged my butt an hour across town to get here, I end up focused on something, whether it's work or blogging or whatever. It's easier to take on a task than it is at home. This is a lesson to me to spend more time here next week.
To keep up appearances, let me update you on what I've been reading lately. You know, for the record. I finished Birds of a Feather, the second Maisie Dobbs mystery, this morning. It was charming, and I liked it even better than the first one. It did hold back a lot of information (including a mysterious clue that our detective finds but keeps wrapped in a hankie without revealing it to us for about 1/4 of the book), so I'm not sure how that works as a "standard" detective novel, but I like Maisie. She's brusque and impersonal sometimes, but she's so tightly controlled. I wonder if there will be an opening of her character over the series. I also find the details of the WWI aftermath to be really compelling. It takes place 10 years after the war, but it's very much about how the lives of everyone were shaped by the experience. England is a small country, after all.
Stumbling on Happiness, by Daniel Todd Gilbert, was something I expected to be a self-help book, but was really mass-market psychology. (I won't call it "pop psychology" because I think there are demeaning connotations there, but really it's psychology intended for a popular readership, so there you have it.) Anyway, it's about how we spend our whole lives deciding what we think will make us happy and working toward it, and we're usually wrong, not equipped to make the decision anyway, and it doesn't matter because where we end up is often what we make of it. If nothing else, it'll make you feel somewhat better about not knowing what you're doing with your life.
Ellen Emerson White, author of the ever-popular President's Daughter series and one of my favorites, Life Without Friends, preceded the latter book with her first novel, Friends for Life. It's the backstory to LWF, though I now realize that it was written first. It's okay--it definitely suffers from the "thin excuse not to go to the police" problem that a lot of simple thrillers fall into, but for a first novel written by a college senior, I am nothing but envious. Her voice was definitely there, and a lot of the things she explores in her characters--inability to ask for what you need, lonliness held in check by pride--but she improved greatly over time.
Now I'm reading Enna Burning, by Shannon Hale. I just started in on the train, so I have nothing to report, except that, as I've said, I like Shannon Hale's books.
Class will begin soon, so I'm on my merry way. I forgot to bring an apple for my snack, but I think I have some CheezIts. Wish me luck.
I've also been feeling under the weather, schlumpy and tired for a while. That's not really better. One thing I can say about school, though, is that once I've dragged my butt an hour across town to get here, I end up focused on something, whether it's work or blogging or whatever. It's easier to take on a task than it is at home. This is a lesson to me to spend more time here next week.
To keep up appearances, let me update you on what I've been reading lately. You know, for the record. I finished Birds of a Feather, the second Maisie Dobbs mystery, this morning. It was charming, and I liked it even better than the first one. It did hold back a lot of information (including a mysterious clue that our detective finds but keeps wrapped in a hankie without revealing it to us for about 1/4 of the book), so I'm not sure how that works as a "standard" detective novel, but I like Maisie. She's brusque and impersonal sometimes, but she's so tightly controlled. I wonder if there will be an opening of her character over the series. I also find the details of the WWI aftermath to be really compelling. It takes place 10 years after the war, but it's very much about how the lives of everyone were shaped by the experience. England is a small country, after all.
Stumbling on Happiness, by Daniel Todd Gilbert, was something I expected to be a self-help book, but was really mass-market psychology. (I won't call it "pop psychology" because I think there are demeaning connotations there, but really it's psychology intended for a popular readership, so there you have it.) Anyway, it's about how we spend our whole lives deciding what we think will make us happy and working toward it, and we're usually wrong, not equipped to make the decision anyway, and it doesn't matter because where we end up is often what we make of it. If nothing else, it'll make you feel somewhat better about not knowing what you're doing with your life.
Ellen Emerson White, author of the ever-popular President's Daughter series and one of my favorites, Life Without Friends, preceded the latter book with her first novel, Friends for Life. It's the backstory to LWF, though I now realize that it was written first. It's okay--it definitely suffers from the "thin excuse not to go to the police" problem that a lot of simple thrillers fall into, but for a first novel written by a college senior, I am nothing but envious. Her voice was definitely there, and a lot of the things she explores in her characters--inability to ask for what you need, lonliness held in check by pride--but she improved greatly over time.
