A new Irish writer for me. Took about halfway to get wheels, but characters interesting enough to hang in there through the first half.
Plot seems a sA new Irish writer for me. Took about halfway to get wheels, but characters interesting enough to hang in there through the first half.
Plot seems a stretch, but I'm no judge. I complain about coincidences and improbabilities way too much. Seems many fiction readers are more forgiving, so I'm working on getting with the program.
Without spoiling much, I'll say it's a bit of a kidnapping caper with Stockholm moving its Syndrome from Sweden to the Emerald Isle. Ah, those lads. Rough sorts with vile mouths (though not enough f-bombs for Ireland, which flat-out owns the word -- at least in past Irish novels I've read).
But wait. In the middle of action with otherwise on-point swearing, etc., we get bad lads saying these words: modicum and temerity.
Man, did those jump off of the page like a fish for a fly. Really? Clunk goes the brick. I lost sight of the characters and caught sight of the author's education slipping behind the arras without so much as an "excuse me."
But some nice turns of phrases, too, and woven together deftly enough. And slightly unpredictable before it relented and played predictable. Enjoyed, caveats notwithstanding....more
I have a bookshelf here called "Classics-Newly-Read" that's not used often enough. It's designed to shelve the classics I haven't read yet but must beI have a bookshelf here called "Classics-Newly-Read" that's not used often enough. It's designed to shelve the classics I haven't read yet but must because voice after respected voice after Goodreads friend voice says, in so many words, "You must." Titles like Frankenstein, Middlemarch, and Wuthering Heights.
Finishing James in two days pancake, I'd half a notion to click "classics-newly-read" for this review because it was so aligned to Twain's Great American Novel that a reading man could be fooled into thinking he'd found something new.
But wait. I've read and loved The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn umpteen times (and the ump has a small strike zone, too). So, no. Not newly read. Maybe the shelf "classics reread," a habit I keep for the incredibly narrow pantheon of books deserving rereads due to richness would be more appropriate.
Oh, hell. Just click "contemporary," why don't you. It's backed up on the library reserve lists, after all, something that only happens to the shiny and new.
In the beginning of this book, Everett co-opts some of Twain's book's dialect verbatim. Music to my ears. Why? Because it felt like I was reading a sequel to HF. Or an extension. Or a rewritten edition that mercifully saws Tom Sawyer out of the ending chapters and tries again (only better).
Glorious, in other words. And it's clear that Percival Everett has as great a regard for Twain's work as I do. In one way, he even showed his advantage over Twain. As leverage, he had the benefit of using racism in the modern day, still thriving just as it always did, and placing that critical eye on the slavers and their silent accomplices. In that sense, we get Twain's angle on whites aided and abetted by Everett's.
Fun, too, is the fact that the literate slave Jim (oh, that recurring inconsequential object of consequence -- the pencil!) has visions of Enlightenment figures he's secretly read from Judge Thatcher's library (explaining cameos by Montesquieu, Voltaire, and John Locke along the Great Mississippi).
As I turned the final bend in this 300-pager, I half feared Everett might bungle the ending like his hero, but no. He was one serious writer who took this project seriously. He sprung a few surprises. He gave Tom a mention but left him in Hannibal because we don't want to see him no MO. He nailed the ending sweetly. Maybe with a bit of a stretcher, feasibility-wise, but acceptable considering the theme he was laboring over in the name of art.
I've enjoyed a few Percival Everett books in the past, but I'd say this is a new favorite because it's half novelty and half homage. In fact, it was like an old friend coming back from the Territories where he'd been long lost. Yes, sir. Welcome back, Huck. And welcome to your newly-burnished starring role, Jim James....more
What we’ve got here is failure to communicate. – famous line from the Paul Newman movie, Cool Hand Luke (seen here as 640 pages of nonexistent communiWhat we’ve got here is failure to communicate. – famous line from the Paul Newman movie, Cool Hand Luke (seen here as 640 pages of nonexistent communication).
As a kid, I was given the job of trapping Japanese beetles with an empty jelly jar. I had to go from one of my mother’s rose bushes to another, picking them off and dropping them into the jar, which I quickly lidded. Neither their wings nor their feet did them much good in the glass. Those poor bronze bugs were trapped but good.
I thought of traps like that reading The Bee Sting, a sprawling entertainment that’s similar to that rare bird, a 3-hour movie where you’re not even aware of the theater and the popcorn-crunching, Coke-sipping yahoos sitting around you.
Yeah, traps work as good as any other metaphor. All of these characters are like Japanese beetles in a world of glass. Or, to parlay the book’s foreshadowing device, like gray squirrels — not native to Ireland (who knew?) — trapped by the ultimate Victor, the novel’s oddball survivalist who makes sure only the strong survive.
That author Paul Murray gets high smoking some quality-grade coincidence while shooting up some improbable-to-the-point-of-impossible at book's end does not sway my opinion much. Screwing up the last 20 pages after holding his own for 620 seems reasonable to me. I mean, it's an unfair judgment to fault him, especially considering readers’ penchant for Hollywood (read: treacly happy) endings. And maybe the book had no choice but to end the way it did, considering the quiet desperation (thanks again, Henry David Thoreau) each in the Barnes family must struggle with.
Not in the mood for Thoreau? How about Tolstoy? “All happy families are alike. Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Boy, howdy. How miserable to be Dickie, trapped by a more-popular brother, star athlete and manchild blessed with charisma. Dickie trapped by unhappiness, by confusion over his own preferences in life, by his wife and kids. For readers, it's claustrophobic just reading about his life. Please, Lord, deliver me to the next section and another character's point of view.
Or to be Imelda, his wife, in love with the star brother and left with the lesser star. Or the daughter, strangely miserable and, like her father, not sure of what she wants in life. Or the son, sensitive and intelligent but bullied mercilessly and stalked by internet creeps.
