Coming of Age

To end the year, I read two books which aren't especially thematically related (read: have nothing in common) but that I am grouping under the loose tie that both involve boys who are becoming adults.

The first is Peter Cameron's Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You, which I have delighted in describing as "Catcher in the Rye, if Catcher in the Rye had been good." (I had issues with CINR, most of which I now blame on my 11th grade English teacher.) Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Cameron is also the author of The City of Your Final Destination, a novel I read a few years ago about a young doctoral student who gets involved with the family of his research subject, somewhere in South America. James Sveck, of STPWBUTY, is also surrounded by a cast of eccentrics, these his upper-class New Yorker family. James, like Sveck, has a keen eye for the absurd and fake (but thankfully, whines less about it) and has devoted the summer before college to figuring out a plan to avoid going to college - which he doesn't think he will like very much - altogether.

I laughed out loud often while reading this, and agree with whatever reviewer noted that while classified as Young Adult fiction, this book can be a joy for readers of whatever age. (Well, not too young - some of the themes are a bit mature. Use discretion before buying for a niece or nephew.)

The other read of the week is one of Elizabeth Peters' Amelia Peabody mysteries, which I continue to adore. Guardian of the Horizon was especially enjoyable, as it was written out of order and returns us to a lovestruck Ramses. Here he is 20, and kind of all over the place in terms of defining his adult relationship with his parents and their ward, and determining what is love and what is a proper course of action, etc etc. I'm stretching things a bit - mainly this is a typical Peabody book, where they end up on some fool adventure (this time a return to a lost oasis in the Sudan) and people are trying to kill them and they get captured and there are twists and turns and Emerson blusters and Amelia pretends togetherness and Ramses is, well, perfect.

And all that said, Happy New Year to all!

Russian Reading Challenge 2008

(crossposted from the Russian Reading Challenge blog)

I've only glanced at other lists, but what I've seen all sounds good and I am a bit envious and excited for the reading ahead in 2008. While I LOVE lists, I was overwhelmed by the prospect of figuring out what to choose, so I limited my choices to only books that I had already sitting on my shelves and hadn't read. Which was still too many, but eventually got whittled down to the following:

Natasha's Dance - Orlando Figes
Keys to Happiness - Anastasya Verbitskaya
The Winter Queen - Boris Akunin
King Queen Knave - Vladimir Nabokov

and for extra credit, since it was written in English and doesn't count: Olga's Grushin's The Dream Life of Sukhanov.

[My other challenge: reading at least 5 other books that I already own]

It is done

as of yesterday afternoon. I am pretty bloody proud of myself.

I have no self-control

Books that I have acquired on or since Christmas:

Fire in the Blood, Irene Nemirovsky
Man Walks Into a Room, Nicole Krauss
The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky
We Need to Talk About Kevin, Lionel Shriver
Lady Chatterley's Lover, D.H. Lawrence
The Age of Innocence, Edith Wharton

I have already read Bros K, so this is only for my library, but for the other five, any bets on how many will actually get read in 2008?

I love you, Orhan Pamuk

The Nobel Laureate, on what it's like to have won: "I recommend it to everyone."
(from KQED's Forum)

oh, I read a book

Last week or so. Donald Antrim's The Headmaster Ritual. I've already returned it, so can't refer back for witty analysis. It's set at a posh boarding school, and the headmaster is a crazy Marxist. The main characters are the new history teacher, and the headmaster's sorta-loser son. They both have girl trouble, and work trouble, and get shot at by North Koreans, and it all works out in the end. It's funny, but not particularly memorable.

My December resolution

I know there is no chance of my keeping up in the New Year, but I'd like to get off on the right foot, so I plan to catch up on all of my New Yorkers by December 31st. I'd say my odds are probably decent. It's not a sure thing, but I will try.

Paint it Black

I haven't read or seen White Oleander, so I can't compare Janet Fitch's new(est) novel to the one that made her famous.

It took me a week to get around to blogging about Paint it Black. In part because it's been a busy time, but more because I just wasn't sure what to say. The novel follows the life-worn (at all of, I think, 20) Josie, as she struggles to make sense of her lover's suicide. It's the early 1980s, and Josie is a runaway and punk; Michael was the son of a writer and pianist, who left Harvard for art classes at what I think is LACC.

The novel flashes back to Josie & Michael's short-lived happiness, and the darker times that preceded his death. The tragedy of love, and the inability to help the ones you love struggle with their demons - neither make this an easy read emotionally, and yet Fitch's writing has such ease and fluidity that it's a quick read. But then you're left with the weight of the pain, and the question of how some shoulder it while others simply cannot.

It's all madness

While I talk about the New Yorker incessantly in this blog, I've actually become much better over the years about not prefacing every remark with "I was reading in the New Yorker that..." But this somehow resonated so I had to share.

Adam Gopnik, on abridged books and director commentaries (abstract only): "Masterpieces are inherently a little loony."

Yes, exactly! Funny how I've heard (and repeated) time and again that line about no genius without a touch of madness (Seneca?), and yet never extrapolated to the work of the genius. So thanks New Yorker. And thanks Adam. Can I call you Adam?