Now I'm reading Enna Burning, by Shannon Hale. I just started in on the train, so I have nothing to report, except that, as I've said, I like Shannon Hale's books.
Class will begin soon, so I'm on my merry way. I forgot to bring an apple for my snack, but I think I have some CheezIts. Wish me luck.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
In Between Time
Sigh. I hate being in between books. I finished Austenland, which was fun but slight, and checked out a few new library books, but I'm not into anything, and I'm not really getting into what I try.
I grabbed Birds of a Feather by Jacqueline Winspear, the next Maisie Dobbs book, which I'm pretty excited about. I read somewhere that it goes a little more into Maisie's solitude, which sounds like an important part of her life that was really only brought into focus at the end of the first book. I also grabbed Enna Burning, because Shannon Hale is my imaginary best friend. She lives in Utah, you know. I wonder if she's a Mormon. I could probably look that up somewhere.
But, I have multiple renewals sitting on the shelf, and I need to read some of these books in the next five days or so. Example: Post-Birthday World, by Lionel Shriver (a woman! named Lionel! I can't get over that, like I'm seven and never heard of such a thing), author of We Need to Talk About Kevin, a fascinating and disturbing book that I highly recommend. In the latter, the somewhat unappealing characters were made up for by the fascinating story. In Post-Birthday, though, I'm just having trouble getting into what seems like a slight story. I know it's going to get gimmicky, and possibly interesting, when the plotlines split to follow two possible outcomes of the scene I'm about to read, but I can't even make it that far. And I'm upset because I think it might be worth it.
Then there's The Rebel Angels by Libba Bray, not to be confused with the book of the same title by Robertson Davies, which I read and which I remember as being really interesting, if somewhat illustrative of old men's fantasies of brilliant women whipping off their academic robes to reveal their sexiness. Wait, what was I talking about? Oh, yes, Libba Bray. I only liked A Great and Terrible Beauty, the first in her series of fantasy novels, but I've had a hankering for a British girls' boarding school story, and here one appeared for me. But somehow I've renewed twice without reading. So the time has come to put up or shut up, and we'll see what comes of that.
I also have a stack of my own books that I want to read. But I'm really chipping away a the library books--I checked out two, but I have three waiting to be returned, which will leave me with a total of five checked out (not counting audiobooks, because they do not take reading time--they have their own category. I Am America: And So Can You! for the record). This is an improvement over the eight at last count. I really think I'm getting better....
I grabbed Birds of a Feather by Jacqueline Winspear, the next Maisie Dobbs book, which I'm pretty excited about. I read somewhere that it goes a little more into Maisie's solitude, which sounds like an important part of her life that was really only brought into focus at the end of the first book. I also grabbed Enna Burning, because Shannon Hale is my imaginary best friend. She lives in Utah, you know. I wonder if she's a Mormon. I could probably look that up somewhere.
But, I have multiple renewals sitting on the shelf, and I need to read some of these books in the next five days or so. Example: Post-Birthday World, by Lionel Shriver (a woman! named Lionel! I can't get over that, like I'm seven and never heard of such a thing), author of We Need to Talk About Kevin, a fascinating and disturbing book that I highly recommend. In the latter, the somewhat unappealing characters were made up for by the fascinating story. In Post-Birthday, though, I'm just having trouble getting into what seems like a slight story. I know it's going to get gimmicky, and possibly interesting, when the plotlines split to follow two possible outcomes of the scene I'm about to read, but I can't even make it that far. And I'm upset because I think it might be worth it.
Then there's The Rebel Angels by Libba Bray, not to be confused with the book of the same title by Robertson Davies, which I read and which I remember as being really interesting, if somewhat illustrative of old men's fantasies of brilliant women whipping off their academic robes to reveal their sexiness. Wait, what was I talking about? Oh, yes, Libba Bray. I only liked A Great and Terrible Beauty, the first in her series of fantasy novels, but I've had a hankering for a British girls' boarding school story, and here one appeared for me. But somehow I've renewed twice without reading. So the time has come to put up or shut up, and we'll see what comes of that.