Hoo, boy. Steer clear of the cursed Barnes clan. And yet, like the accident on the highway, we can’t avert our eyes as we slowly make our way past the carnage. Hell, the novel even has a Cassandra character named Rose. Rose Red Tea Leaves, thank you. How'd you like to look down in your Tetley and see the line “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation” staring up at you? Rhetorical, meet question.
The opening sections focusing on the kids Cass and PJ were great stuff. The parents? Less so, but still, impossible to abandon once the narrative was up and running. You could see it coming (though not the overly-orchestrated ending) -- doom, I mean -- but you still wanted to see it play out. For some reason I still don’t get, Paul Murray abandoned periods whenever writing an Imelda section. Ummm, OK. I won’t ask why. I’ll just mention it, then say I stopped noticing it, showing how quickly a reader can be trained to liberate himself from certain punctuation.
And did Murray really choose to name two characters Dickie and Willie with a straight (sorry) face? He did. Because he can. Because he’s that good. Because readers not only forgive but cheer and read on.
No, not a great Irish novel that will worry James Joyce’s Ulysses from its top pedestal, but a great contemporary novel treating on contemporary concerns, many of them old-as-the-Bible human in nature, many of them old-as-Apple-and-Microsoft-and-the-invention-of-cellphones-and-the-internet in nature (technology is a gray-squirrel trap, too, you see, so be careful out there, will you?).
As a final tip of my hat, I give you the book’s title. I thought the reveal on it was given too early, as in the first 25 pages or so, but no. The BIG reveal necessary to the little reveal waited until the end, circling back, returning to the hive of revelation and the honey of a-ha moments (remember the first time you met the Queen Bee?).
I could go on. Get into the honeycomb hexacombs of this door-stopper, but why make like Paul Murray when you're less entertaining? I'll cut it short by saying this much: The book deserves its buzz....more
Winner of the National Book Award, and I found some things to like in Torres' debut, We the Animals, so I gave it a go but this one was a struggle. TwWinner of the National Book Award, and I found some things to like in Torres' debut, We the Animals, so I gave it a go but this one was a struggle. Two men, one young (called "Nene") and one old (Juan Gay), each with a history at a mental institution, meet and talk. In truth, it may be one man. Either way, lots and lots of dialogue. Or monologue, if you subscribe to the outer-inner voice theory. Some of the discussion surrounds Juan's project involving a book called Sex Variants: A Study of Homosexual Patterns, but really the episodic sketches drift all over the place.
As I moved deeper into the book, I thought in time more would be at stake, but that wasn't the case. Lots of images, pictures, and erasures of documents embedded throughout, too, but the erasure docs had such small print I gave up on trying to read them. Were some of the sketches more engaging than others? Yes, thankfully, but it's not like a novel where suspense builds.
Why? Because there's no plot, really. I typically like plotless books. I just think the author has to make up for lack of plot in other ways, e.g. with stop-readers-in-their-tracks writing and/or with characters you fully invest in. For me, neither was the case with this book. I didn't find any sentences I just HAD to reread because they were so poetic or original.
That said, a look at the blurbs tells me that lots of people with great literary talent and taste feel otherwise (need I repeat: National Book Award), so I'll chalk it up to my own subjective opinion and move on, tipping my hat to to Justin Torres and saying congrats....more
My second Nunez and, as it follows the same pattern as the first (which I enjoyed) -- her latest, The Vulnerables -- I liked this just as well. I beliMy second Nunez and, as it follows the same pattern as the first (which I enjoyed) -- her latest, The Vulnerables -- I liked this just as well. I believe I called her newest catnip for writers and readers who like to read about writing and reading. This I'll call dognip, even if the herb hasn't been invented yet.
Whereas The Vulnerables has a winsome parrot, this one has a cool Great Dane (or maybe it's a dachsund in the roman á clef) as a sidekick for the author/speaker/writer/college English professor protagonist. Oh, man. CHECK those boxes, Sigrid!
And really, though it's a novel by name, there's enough sheep's clothing to go around for everyone. These books are researched as if SN were composing for Dewey as in Decimal, mayor of the Nonfiction part of town. All manner of interesting facts about famous writers and famous books. Some movies, too. And lots of tidbits about raising a dog (or raising hell, whichever occurs first).
There's really no plot to speak of. You just wade into the surf and let waves of episodes wash over. Yeah, yeah. Something about a male writer/prof who committed suicide and left his dog Apollo to an unsuspecting fellow staff member. But just a few poles to hold up the tent of many colors.
Tone, really. In my wheelhouse with the right tone, making her (two, so far) books a good match for me -- also from the world of teachers slash writers slash dog lovers.
Meaning: Don't listen to ME and go out and read it. Listen to your own interests and see if any intersect....more
As a writer, zero expectations is what I cherish most from a reader. I say that because I see it at work as a reader myself. Sometimes I approach bookAs a writer, zero expectations is what I cherish most from a reader. I say that because I see it at work as a reader myself. Sometimes I approach books with high hopes. Nowhere to go but down, sadly. Then there are books like The Vulnerables where I bring no expectations to the table. How lucky for Sigrid Nunez!
For one, it's a Covid Lockdown book, and I've had little luck with that sudden genre treating the winter-spring of 2020 (here's looking at Our Country Friends in particular, and many a poetry anthology that wishes it went viral). And it opens as a kind of middle-aged ladies "buddy" deal. I always feel a bit out of place, listening in, but I found I liked a lot of what I overheard, especially the voice of the narrator-let's-face-it-author.
See, she's a writer too. And author of previous books (none of which I've read). And a teacher (more for me to relate to). She alludes so much to this background and raids her writer's notebook so often that the book quickly becomes catnip. Can I roll in these herbal bushes a bit? Thank you!