My new job...

Well, probably not. But um, who knew you could make a career out of picking out Indiana Jones' books?

We all know I am several issues behind on the New Yorker, so I am just now discovering things more timely readers would have known back at the end of September. (Someday, I believe, I will catch up again.) Anyway, an October 1st "Talk of the Town" - linked above - is about Strand Bookstore and its books-by-the-foot service.

Since the program’s inception, in 1986, the Strand has built scores of imaginary reading rooms, from the prison library in “Oz” to the Barnes & Noble clone in “You’ve Got Mail.” Clients also include window dressers, commercial architects (the Strand furnished each floor in the Library Hotel with a different Dewey decimal category), and people with more shelf space than leisure time. Kelsey Grammer requested all hardback fiction in two of his homes, while Steven Spielberg, who, incidentally, is the director of the new Indiana Jones movie, allowed a wider range (cookbooks, children’s books, volumes on art and film) to penetrate his Hamptons estate. “There have been a lot of biographies on him, so I put those in there, too,” Nancy Bass Wyden, a co-owner of the store, said.

I wonder if Strand needs a West Coast affiliate...

About a Girl

Someone, if so inclined, could write a very interesting essay bringing together my last two reads: Ann Fessler's The Girls Who Went Away: The Hidden History of Women who Surrendered Children for Adoption in the Decades Before Roe v. Wade (a mouthful) and Rajaa Alsanea's Girls of Riyadh, a novel of modern Saudi girls written as a series of mildly salacious e-mails to a listserv. Sadly, this someone is not going to be me. Not this week at any rate.

First Fessler. An adoptee herself, she began compiling an oral history of women who had given up children for adoption in the 50s and 60s, when good girls "didn't have sex" and single women were not mothers. Through the voices of these women, Fessler explores the cultural constructs that virtually mandated adoption - and the resulting trauma for girls who became mothers for an instant - except forever, really - and then surrendered their babies and were supposed to go back to just girls again. The book - and the deep, deep current of emotion it exposes - is a lot more than I can give justice to in a paragraph.

And the quartet of young women in Alsanea's novel represent a generation of women who live almost schizophrenic lives, navigating Arab Muslim and Western values. They aren't hypocrites though - they really are attempting to forge a place for themselves even among competing cultural messages and demands. One thing that I took away, even as the girls were falling in love and breaking taboos, is that they adamantly felt themselves good Muslims, and accepted or even embraced some of the practices we in the West would expect them to either struggle against or accept blindly. My only quibble with the book is that the conversational tone was probably more effective in the original Arabic. Alsanea co-translated the book, and discusses this in an author's note, but I still suspect that the "aha! I know these people!" familiarity readers should feel got lost in translation.

DC, Revisited

While staying on Capitol Hill (and on the plane back to LA) I chose to get a little political reading in with Kristin Gore's Sammy's Hill, chick lit for the wonkish set. (More stereotypical but also more enjoyable that Dog Days.)

Sammy is an idealistic aide to an eminently decent senator, and also a klutz and neurotic who puts herself in one ridiculous situation after another. While her personality quirks are a bit over the top (Gore was a television writer for Futurama, which may explain part of it) she is for sure likeable. You want her to get the guy and the bill signed and all of that.

So the plot is what you would expect. (See Bridget Jones and/or every other chick lit ever.) I'll spare you the details. But that doesn't mean that you aren't cheering for her.

(Also, I still really want a Blackberry every time I read one of these DC books.)

The Master Bedroom

The eponymous room of Tessa Hadley's novel was hard for me to envision, but apparently was a monster that ran along an entire side of what seems to have been a big English manor. It's also where Kate and her mother - whom Kate has moved home to care for - were both born. And more, but that comes later.

It's always strange when you come across a New Yorker short story in a novel, but it particularly threw me in this case because the story pulled from a plotline that stretched across the whole novel, rather that grabbing a chapter in whole.

I liked this book, because I found it touching how tentatively the characters reached out to one another. And also because the characters were mysteries, to one another but more importantly to themselves. But that said, The Master Bedroom was also deeply flawed. The mystery that makes a character intriguing also means that you never get to know them quite well enough to understand their actions, or at least to understand why their actions are incomprehensible. The teenaged Jamie is particularly unknowable, even as he seems perhaps the most adult of the bunch, and that's in some ways especially infuriating.

In the end though, the novel was sweet. And quick to read. And poignant. Like wrapping oneself in a warm blanket. And sometimes that's enough.

(oh, and one last thing. I loved how Kate describes Jamie on first meeting him: "Kate wouldn't have minded him in one of her classes: a Tolstoy type, not a Dostoevsky type, who were two-a-penny.")

Feeling Liberal

Erin hearts Paul Krugman. (Not enough to have paid for TimesSelect during that little experiment, but nonetheless...) So when the Library's Aloud series brought him to town, I decided I had to be there.