I also have a stack of my own books that I want to read. But I'm really chipping away a the library books--I checked out two, but I have three waiting to be returned, which will leave me with a total of five checked out (not counting audiobooks, because they do not take reading time--they have their own category. I Am America: And So Can You! for the record). This is an improvement over the eight at last count. I really think I'm getting better....
Monday, March 10, 2008
Mr. Darcy, Where Is Thy Sting?
If you regularly watch this space, you may be aware of my new and passionate fondness for the work of Shannon Hale. Alas, Austenland is not tickling me the way her young adult books do.
The premise is reasonable to start with: a woman in her thirties, examining the reasons she has foundered in love, realizes it's because she has, for some reason, pinned all her romantic hopes on the unattainable Mr. Darcy. She feels shame at this and decides to swear off men and renounce her Darcy worship, but just around that time, a keen-witted elderly relative dies and leaves her an all-expenses-paid vacation at Jane Austen Fantasy Camp, where you dress up and act out life in an English manor house. Our heroine decides to call this her last hurrah.
So far, this sounds fabulous to me; the vacation itself sounds wonderful, as does the book--sassy American transplanted not just in staid, uptight England, but staid, uptight England almost three hundred years ago. Girl finds love exactly where she always hoped and doubted she would. C'mon, it's only 200 pages long.
The flaw in the book is that Jane is inexplicably ashamed of her love for Pride and Prejudice. And not for the sensible reason that, however hott Darcy's aloof indifference makes him, it means he might not be a great husband. No, it's because it seems "silly" and "romantic." Not in a hard-headed businesswoman kind of way, but in your standard girly chick-lit character trying to act like maybe she thinks a hard-headed businesswoman would act. I know very few college educated women--girly romantics or hard-headed businesswomen--who are not swoony over Mr Darcy, whether they actually want to marry him or not. I really can't understand how anyone would be embarrassed about that.
Which makes this book a bit like the thriller where your main characters can't just go to the police for some stupid, unclear, not-really-valid reason, and all the subsequent action revolves around them trying to do something the police would have done in five seconds if they had just called them, which there was never a good reason not to do.
I'm still going to read it though. And dream about my vacation in an English manor house.
The premise is reasonable to start with: a woman in her thirties, examining the reasons she has foundered in love, realizes it's because she has, for some reason, pinned all her romantic hopes on the unattainable Mr. Darcy. She feels shame at this and decides to swear off men and renounce her Darcy worship, but just around that time, a keen-witted elderly relative dies and leaves her an all-expenses-paid vacation at Jane Austen Fantasy Camp, where you dress up and act out life in an English manor house. Our heroine decides to call this her last hurrah.
So far, this sounds fabulous to me; the vacation itself sounds wonderful, as does the book--sassy American transplanted not just in staid, uptight England, but staid, uptight England almost three hundred years ago. Girl finds love exactly where she always hoped and doubted she would. C'mon, it's only 200 pages long.
The flaw in the book is that Jane is inexplicably ashamed of her love for Pride and Prejudice. And not for the sensible reason that, however hott Darcy's aloof indifference makes him, it means he might not be a great husband. No, it's because it seems "silly" and "romantic." Not in a hard-headed businesswoman kind of way, but in your standard girly chick-lit character trying to act like maybe she thinks a hard-headed businesswoman would act. I know very few college educated women--girly romantics or hard-headed businesswomen--who are not swoony over Mr Darcy, whether they actually want to marry him or not. I really can't understand how anyone would be embarrassed about that.
Which makes this book a bit like the thriller where your main characters can't just go to the police for some stupid, unclear, not-really-valid reason, and all the subsequent action revolves around them trying to do something the police would have done in five seconds if they had just called them, which there was never a good reason not to do.
I'm still going to read it though. And dream about my vacation in an English manor house.
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