The setting is New York City, a place made more holy for lack of people. I remember waking at 5 a.m. in the city once and walking from my hotel to St. Patrick's Cathedral. Practically no one was about. I felt like I owned the joint, not like some out-of-place country boy (my usual role).
Anyway, to the book's rather simple set-up: Narrator bird-sits (the cover!) for a friend stuck in California and about to have a baby. Only there's more than a bird to deal with, as the previous bird-sitter, a college dropout, reappears after a fight with his parents in Vermont. The place is big enough (we're talking money here) for the two to coexist, but our narrator's none too happy. Still, she perseveres.
Not only perseveres, but goes off on these worldly tangents. Episodic and delightfully uneven, the book chugs along on its own wit and intelligence. Nunez loves Joe Brainard's quirky book, I Remember (which I remember loving too) and uses it to teach her student writers. Meanwhile, she riffs on many writers Goodread readers are familiar with like Joan Didion, Chekhov, Coetzee, Borges, Winterson, Céline.
Do readers love reading about reading? Rhetorical question.
A little reading/writing example quote:
"If you're having trouble concentrating, goes the advice, try writing very short things. One writer I know suggests experimenting with just a title and a single sentence.
The Celebrated Novelist
Explained in an interview that he went from writing novels to writing poetry after learning that the celebrated poet John Ashbery wrote for only one hour a day."
And another:
Proud Author
The pleasure of seeing a beautiful young woman reading his novel on the L train was somewhat spoiled by the fact that she was moving her lips."
Pretty funny, that.
In any event, parrot notwithstanding, the character and point of view were so singular and charming and erudite and wry and wistful that I downed the whole thing in a day. Greedy like. Like you get at times with certain books offering zero expectations but generous calories.
Now the tough question: Ruin a good thing by trying another Sigrid Nunez? I can't help but bring high expectations, after all.
Another one of those books that all Americans should agree on because it argues that our government should be more representative of the people than iAnother one of those books that all Americans should agree on because it argues that our government should be more representative of the people than it is, that all our votes should count equally, that change is a necessary part of life and thus should have some kind of role in governance as well.
But no. I'm sure instead the book will strike readers as controversial. In it authors Levitsky and Ziblatt argue that our republican form of democracy is far behind others in the world and change is necessary, especially when you consider that NOT changing leaves the country prey to democracy's worst predators: minority rule advocates who take advantage of our system's historical weaknesses and authoritarian sorts who only want law and order to apply to their political enemies (when they break the law, it's "patriotic" and, by the way, up is down and cold is hot).
For starters, the authors reach into the histories of both the USA and other democracies to show where dangers lie and to put matters like the Constitution into context. It is not holy writ. It has its faults and needs to change with the times. Even the Founding Fathers warned as much. But now there are those who stubbornly fight any semblance in change to things like the Constitution, the Electoral College (not in the Constitution, folks), and the Senate filibuster (as well as its controversial from the start form of "equal representation" -- Wyoming and Rhode Island are as powerful there as California or Texas, as all get two senators who can wreak havoc with legislation or, more likely, block everything that cannot muster 60 votes).
In addition to making their points through historical data, the book details the contemporary scene and just how dangerously we've wandered from the Founders' original intent, to the point where candidates lose popular votes both in states and country elections yet maintain control with such blatantly unfair advantages as gerrymandered districts they've rigged in advance to make losing control of legislatures all but impossible to an Electoral College that gives one party (Republican) about a 4-5 point advantage over its opponent (Democrats). That is, the GOP candidates can afford to lose by up to 4-5% in the popular vote and STILL win the Electoral College, an outdated compromise from early in our history that has made a mockery of the word "democracy." No one was much happy with it when it began and no one is much happy with it now -- except tyrants of the minority who benefit from it every four years.
In the final chapter, the authors lay out a plan for change that includes term limits for Supreme Court justices (another subject in the news of late... partisans in robes making mockery of "blind justice" by thwarting the will of majorities of Americans).
If you believe in democracy and still have hope for a country under siege, you could do worse than educate yourself by reading this succinct 260-pager. ...more
All about the time the Netanyahus came to a formerly quiet little New York campus as guests of fellow Jew, Dr. Blum, whose wife Edith and daughter JudAll about the time the Netanyahus came to a formerly quiet little New York campus as guests of fellow Jew, Dr. Blum, whose wife Edith and daughter Judith and co-workers (assume typical names here) are in for the surprises of their lives.
Oddly, for a 235-page book, the Netanyahus do not "land" until p. 135 or so. Up until then, a lot of angst and foreshadowing and humor. Well, humor after that page, too. Before it's most memorable when the laws and the in-laws visit (the text reads like a sitcom script here).
Then, after the infamous Family N. lands, the humor moves to Benzion Netanyahu and his handful-ain't-the-word-for-it wife as well as their three devil incarnate sons. Most notable is how the author uses Netanyahu's field of expertise (Iberian Jews in the Middle Ages), ignorance (he thinks upstate New York is part of New England), and fierce individualism to make the book so quixotic and erudite. This while slapstick humor is tumbling to the floor (or a snowbank) and rolling all around it.
If you think this is easy to pull off, I wish you well in trying it. Though it's not consistently funny, it is funny so often that it's hard to complain without coming across as overcritical and petty. So you read, disbelieve, laugh, turn pages, and actually learn a little about the Jews (for starters, stop considering them as a monolithic bloc with like beliefs and opinions)
Deceivingly complex, in its way. The ending takes all....more
Written in first-person point of marten, this strange little book out of Italy chronicles the tale of Archy the Beech Marten (as opposed to Pine MarteWritten in first-person point of marten, this strange little book out of Italy chronicles the tale of Archy the Beech Marten (as opposed to Pine Marten or Hemlock Marten, maybe). The animals talk in this book and there is nary a human in sight.