And being there was fun. Krugman is a good speaker. And UC Irvine prof and Nation contributing editor Jon Wiener was a decent interviewer, particularly good at letting Krugman wander as he would, then bringing him back. So the conversation ranged over a variety of topics, beginning in the 1950s and the middle-class society that emerged out of the New Deal. The rise and fall of America as a middle-class society is - so I gather - a central narrative for Krugman, and he argues that "politics have a huge impact on income distribution." And they are able to do so even in a democracy b/c of smokescreen campaign issues (like "gay married terrorists"). He had some fascinating observations on the ways Republican politicians, without necessarily being racist, have exploited racism and a deep sense of being wronged in order to win elections.

Health care: PK is a fan of single-payer ("Civilized countries don't let people fail to get basic health care"), but believes that it is more feasible right now to support the consensus plan put forward by leading Democratic candidates.

The financial climate: "I don't know." He's nervous about the fallout from sub-prime and other loans, but not as nervous as some. So we'll see.

And of course, Bush: the 2000 campaign was a "radicalizing experience" for Krugman. And while he won't make any argument for whether Bush & co. should be criminally prosecuted once they are out, he does believe that we need to "open the books" on the Administration, and learn the truth about everything that's happened.

Reading so much Wonkette has made me feel like I ought to be more snarky. But really all I have to say is Krugman is crazy-smart and witty and yet calm and thoughtful, and it was a pleasure listening to him.

War and Peace and Sex

This week's LA Times Book Review brought a few happy discoveries:

New translations of War and Peace. Tolstoy's tome is in my all-time top three, so the idea of new, updated interpretations thrills me. Plus, one of them (by Andrew Bromfield) is of an early draft of the novel, a shorter one, and one in which my favorite character appears to meet with a less tragic ending.

The Abstinence Teacher, by Tom Perrotta. Reviewed by Carolyn Kellogg, formerly of LAist. She notes that this book is getting lots of review attention. And speaking of, I heard Perrotta on last week's New York Times Book Review podcast.

When someone else's life hits too close to home

Yesterday I had some free time between work and a meeting, so I happily sat down with my tea latte (and later a scone) and finished John Lanchester's Family Romance. Somehow I had it set in my mind that it was a novel, so I was surprised when I first opened it and discovered it was a memoir of the author's English & Irish expat parents. And their secrets.

Lanchester's mother is the more compelling parent, not only because she had an enormous secret and a fascinating pre-mom life. She was also a more dominant character in his life - and much of the book is about how Lanchester makes peace with her and all of who she was. His father is somehow blurrier, and I found him sorrowful, a man who never stood up and made his own destiny.

It's a fascinating book about relationships and families. The secrets we tell our loved ones, and the secrets we allow to be told. But the final 50 pages I read on Wednesday changed the whole book for me, and turned it into something far more personal. Suddenly I could identify intensely with Lanchester - as he begins to write about his struggles with anxiety, struggles that began while in grad school at Oxford. Now in addition to being an only child and having a mother with a past that she didn't share in full (although I made that connection late) we both knew what it was like to suffer through a panic attack, and to know that another one was right around the corner. To live with that strange and unreasonable dread. His descriptions of the physiological and the mental response were so real to me, I find myself floundering as I search for the right way to phrase the recognition and empathy I felt. But now it was no longer a book about him, it was also a book about me, and that altered my reaction to it in unexpected ways.

So, since I can't recapture what the book was to me before, I will share a few passages from the first half of the book that struck me:

about his father - "The experience of being loved by someone tells you a great deal about that person, almost as much as loving them does, but differently. Love has many textures. W.H. Auden said - it was one of his most beautiful ideas - that when you love people you are seeing them as they really are."

hmm, this one is also about his father - "You may think that most people live inside their own heads, but plenty of them don't. In fact, if you do think that, you're almost certainly one of the minority whose primary life is internal."

Strange how his mother was the more vibrant, real of the pair, and yet it was in writing about his father that Lanchester most touched me.

Me and everybody else

Happy Blog Action Day! Apparently I am one of thousands of bloggers worldwide who are joining together today to post about the environment.

Those of you who know me know that I'm a bit compulsive about recycling. I have a friend who swears up and down that recycling is actually uses more energy and creates more waste than it saves, but has yet to send me any back-up documentation. So I say hmph.

We do however both agree that not creating the waste in the first place is ideal. And while I have given up plastic water bottles in favor of my Klean Kanteen, my favorite waste-avoidance tool is the canvas bag. I have oodles, and they go with me to the grocery store and just about everywhere else. Over the past few years, I have found I get far fewer confused and dirty looks from baggers. It's finally gone mainstream (and a little too hip), but I was at the head of the pack, I swear. If you need bags, check Siel at greenLAgirl, who is constantly having giveaways.

And for more reading, Siel is also blogging for the LA Times at Emerald City.

So while I'm only really going eco on here for today, I try to be green all year long. And so should you.

Memories

In my last post, oh so long ago, I wrote about England - where I was making memories, to sound cheesy - and Peter Nadas - whose novel was about memories.