That said, some animals are more equal than others (thank you, Mr. Orwell). Archie comes under the autocratic rule of a wily old fox named (wisely enough) Solomon. The crafty old fellow (no relation to Reynard) has a temper problem. Beats the beech out of this marten more than once, but Archy, he soldiers on (else this would be a short story).
Solomon runs a business and the muscle behind it is a big black dog named Joel. Black market for food and hens and such. With interest. Solomon calls the shots over the surrounding animal kingdom and Joel enforces them. How did Solomon get so smart? Reading and writing (though no mention of 'rithmetic).
Oh, yeah. And God.
Solomon’s read up on the guy upstairs in a certain best-selling book (not Little Women) and suddenly, the book’s audacious angle comes into play. Is it cool for an innocent (ha-ha) fox, much less a stupid marten, to learn about God? More importantly, are there any hazards in shaking the Tree of Knowledge? (Spoiler: Think Isaac Newton) If Adam and Eve had it coming, poor (but very rich) Solomon does, too. Who needs foreshadowing, after all, when God enters the picture mid-novel? (Rhetorical question)
Incoming! As you probably guessed, it's Mr. Death. To his ever (but not forever) living dismay, Solomon’s now aware in advance, just like all of those out-of-sight humans, of his inevitable demise and, just like said humans, he’s scared. He doesn’t want to die. He’s terrified of it. Maybe if he prays a little? Flatters God a lot? You know, while running a vicious food enterprise that pries goods from poor animals and even dispatches a few who don't pay up in time.
Speaking of the supporting cast (read: other animals), they just don’t get it. They live, they die, they eat each other's carcasses (pass the femur) because, you know, winters are long and tough. Another day in the life, you know? But there’s a certain allure to never anticipating a distant (or possibly nearby) death, too. Ignorance of it is bliss.
Big topic for the animal kingdom? As Archy learns (and he does learn, small thanks to Solomon the Outfoxed), thinking about God is a pawful. And sometimes just plain awful. Guilt. Fear. Anger. Good. Evil. Compassion. Really, now. Isn’t this all too much for a beech-combing marten? How about for a reader's patience?
You might think so and fault Zannoni for trying too hard. Or you may give the guy credit for taking risks as a writer by doing what few writers can do well – anthropomorphism. That’s a $10 word for buying in (or not) to all those human emotions when they’re paired with cute little fuzzy weasels who bite chickens’ heads off (after saying grace).
Me? There was enough plot and curiosity (aside from the religious stuff) to carry me through. As for the major play on humans vs. animals vs. deities, THAT takes a lot of convincing, and I didn’t quite play along from Genesis all the way to Revelations.
Forgive me, Father. I was distracted by the animals. And headless chickens. And this scythe-carrying dude wearing a Dr. Doolittle T-shirt....more
Sometimes you forget where you heard of a book or why you even TBR'd it, much less checked it out from a library. Short stories. American writer who oSometimes you forget where you heard of a book or why you even TBR'd it, much less checked it out from a library. Short stories. American writer who owns a bookstore in western Mass. And here's where I had my serious doubts: fairy tale-like, only in a contemporary setting.
I don't read this sort of thing, do I?
Well I haven't. Not for many moons. And there's bad news, of the seven stories I only liked three. But there's good news, too. I really enjoyed the three, as in a lot. What's more, the threesome were much longer than the four "whatever" tales. In total, they took up 146 of the books 255 pp. That's better than half and reason for cheer.
The first two kick the book off: "The White Cat's Divorce," about a man who wants to live forever in a Silicon Valley throw-money-at-it-kind-of-way. Trouble is, his three sons, as they age, keep looking like his executioners (the older they get, the older he gets), so he sends them off on impossible tasks to get them out of his sight at a clip of one quest per year.
The youngest son is of note, in that he gets help from a White Cat that talks. She'll take care of everything, and boy does she. Yikes.
Story number two ("Prince Hat Underground") is one of those "Hero's Journey" deals where you go to Hell and then try to come back -- in this case it's a man going after his husband who has been spirited off by a she-devil who wants to marry him herself (said "man" started Down Under -- and I don't mean Oz -- himself, but wanted to try this human game out). The trip down is...memorable. Help from very weird things that have no right to talk but do, on cue from Joseph Campbell as they help our aptly-named (Gary, of all things) hero who would go anywhere for his squeeze.
Then the four "meh" outings that I could take or leave before we hit the book's anchor, "Skinder's Veil," about a college kid who house sits a home deep in the Vermont woods with with two very weird instructions: Anyone who knocks on the back door, let them in no questions asked. But if the owner (Skinder) knocks on the front door, don't let him in NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO.
I mean, all manner of things knock on the back door, from Rose Whites to Rose Reds to bears and deer and even the fog. For our college-aged hero, it's difficult finishing his thesis to say the least. Like a hotel, this place, with the strangest guests who make themselves at home and then some. It's the kind of tale Herr Grimm would love and, between rapid page turns, you will too.
So is this an endorsement? Mostly. No one said you have to read every story in a collection. And who knows, maybe you'll like the middle ones I only found fair to middling. Just don't open your front door while you're reading. NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO....more
For his debut novel, Ben Purkert daringly chose to do what we were all warned off doing in our youths—dive into the shallow end of the pool. In this cFor his debut novel, Ben Purkert daringly chose to do what we were all warned off doing in our youths—dive into the shallow end of the pool. In this case, the danger lies in his topic: Men behaving badly. Which automatically conjures a familiar dilemma for readers, separating feelings about a book from feelings about a protagonist (behaving badly). Oh, and let’s add a less familiar quandary while we’re at it: Is it OK to judge men as “all alike”?
To examine such fraught issues, Purkert gives us Seth Taranoff, a junior copywriter who doesn’t lack for confidence when it comes to his prowess with words. His ill-placed vanity spills over into other aspects of his life as well, ones that involve women in particular. His bent Y chromosome is at its worst in romantic dealings with female co-workers, first in the ad agency and then at a coffee slash chocolate shop where he serves as a pill-popping barista with little promise. When he visits Israel to make his mother happy, he fares equally poorly with his female tour guide.
As the novel progresses and Seth’s life gains downward momentum, he becomes increasingly mixed up with fellow ad man Robert “Moon” McCloone, an individual who, by contrast, makes Seth look enlightened. Together they fashion a series of Quixote-Sancho misadventures involving the usual culprits of guys gone wrong—sex, drugs, booze, and expensive toys (if you can afford them). And though their common narratives unite them for stretches of the book, they are not from the same side of Mars. Seth, at least, has a conscience. Not a particularly robust or developed one, but a conscience nonetheless. Add to this combustible chemistry a drinking, gambling rabbi who is married with girl triplets and a young boy with cystic fibrosis and you get three musketeers of boorishness that might lead you to agree with the tongue-in-cheek book title.
While the men are attracting all the attention with their tales of derring-please-don’t, the women characters aren’t faring much better. It’s just that their roles are more muted as supporting actors and foils. They need only stand near the men to fool us--the contrast does wonders for them. That said, the challenges of American contemporary culture prove daunting for man and woman alike. Their lives keep reminding us of the story archetype Henry David Thoreau coined so unwittingly yet aptly long ago: “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” As an update, Purkert gives us “and sometimes noisy desperation.”
Thus the trick of readers separating a novel’s narrative wheat from its character chaff. Those who dislike a protagonist's personality often blame the book as a whole, not realizing that the company they're keeping is the point. In the end, it comes down to questions of redemption. And readers with a sharp ear will see that Purkert always offers glimpses of that redemption via comments and asides from minor characters, Greek chorus-like. They are the witnesses to Seth’s self-immolation. They are the binocular-toting folks on the lookout for phoenix-like rebirths rising from the flames of young lives crashing in a ball of flames.
Well-written with just the right tempo, The Men Can’t Be Saved is equally at home using humor and cringe to drive home its thematic reckonings. It has no choice, for while Freud famously asked, “What do women want?” we see here that men haven’t quite solved the pursuit of happiness thing, either. One can almost hear Bono's background vocal “But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for” as Seth takes a path less traveled by to find answers to his Id.
After all, each saint goes through hell before finding his halo. As for men, though they be Mars and not Venus, they are still planets in the same universe bound by a common humanity. Sometimes their orbits get out of whack, is all. In that respect, this proves an intriguing morality tale of one man looking to be saved. Like most of us, he just doesn’t know it....more
Although this is a novel, it functions much like a collection of connected short stories. Chapters take on different forms -- letters, ballads, journaAlthough this is a novel, it functions much like a collection of connected short stories. Chapters take on different forms -- letters, ballads, journal entries, narratives. Characters come and go and return in surprising ways. The only constant is the setting -- a settlement in the mountains of western Massachusetts that becomes a house. Farmland. Woodland. Different owners. Time.
A dark horse for favorite book of the year, but it's up there. The last two chapters I just put down would make Thoreau proud. Written by a word lover, a man who has walked in New England woods that became fields (see the rock borders?) that became woods again. Earth eats its own, then gives back. Continually.
In this book, the catamount still lives in these parts. And why not? Many other creatures almost hunted to extinction have made a comeback in New England. The black bear is everywhere. The moose is traipsing around. Coyotes. Red Fox. Was that a howling wolf I heard?
At work here is a touch of ghostly magic, eeriness, romance, mystery, murder, mayhem, domestic bliss, secrecy, desire, etc. But of course. Make your main character a setting that ushers generations from the time of the Revolutionary War to modern day, and how can you NOT wind up with a surprising cavalcade of lives and deaths, good and bad, surprise and humdrum?
A few years back I read The Winter Soldier by Dan'l Mason, too. Recall being pleasantly surprised, but this is even more pleasant and even more surprising because it's more daring.
If you love place, vignettes, nature, ghosts, and apples, go for it. If you need a single human protagonist to help you across reading rivers, pass....more
At one point Saul Adler, the blue-eyed, dark-haired protagonist in this welterweight-lengthed novel, gazes at his maybe-son Karl Thomas, and author DeAt one point Saul Adler, the blue-eyed, dark-haired protagonist in this welterweight-lengthed novel, gazes at his maybe-son Karl Thomas, and author Deborah Levy has him describe it this way: "When Karl Thomas finally removed his sunglasses, his eyes were bright, clean blue, shocking as a snake bite. I wondered how he would use his extreme beauty, which is always useful and always a burden, sometimes even freakish."
Given Saul's broken-glass narrative, those words resonate and offer a cautionary tale. Male or female, if you have ever looked at a model slash actor slash athlete and said, "I wish I looked like her!" or "If only I looked like him, all my troubles would be solved," you will think again after reading this.
To be sure, beautiful Saul seems to have no trouble landing the objects of his desire, female or male, but desire comes at a cost in life and pipers, both pretty and plain, must be paid.
Divided in half, the first half covers young and dashing Saul from an Abbey Road setting start (yes, here's a bookended-book where the Beatles figure --- go figure) to an Abbey Road setting finish. The difference? The second jumps 28 years to show Time victorious again. While reading, I somewhere seemed to hear Robert Herrick's lines,
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying.
Me, I enjoyed the fragmented, messed up second half more than the Carly Simon-like "You're So Vain" first half. It was more of a page-turner. It ends in a hospital where the food is awful but at least there's just deserts.