Returning to real life in Los Angeles meant that it was difficult to get through the last 200 pages, much harder than it was on an airplane. And because A Book of Memories is so disjointed, reading catch as catch can just made it even more confusing. But I finally succeeded. (The "I'm not going to sleep until it's finished" proclamation helped.)

What struck me about the three narrators is how well (and yet how poorly) they read other people. How everyday occurrences were charged with meaning. How openly they stated their flaws, and yet so often told something less than the truth. It's the kind of book that seems designed to come from a place like Communist Hungary, with a confused and complicated history, and where people were never quite in charge of their own destiny.

Some passages, beginning with a evocative depiction of falling in love:

We told each other stories, and even that would not be an accurate description of the feverish urging to relate and the eager curiosity to listen to each other's words with which we tried to complement the contact of our bodies, our constant physical presence in each other

and more:

Lovers walk around wearing each other's body, and they wear and radiate into the world their common physicality.

Greetings from Merrie Olde England!

First and foremost, helloooo from London. I have spent the week wandering about, doing a mix of touristy and non-touristy things. (Where does shopping at H&M fit in?) This morning, however, is about finding a coffee shop and reading my book.

What is my vacation book, you ask? Well, it's a tome: A Book of Memories, by Peter Nadas, a Hungarian writer. Originally published in the mid-1980s, it has that strange Eastern European intellectual coming to terms with a totalitarian regime by avoiding it sort of vibe. (See: Milan Kundera) Also like Kundera, Nadas is a very sensual and sexual writer. Memories is a mix of memoirs, which mix and intertwine until I sometimes am not sure who is talking. His main character, to this point, is a young writer who grew up in Stalinist and post-Stalinist Hungary, and is lately of East Berlin. He is beautiful and seductive, and emotional and sensitive and yet manipulative and almost sadistic. And sexually, it seems he is drawn to most everyone, and most everyone is drawn to him. Yet this doesn't come off as crude, as it might in other hands.

Nadas is a beautiful stylist, yet the prose can be difficult for an English-speaking reader. It is flowery, and looooong, which sentences extending for lines and lines, and paragraphs for pages. Plus, while not quite stream-of-consciousness, the narrators will break off on detailed tangents, and then return to their central narrative without missing a beat. (Whether the reader can do so remains to be seen.)

I marked a few passages from the first third of the novel, but most of them are either so long, or so unclear out of context, that I will limit myself to sharing just one:

Like every moment we want to be significant, this one, too, turns out to be insignificant; we have to remind ourselves afterward that what we have been waiting for so eagerly is actually here, has finally come, and nothing has changed, everything is the same, it's simply here, the waiting is over.

Baggage

Last Sunday, I read a book in two sittings. I had forgotten how to do that, and it was glorious. The book in question was Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried, a fictionalized collection of essays about the Vietnam War and its impact on those who served.

The title essay speaks to the heart of the tragedy that was Vietnam - the things they carried included supplies, weapons, trinkets, superstitions, drugs, fear, cowardice, and bravado.

A few passages:

[T]he war occurred half a lifetime ago, and yet the remembering makes it now. And sometimes remembering will lead to a story, which makes it forever. That's what stories are for. Stories are for joining the past to the future. Stories are for those late hours in the night when you can't remember how you got from where you were to where you are. Stories are for eternity, when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember except the story.

And an observation as relevant today as ever:

The only certainty that summer [of 1968] was moral confusion. It was my view then, and still is, that you don't make war without knowing why. Knowledge, of course, is always imperfect, but it seemed to me that when a nation goes to war it must have reasonable confidence in the justice and imperative of its cause. You can't fix your mistakes. Once people are dead, you can't make them undead.

And strangely enough, I may have been most affected by the last chapter, "The Lives of the Dead," where O'Brien discusses childhood love and loss.

But this too is true: stories can save us. I'm forty-three years old, and a writer now, and even still, right here, I keep dreaming Linda Alive. And Ted Lavender too, and Kiowa, and Curt Lemon, and [more]. They're all dead. But in a story, which is a kind of dreaming, the dead sometimes smile and sit up and return to the world.

I had never heard of this book until this spring, when I saw a theatrical adaptation, which was ambitious but a bit of a disaster. Which is a shame, because O'Brien's creation is powerful and fundamentally honest.

Today in Google Reader

Google Reader is one of my new best friends. I love it. It makes keeping up with websites that I forget to visit regularly sooooo much easier. Except when I don't get to it for a few days and have a zillion unread stories to try to sort through.

Anyway, here's what I discovered along with my morning chai:

Ian McEwan and some other authors I don't really know were shortlisted for this year's Booker. I'm still waiting to get to read last year's winner, Kiran Desai's The Inheritance of Loss.

Starbucks has come to Russia. (And looks awesome in Cyrillic - check the pic) And drinks there are expensive! Also of note: "Moscow has one coffeehouse for every 3,187 people. New York has one for every 365 people, and Paris one for every 126." I wonder what the stats are for LA...

Entanglements

Not many authors could combine a murder mystery, a treatise on the history of science, and a ghost story. Such was the ambition of Rebecca Stott in Ghostwalk. The murders - a spate from the 1660s, plus that of the woman researching them. The history - about Isaac Newton and his flirtation with alchemy, plus what alchemy meant to the scientists of the late 17th century. And the ghosts - well, they are everywhere. The novel is also one of obsession, obsessions that kill, although the word may never be stated.

I don't mind ghosts, but I think they may have been the weakest part of the novel. Because Lydia Brooke, brought in by her former lover to finish the murdered woman's book, is too sensible to believe in such things. And Stott never convinces me why she should. She convinces me why I should, but then I am gullible.

These weaknesses - and it is Stott's first novel, so I can forgive them - fortunately don't diminish too much from what is a lovely and haunting tale. Lydia is intriguing and thoughtful, and the decision to frame the novel as a letter to her lover was a wise one.

Stott's got a lovely voice, and I hope she continues to write fiction. Consider the quiet power of passages like these:

It's called entanglement, Mr. Brydon; the word describes the snares of love as well as a mystery in quantum physics. It's not just particles of light or energy that can become entangled; it's time too. Yes, moments of time can become entangled. The seventeenth century and the present have become entangled; they have become connected across time and space.

and love...

I saw that I no longer knew anything. Anything was possible. If someone had told me that you had issued an order for me to be attacked to frighten me into leaving Cambridge so that I would no longer be your Achilles' heel [Erin's note: and how much did this line make me want to be someone Achilles' heel?], if they had said that you wanted me out of the way at any price, I might have believed them. And then if someone had said that you would protect me above all else, sacrifice everything for me, that you loved me above all else, yes, I would have believed that too.

Holy F***

I know I complain a lot about how behind I get on my reading (particularly of New Yorkers, and I just finished the July 2 issue today while at jury duty). But it has assumed tragic proportions - my magazine pile now stands 31 issues deep, and includes issues dating back to January of certain mags. AND it doesn't fit in my nightstand anymore.

This calls for desperate measures.

And yet, I'm currently enraptured by a most unusual academic mystery, Rebecca Stott's Ghostwalk. More on that soon.

Why Culture Matters

Admittedly Richard Pells is a professor of history (UT Austin) while I am just a former PhD candidate. So when he says that his fellow members of the academy are ignoring the role of the arts in influencing history, his opinion should matter more than mine. The fault, in his opinion, are social historians who stress social movements and the marginalized.

Starting in the 1970s, it became unfashionable for historians to write or teach about America as a community of shared beliefs and values, defined by its artists and intellectuals. The new scholarship concentrated instead on the divisive repercussions of race, class, gender and ethnicity.

We have learned a lot from these revisionist interpretations of American history. We know more today about the inequities in the nation's past. Yet the fixation with social history has led to a severe case of tunnel vision among American historians, an almost exclusive preoccupation with the exploited and victimized, along with an oppressive orthodoxy about what kinds of courses should be taught and who should be hired at universities.

As a result, Pells, argues, "Universities are turning out students who can tell you about midwives, sharecroppers and blue-collar workers but not about architects, poets or symphony conductors."

Pells is absolutely right that high culture matters. And I LOVED using visual art, music, literature, and film as tools for understanding the world I was studying. My faculty advisor, Richard Stites, has been a master at this. However, I don't see it as either-or. Nor do I think that's what it happening in the university today. Not in the courses I took. Both the midwife and the poet brought respected voices to the table. Maybe I was naive - maybe I was missing a whole bunch. But I certainly hope not.

omg maybe the saddest expression ever

I have been steadily working through The New Yorker today, and reached the Summer Fiction issue. (That would be mid-June for those of you wondering how behind I have fallen.) In past years, the SF issue introduced me to writers like Jonathan Safran Foer. The debut piece in this year's installment is "Sweetheart Sorrow," by David Hoon Kim.

I'd be willing to bet that Kim has been influenced by Haruki Murakami. Or rather, I was willing to put money down. But an extra search made the whole thing irrelevant (see page 2 of the interview for the confirmation). It wasn't just that the characters were Japanese - it was that they were out of place, living between cultures. And there was sorrow and silence, and a willingness to live inside the mind rather than wholly in the world.

Of course it is a quintessentially New Yorker story too. What that means exactly, I'm not sure. I know there is such a thing. And I've heard definitions. For me, it means that I read the last words under a curtain of solemnity.

But anyway, to the saddest expression ever. The title, it seems, is from the Danish "kæreste sorg—sweetheart sorrow—to describe the sadness one feels at the thought of a love affair nearing its end. A sadness one is not yet ready to face." The phrase is so evocative and real - I knew immediately and wholly what Kim - and the Danes - meant.

You can't always get what you want...

... but you just might find, you get what you need.

Shriver's The Post-Birthday World continued to delight me. It was so honest. That there are no perfect choices. That when two paths diverge in a wood, both have their merits. And we get to inspect the ramifications, on both sides, of a fateful kiss (or not).

Since I've already shared some thoughts on the book, I thought I'd just do special quotes instead.