This was longlisted for the 2019 Booker Prize but have you seen how long those lists are? You and I may be in there, even. (If I had time to get through it, I'd find out.)...more
This is Max Porter's bailiwick, all right -- in the head (check) of a troubled (check) teenage boy (check).
Appropriately enough, Shy is at the Last ChThis is Max Porter's bailiwick, all right -- in the head (check) of a troubled (check) teenage boy (check).
Appropriately enough, Shy is at the Last Chance boarding school with other square pegs that don't fit into society's round holes. And oh, the anger in there. The school. Or the heads. Both, I mean.
A rabbit-punch of a book, it stands at a mere 122 pp. Many of the almost psychedelic descriptions of Shy's stream of consciousness are damn near poetic in nature. Incomplete sentences. White spaces between paragraphs fat and thin. A sudden fever of large font.
Meaning: It strangely shares a characteristic with poetry in that it is a good dipper book to read now and then, to savor due to its strength vs. quaffing in one fell draught (as I did due to its brevity). Taken all together, the novella can be a bit much due to its content.
Should carry a warning label, maybe, about the proof. Strong stuff!
I recommend it but realize that it won't be every reader's cup of. Even for me parts held up better than whole, but that's a pretty lame complaint about a book, really, so focus on the rich writing and you'll be fine....more
In a risky game of poker (the kitty being the readership), Dani Shapiro plays these cards in her book Signal Fires: the Sentimental of Spades, the SadIn a risky game of poker (the kitty being the readership), Dani Shapiro plays these cards in her book Signal Fires: the Sentimental of Spades, the Sad of Clubs, the Nostalgic of Diamonds, and the Love of Hearts. Truly a dangerous game!
What's more, she chooses an unusual narrative arc in that it's not really an arc (don't tell Noah). If you even consider it a plot "climax," the event occurs around 60 pp. before the finish, making all that follows similar to an epilogue. To Shapiro's credit, she has built enough interest in her characters to keep most of her readers on board. Hell with the plot, the remaining crew seems to be saying, I want to know about these characters.
The structure is not standard but not unusual, either. Segmented by character names and jumps back and forth in time, it is. Starts with a car accident, a death, survivors' guilt, and ultimately a secret carried forward. That's where Jung's line comes in: "The maintenance of secrets acts like a psychic poison which alienates the possessor from the community."
(Note to self: Must read a book by Carl Jung sooner rather than later.)
Anyhow, that's the bottom line. A lot of nice people (only one not-so-nice) carrying around a lot of secrets, poisoning themselves while wondering where the malaise comes from. As for you, a reader thinking about this rather brief novel (220 pp.), I'd say give it a go unless you are absolutely allergic to sentimentality and family in any way, shape, or form. Are you hard like a rock, ask yourself, or hard like a turtle (tough outside, soup inside)? Those questions will do, I think.
Thanks to my daughter, who read it, loved it, and let me borrow it (with a promise to return it -- something I'm quite good at when it comes to books)....more
For the record, non-fiction writer Ada Calhoun is *not* "also a poet." Her book wanted to be a biography of Frank O’Hara but it’s not that, either. ItFor the record, non-fiction writer Ada Calhoun is *not* "also a poet." Her book wanted to be a biography of Frank O’Hara but it’s not that, either. It almost wound up being a memoir, but alas, it’s not quite that, either.
Honestly, her book had no choice in the matter. Her father Peter Schjeldahl had collected all manner of taped interviews of people who knew Frank O’Hara, intending to write a biography of the New York School poet, but it all came to naught, partly because of his make-up and mostly because of the recalcitrance of O’Hara’s sister Maureen Granville-Smith, who is the literary executor of Frank’s estate.
Upon discovery of the tapes, daughter Ada decides to fill Dad’s big shoes by writing Frank’s bio herself, picking up where he left off. Only there’s this problem called Maureen Granville-Smith, still alive and well, still recalcitrant, and every bit as stubborn about blocking a bio by Ada as she was a bio by her dad.
This leaves Ada with little choice but to write a semi-biographical O’Hara book and a semi-memoir of herself book — the story of her attempt to write an O’Hara biography, how it brought to a head some lifelong issues she’d had with her dad, and how the manuscript wrestled on the floor, two genres fighting it out to a draw.
Thus you get word-for-word excerpts from Peter’s tapes of people who knew Frank O’Hara because Dad gave Ada permission to try where he failed. She fails, too, and provides a transcript of her phone conversation with Frank’s sister, who comes across as a termagant sure that no one can do her boy Frank justice.
Weird.
But the book itself is weirdly wonderful. It leans more frankly in a biography kind of way in the first half, then in a decisive memoir kind of way in the second. What is it about these artistic fathers who don’t know how to love their children, even when their children enter the same trade, in this case, the trade of writing? Rhetorical question.
Interesting? Firstly the excerpts from the tapes. Then, as the story builds, the dynamic between father and daughter. And trivia. Lots of trivia and odd bits, like Ada sharing her favorite O’Hara poem, which led me to my copy of The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara edited by Donald Allen. For the curious, here it is:
To the Harbormaster
I wanted to be sure to reach you; though my ship was on the way it got caught in some moorings. I am always tying up and then deciding to depart. In storms and at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide around my fathomless arms, I am unable to understand the forms of my vanity or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder in my hand and the sun sinking. To you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage of my will. The terrible channels where the wind drives me against the brown lips of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet I trust the sanity of my vessel; and if it sinks, it may well be in answer to the reasoning of the eternal voices, the waves which have kept me from reaching you.
No, not O’Hara’s most famous poem by any means, but probably one that speaks to Ada Calhoun because she reads “father-daughter” into it (whereas O’Hara had some other relationship in mind).