She theorized that for everyone there was that one high you couldn't refuse, for which you'd sell your soul - and anyone else's. [...] Thus the only protection from yourself in this instance was never to try it [...] Yet here was Ramsey Acton, the one substance on earth that Irina Galina McGovern could not resist. She'd had fair warning in July, sniffed a few heady grains from a split vial, just enough to know that this was the drug that she had been avoiding her whole life.

Haven't we all felt like that? And a comment on 9/11 that is so easy to forget, and yet so true:

Much as it's worth recalling that for whole years of World War II no one knew whether Hitler might win, it would soon behoove Americans to remember that for a few hours on that eleventh of September no one knew if more plans might be out there [...] Now that the spinning globe on which we hurtle was clearly not standing still, anything could happen, and anything did

But here's a line, from a description one of Irina's children's books, that sums it all up:

Because when he looks back on his life, Martin realizes that he has spent his life doing something that he loves, and that, to him at least, is beautiful.

We don't only have one destiny. And lucky us, we get to see two of Irina's.

Your first is always special - L.A. Times

We all know that, right? Turns out that the Times is playing coy, about reading no less.

We're passionate about books -- and about encouraging reading. So is First Book, a nonprofit organization founded 15 years ago with the mission of getting new books into the hands of needy children.

Krasinski has good taste in books

Well played, dear newspaper. Except I haven't really seen the evidence of this book passion and reading encouragement in print (um, combining the book review with the Sunday opinion section anyone?). Of course, there is always the Festival of Books, and that makes up for a lot of faults.

But I digress. The point is First Book's survey: What book got you hooked?

More than 100,000 people responded to First Book's poll, www2.firstbook.org/ whatbook/top50.php. The vox pop's top five are:
1. Nancy Drew series by Carolyn Keene
2. "Green Eggs and Ham" by Dr. Seuss
3. "Little House on the Prairie" by Laura Ingalls Wilder
4. "Little Women" by Louisa May Alcott
5. "The Cat in the Hat" by Dr. Seuss

"Many of us remember the one book that we wanted to read over and over again -- the book that really stirred our imaginations and left us wanting just one more chapter before bedtime," First Book President Kyle Zimmer told Publishers Weekly. "The fact that there are millions of children in our own country that will grow up without these kinds of memories because they have no access to books is devastating. We are delighted that so many people shared their stories in order to help us shine the spotlight on this critical issue."

Other discoveries: Joyce Carol Oates responded with "Through the Looking Glass," John Krasinski of "The Office" chose Roald Dahl. I think I responded to the survey online a few months back, and entered the Little Golden Books "Monster at the End of this Book," starring Grover. But really, when I think back to my childhood, I couldn't choose just one. I loved Beverly Cleary and her Ramona Quimby so much. And E.L. Konigsburg's A Proud Taste for Scarlet and Miniver helped make me a historian.

Who was your first literary love?

Sliding Doors

This 1998 Gwyneth Paltrow film is one of my favorites. It's a reminder of how little it takes sometimes to send life hurtling down another path entirely. And reinforces my childhood belief in parallel universes. (Do I believe in them still? I couldn't tell you.)

Anyway, the conceit of Lionel Shriver's The Post-Birthday World is roughly the same. Although this time the choice the protagonist makes is hers alone, not forced upon her by a girl with a Barbie doll. And the setting - late 90s London - is also the same. Oddly enough. Maybe London is an epicenter of parallel lives? Irina has dinner with her partner Lawrence's friend, continuing a long-standing tradition while Lawrence is out of town. She's not particularly excited about her charge, but as the evening wears on, she is drawn inexorably toward Ramsey and is about, unless she can stop herself, to kiss him.

Then, in alternately chapters, the way life unfolds depending on her decisions. So many parallels. So similar, and yet utterly different. I'm not quite half-way through yet, but I am so drawn to the story. So fascinated. And surprisingly invested in the characters.

An early passage, from before the big choice:

At its most torrid, your love life was merely titillating to others, and the done-deal nature of established couples like Irina and Lawrence was doubtless a big bore. Romantic devastation occasioned, at most, an onlooker's tinny sympathy or schadenfreude. Romantic delirium was even worse. Newly inlove, you expected to draw envy or admiration, but were far more likely to attract a finger-drumming impatience for you to get over it. [...] Some friends regarded Irina-and-Lawrence as a factual matter, like the existence of France. Others relied on the couple as a touchstone, proof that it was possible to be happy; the role was a burden.

This rang so true to me. And yet, it's so strange that while we often feel this way about the people we know, we are able to invest so much of ourselves into these same situations when they occur for characters in a book, a film, or even a tv show. Any thoughts on why?

Dreams and Destruction, or Heyday

When I finish a book that has created a world for me, I get a little dazed and dreamy. Like I'm in love. It's this intense satisfaction, and a tiny effort to hold onto it instead of letting it go and returning to reality. For a long time I wondered if I was the only one who felt this way - but I saw a friend do so last week as he finished Everything is Illuminated (Jonathan Safran Foer) and happily realized I am not alone.