Another oddity: one of O’Hara’s (who worked at the MoMA) favorite paintings is Rembrandt’s The Polish Rider. Again, not something that comes to mind when one thinks of the Dutch Master smoking cigars while New York poets originally from Grafton, MA, (of all nearby places!) might choose one of his works as “great,” but Frank kind of liked the looks of the horseman. You can find him riding online. The Pole, not Frank.
OK, wrap-up time.
Who would like this unaligned genre of a book? Certainly peeps interested in poetry in general and O’Hara in particular. Or fans of the anything-goes NYC scene in the 50s and 60s (even were he never struck and killed in July of '66 by a dune buggy at the beach on Fire Island, I fear O’Hara’s liver would have taken him down soon enough). Or readers with a particular interest in problematic family relationships— in this case, a daughter who must forge a separate peace because the daddy she so wants to impress is who he is, as imperfect as any Y-chromosome can be.
If you fit one of those descriptions, you should pick it up. If not and you're curious, pick it up as well. Over, out, and also a poet,
On the cover of Foster is a pithy David Mitchell blurb: "As good as Chekhov."
Wow. Go there, Mitch. Where angels fear to tread.
Really, if I were authorOn the cover of Foster is a pithy David Mitchell blurb: "As good as Chekhov."
Wow. Go there, Mitch. Where angels fear to tread.
Really, if I were author of this book, I might be flattered as hell with those words, but it would seem bad ju-ju to plaster them all over the cover, so either Claire Keegan is one confident scribe or the marketing team at Grove Press is one to be reckoned with (incoming Russian missile -- Chekhov, no less!).
Speaking of marketing, much like the other Keegan I read and enjoyed in October, Small Things Like These, this isn't really a novel. Novella, maybe? I suppose, at 92 pp., but when you consider the huge font, perhaps even a long short story is more honest.
Wasn't it Poe comma Edgar "Spell-My-Middle-Name-Right" Allan the one who defined a short story as a piece of literature one read in a single sitting, one that had a single powerful effect? Check (but not -hov) and check (but not Chekhov)!
Whatever. Call it a hedgehog, if you wish. It's a curious little period piece that reminds me of America's pastoral past. You know, a place where schools are actually off summers so children can help with the harvest.
No, wait. This is Ireland, not Indiana. One's a red state, the other a green state -- or in Keegan's adept hands, a "read" state.
Dunno. It just feels like comfort food reading tiny little books about family, everyday household and farm tasks, cows, milk, water in dippers, neighbors who drink, neighbors who want to know your business, families with secrets, families who claim to have NO secrets (when, like mammals with hair, shedding all secrets is a familial impossibility), so on, so forth.
And the plot. Simply the oldest in the book. Little girl goes to spend time with relatives on farm and finds in them a distant mirror, one that reflects parts of herself she never knew.
That's all, folks. A challenge to pull off, but Keegan does it with aplomb, with grace, with a minimalist style that hits the right spot as if in answer to a dare.
So, yeah. One sitting. Singular effect. Liked the book, even though not much happens. Makes you wonder if we're ALL novellas or long short stories because nothing much happens. In our lives, I mean (and I'm discounting those who put their every thought and move and dinner and day trip on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or TikTok, to which I can only say #whocares).
In this little protagonist's case, I did care. And if it's as much about subtext as text, so much the better. Unsaid sometimes fills a room more than said.
Or so I've heard said.
Bottom line: Recommended, if low expectations ride shotgun....more
Self-helpful but not really self-help. Philosophical but not really philosophy. Autobiography but the auto only pulls into a few years' parking space.Self-helpful but not really self-help. Philosophical but not really philosophy. Autobiography but the auto only pulls into a few years' parking space.
A different animal, in other words, as Dan Harris comes at us from the heights of ABC television journalism -- an unusual vantage point for a half-Jewish morning news anchor who caught the Buddhism bug. And man, does he struggle. He's intrigued by Buddhism, but also skeptical as hell. It's the skepticism part that appeals because, except for a few woo-woo cases, who ISN'T both intrigued by and left sputtering over Buddhism?
Harris' journey takes him through many "gurus" and writers in the trade, but it takes time to reach the "realistic" Buddhists he craves -- gurus who can help him practice mindfulness without turning into the type of person who gets chewed up and spit out by the dog eat dog world of broadcast journalism.
Two that most definitely don't do it for him are Eckhart Tolle and Deepak Chopra. Two that ultimately resonate with him are Mark Epstein and Joseph Goldstein (part of a group Harris, half Jewish himself, calls the "Jew-Bu" crowd -- Jews who have taken deep dives into Buddhism and become mentors for many others).
In the end, after going on an arduous 10-day retreat, Harris comes out both ambivalent and determined (if that's possible) about mindfulness. He creates his own list (noting how Buddhism has this thing about lists, starting with the Four Noble Truths) he calls "The Way of the Worrier" (get it?):
1. Don't Be a Jerk 2. (And/But...) When Necessary, Hide the Zen 3. Meditate 4. The Price of Security Is Insecurity -- Until It's Not Useful 5. Equanimity Is Not the Enemy of Creativity 6. Don't Force It 7. Humility Prevents Humiliation 8. Go Easy with the Internal Cattle Prod 9. Nonattachment to Results 10. What Matters Most?