Usually I wait at least a few hours after finishing a book before starting my review, but I am still clutching at the feel, and thinking that writing about Heyday will help. I couldn't tell you how Kurt Andersen's novel made it on my list of books to read. (I sometimes think that books just magically appear on there, but no mind.) Normally I wouldn't expect a novel about mid-nineteenth-century America to appeal to me, but this one involved a "band of brothers" and their quest for a beautiful woman, and hell, I like that. And then Andersen drew me into the complicated and fantastical world of 1848 and 1849 - years of European revolution and counter-revolution, and an American rush for gold in my favorite of states.

Our central hero is Ben Knowles, Londoner transplanted to the land of his adventuresome dreams. But there is also Duff and Polly Lucking - he a soldier with a secret, she his actress (and more) sister - and Renaissance man Timothy Skaggs. Ben's immediately infatuation with Polly forms the heart of the plot. But the central theme is that of discovery and creation - and its converse. America is being born and torn down all at once - even then a land without history. And each character (oh, and there are more that the central four) has his or her own obsessions that relate to creation and destruction. But it's a theme that fits so well with that period in time that it doesn't seem overbearing - even at its most explicit.

My quibble with Heyday is the name-dropping. Of course Knowles is related to Toqueville and Skaggs used to write about Lincoln when he was a small-town lawyer and the group would run into attendees of the Seneca Falls Convention and ... well, you get the point. It's a little out of control. I understand that Andersen is trying to make clear exactly how free-wheeling and eventful and wild this period was, but I could have done with a few fewer references.

What I loved - California. The Golden State, even before it was a state. Andersen refers to the "topsy-turvy summer of '48" in California, and it's an apt term. American exceptionalism runs rampant, and I get bored of it, but I never tire of Californian exceptionalism. I am a snob. :) Even 150 years ago, a magnet for dreamers.

Politics = High School all over again

In between answering pledge calls for KCRW, I read the Opinion section of today's LA Times. And I am easily amused. While opining on how best to rein in the Iranians and their swaggering self-confidence, I came across the following:

Iraqi Prime Minister Nouri Maliki, a Shiite who lived in exile in Iran, held hands with President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad last week during a chummy visit to Tehran, to the annoyance of President Bush.

I think Bush is just jealous because he remembers his hand-holding days...

I wish I were as amusing as Patricia Marx

Last month I read Him Her Him Again The End of Him, by Patricia Marx. It's a pretty recent book, as I was reminded this evening when I was looking through my Google Reader and came across a Q&A she did with New Yorker writer Nancy Franklin.

Marx cracks me up. She is funny is a very understated way. Where you realize how funny something is a second or two later. Some highlights:

Q: Did you know there is actually a pop star named Patricia Marx in Brazil?
A: I do know and I’m so happy, because if anybody ever Google-Images me, they’ll think that I’m a beautiful Brazilian pop star.

(the Brazilian Marx)

How she is like my interns: I just loved [SNL]. I had never lived in New York; I loved that. I loved being there twenty-four hours a day. If there had been two hundred and forty hours in a day, I would have loved staying there those hours, too. I especially liked the fact that there was Diet Coke in the refrigerators that you could have for no money. It was summer camp.

On not liking her name: My mother said to me the other day, “Why does your name have to be Patty? My friends say, ‘How’s Patty?’ and I think they could be saying, ‘How’s Jane? How’s Anne?’ ”

So I've become a Marx fan. A Marxist, you could say. But that's just one example of how I'm not as funny as she is.

Recycled Paper... mmm, my favorite

I have of late been dedicating myself to the daunting task of reading through the e-mails I have amassed in the past month. (One observation: I am beloved by several political mailing lists.)

While I was doing so, I came across an old Co-op America newsletter that had an interview with Sheryl Woodhouse-Keese, paper-recycler extraordinaire. Now I love recycling, but it never occurred to me to make it into a business. Woodhouse-Keese, on the other hand, founded Twisted Limb Paperworks, which turns office paper, junk mail, and more into unique and super-green invitations. Or, more poetically, "we blend our love of paper and colors with our desire to preserve the Earth's resources and to make a difference in our community."

Why didn't I think of this?! Anyway, Twisted Limb is doing good work. Check them out.

READ ALL ABOUT IT: The Shipping News

When I was told under no uncertain circumstances that I must read E. Annie Proulx's The Shipping News, I was nervous. Why? I didn't think it wouldn't be good - I've read enough of her stories in the New Yorker, and besides, it won a Pulitzer. So again, why? Because when someone raves to me about a book, I'm always worried that my expectations will be too high, and then I won't enjoy it as much. (Oddly enough, this does not stop me from doing the same thing to friends, family, strangers, etc.)

So my borrowed copy of the book stayed on my shelf roughly forever. Until this past week. And quite honestly, I was entranced. It has this quiet, peaceful energy. I felt very calm while I was reading, even if the particular plot points were not calm indeed. And in my mind I kept comparing Newfoundland to Maine, where I visited last summer. I was infused with a sense of serenity, and slowness. It was lovely.