Each is fleshed out to the reader's somewhat satisfaction (the reader being as skeptical as our skeptical hero). The end of the book also features a helpful Q & A appendix with answers to head scratchers like so:
1. Remind me, what's the point of this? 2. My mind keeps wandering. Am I a failure? 3. How come I don't feel relaxed? This really sucks. 4. You keep talking about this notion that "you can't help what we feel, only how you respond," but I want to feel different things. Won't meditation do that for me? 5. If I'm in physical pain, should I change position? 6. I keep falling asleep. 7. This is so unbelievably boring. 8. I keep trying to feel the breath as it naturally occurs, but every time I focus on it, I involuntarily start to control it, so it feels artificial. 9. What if I feel panicky and hyperventilate every time I try to watch my breath? 10. Isn't noting just a form of thinking? 11. Is being mindful the same thing as being in the moment? 12. Is meditation good for everyone? 13. You're not a teacher. What business do you have providing meditation instructions? 14. Can I meditate if I'm a believing Christian (or Jew or Muslim, etc.)? Will it erode my faith? 15. What is the least amount of time I can sit and still get the benefits the scientists are always talking about?
Is the book eloquently written? Nah. But the writing's far better than average, too, a tribute to Harris's background in journalism. Breezy reading, then, but with the occasional turn of phrase you might enjoy while learning.
You could interpret the title of Haruki Murakami’s Novelist as a Vocation two ways: a.) as a vocation for you, the reader, or b.) as a vocation for meYou could interpret the title of Haruki Murakami’s Novelist as a Vocation two ways: a.) as a vocation for you, the reader, or b.) as a vocation for me, Murakami, the writer. Reading the book itself, however, will prove that the latter proves more true than the former.
Which is not to say that there are no tips. If you’ve thought about writing a novel, even in a desultory, pipe-dream kind of way, you’ll find all the encouragement you need here. Murakami is of the school that most anyone who can put together sentences can write a novel. It may not be very good, but it will be a novel.
He also sides with the no-way-José to outlining crowd. Just write and follow where your prose leads you. He repeats what I’ve read many, many places before: Characters have a will of their own and will take over like mutineers on the H.M.S. Bounty. For beginners, that has got to be a relief. Sharing the job duties with your characters lightens the load, after all.
Specialized training? No need. MFA? BS (“Be serious.”) It’s all a rather freewheeling, Nike-like “Just do it” kind of affair here.
I can disparage this attitude easily because, well, it’s hole-ier than Swiss cheese that goes to church every Sunday. But then I recall a dear poetry friend (now passed, sadly) who encouraged my early poetry writing all the way to publication. Without the “Just do it and don’t worry about the Ivory Tower types guarding the gates” encouragement she offered, I wouldn't have come as far as I have today. To me, that unabashed “If you like doing it, write” attitude of hers was very much in the Murakami School of Wing-It-and-Have-Fun (even though the hours and loneliness might be brutal and take a toll on your physical health).
But really, this book, originally released seven years ago in Japan, is more memoir like in its approach. Only a few chapters dabble in “How To” mechanics. For the most part, it’s memoir-like, seeing writing through the lens of Murakami’s past books.
When I consider that lens and the fact that this book is a past publication, I wonder how much its rerelease is designed to help sales of Murakami’s oeuvre overall. Not a bad plan, really. Because no matter how laissez-faire or contradictory (at one point saying the act of daily writing can be painful after earlier calling it a joy) or opinionated (with lots of “this is just my opinion" caveats) the book can be, it is interesting to read because Murakami himself is interesting.
And he’s honest. He writes, “I’ve never had the sense that I’m writing for someone else. And I don’t particularly have that feeling even now.” Meaning: This book reads like a love song from Haruki to Haruki. That his legions of readers would love it just as well makes sense. Just know, if you go, that this book is not part of that large stable of books telling you how to write. It’s one man’s journey and, like any man’s journey, that alone can encourage you to write. Or not.
Also, be prepared for some score-settling between a Japanese writer and his country's literary gate keepers. Murakami has had the last laugh already, so I guess this is a victory lap of sorts, a dragging of Hector's body around Troy's battle-scarred walls.
I hope this review helps. If it doesn’t, that’s not my problem. (See, I can be Murakami-like myself! This review, after all, was written for me. If you enjoy, I'm very pleased, of course, but if not, SHRUG.)...more
It’s not often you look forward to Demons, but in this case, I was. All the sterling reviews on Goodreads! The fortuitous link to my favorite Dickens It’s not often you look forward to Demons, but in this case, I was. All the sterling reviews on Goodreads! The fortuitous link to my favorite Dickens novel (David Copperfield)! The promise of one of my favorite genres, coming-of-age!
Alas, it was not to be. At least not for me.
It fell into that category of book that for some reason bothers me. The plot’s the thing, and we all love a good story. As for Kingsolver, she’s certainly capable of telling it. Trouble is, she told way more than I like. Not many “stop and zoom in” scenes. More "this happened, then that happened." And time rolls on as the narrative years slip by.
Guess I’d rather read a book that covers all of a day or a weekend only. That’s me. These year-jumpers tend to leave characterization in the dust. That is, the characters have no soul, and when they have no soul, I have trouble investing (making the book bankrupt as a Silicon Valley Bank, if you’ll forgive the current event metaphor).
In fairness, you can dismiss this review because I DNF, but I did make it to page 380 or so, and that’s more than halfway, by God, but I struggled to return to it each time I put it down. Instead, I looked at other books on my TBR shelf and they mocked me for pledging my allegiance in such a rote way. Soon I caved to the Sirens of “Life’s Too Short.”
I don't feel that bad. Demon seems to be doing just fine and meeting unusual success and winning over all the girls and facing all the modern troubles (like opioids) David C. didn’t have to and I wish him well. But he really lacked depth. And the surrounding characters didn't sweep me off my feet, either, meaning I was always aware of my surroundings while reading (never a good thing -- consider the movie theater when the same thing happens while viewing!).
So cue the music by the men in Wayfarer sunglasses (“I’m a Soul Man”) and forgive me not joining the Kingsolver parade. I’ll leave the 5-stars and hosannas to others with their marching band reviews.
Instead, I’ll be one of the outsiders giving this a two. Leaving it has hard, but I’m glad I did now that the doing’s done....more
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