Proulx is an amazing detailist. As a result, the world of the novel comes through picture perfect. It seems very foreign to a California girl, but utterly believable. And without detracting from the flow of the narrative.

Another point. You want the Quoyle family to find the happiness they so clearly deserve. And so it's a pleasure throughout the book to see them finding it.

Thanks Sophie, for the recommendation!

Growing Up Groovy and Clueless

...such is the subtitle of Susan Jane Gilman's Hypocrite in a Pouffy White Dress, a book swap find. Gilman is ridiculously quotable, and I came to the end of the book wondering why I hadn't marked some of my favorite quotes to share with you.

She embraces the big personality that so many of us have when we aren't too scared to show it. Or at least, she does enough of the time. And her experiences - so like what we've all been through (except the big breasts, I never had to deal with that) are poignant and ridiculous and very very real.

All of which is preface to the line that comes at the tail end of the book, where she writes of her first days sticking out like a sore thumb in Geneva: "No matter what I did, everything about me was quintessentially American. On the streets of Geneva, I was an enormous, star-spangled, overzealous puppy." And who hasn't felt like that?

Also of note is the blurb by Frank McCourt. Mainly b/c you eventually find that Gilman went to Stuyvesant. And if I remember correctly, McCourt taught there. Was she one of his students? Are any of my teachers off becoming famous? (If so, let me know.)

I'm pretty sure most women can relate to some part of Gilman's book. For me, it was mostly her childhood, growing up the daughter of hippies and also a drama queen. But one who also tried to escape the notice of her Mean Girl fellow students. For others, it may be the rock OBSESSIONS of her teenage years and the gossiping about every "romantic" encounter. College seemed pretty familiar to me. And I'm still young enough that I'm working on my 20s and early 30s. I hope it turns out well for me too... :)

Statistics

A sampling of the reading facts surrounding my life these days:

• Number of books in my bedroom waiting to be read: 47 (auspicious)
• Number of books in my "Books to Check Out" list: 51
• Current New Yorker issue: May 14, 2007
• Favorite "innovators" from said issue: Richard Branson and Banksy
• Most recent book finished: Interpreter of Maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri
• Number of stories in IoM: 9 (also auspicious)
• Time finished: approx. 7:05pm on Monday night
• Thoughts on said book: Marriages are fickle and difficult things; being an old and single woman sucks; culture shock is a big big big problem - both India to America and vice versa; who goes by the nickname Twinkle???
• Other thoughts: Lahiri is a lovely writer, and has luscious, evocative detail - but all of the stories are tinged with sadness. It's a lot of sad to take all at once.
• Number of Guggenheim Fellowships won by Lahiri: One
• Number of Guggenheims won by me: None (yet)
• Shoulder blade currently more sunburned: Left
• Most surprising vocabulary today: Repository (context: "This folder will be the repository of your paperwork... repository? Did I just say repository?!")
  
• Next book: hmmm, I think it'll be a surprise.

Him Her Him Again The End (!) of Him

[Exclamation point mine]

It happens rarely enough that I'm always a little giddy when it does happen. It? you ask. It is one of my favorite reading experiences, namely reading something that makes me laugh or otherwise react aloud. This is particularly amusing (to me) in public.

Aside: the summer after I graduated from high school, I read War and Peace, because I am a big nerd. I was utterly in love with Prince Andrei - we had a deep emotional connection. Anyway, I am in the waiting room at Kaiser, accompanying my grandmother to one or another appointment, and I get to the part where Natasha betrays him. (I'm a little fuzzy on the specific plot point, but I remember a definite sense of betrayal.) How dare she! This is Prince Andrei! So I manage to recall that I'm in public, so my cry of "You hussy bitch!" turned into some sort of strangled grr. (And I still have very strong feelings about how Tolstoy used and discarded this dream man of mine.)

But I digress. On Sunday, after a trek to the Hollywood Farmers Market for reconnaissance (Festival coming up!) I stopped by Groundwork for some iced tea and started reading Him Her Him Again The End of Him by Patricia Marx. (Hmm, I wonder how you punctuate that?) Suffice it to say that in the short time I was there, I stifled laughter several times.

This book is hilarious. It's unsurprising, seeing as how Marx wrote for The Harvard Lampoon and Saturday Night Live. Her heroine is absurd and witty and neurotic and intelligent and ridiculous, and all those things. Like an unabashedly imperfect cousin of Blue Van Meer. While "studying" at Cambridge (but mostly finding ways to procrastinate) she also fixates upon the archetypal preening intellectual, whose all-consuming ego makes him sexy. And over ten years he comes and goes, and strings her along, while she tries with varying levels of success and effort to do something with her life. And deal with a cast of wacky parents, bosses, friends, and colleagues.

But I wanted to share some of my favorite quotes. So despite the growing length of this entry...
*When her father badgers her about making a will: "I was beginning to think that either he knew something I didn't or that he was planning to kill me."

*On we, the reader: "I hope you are not getting fed up with me because, as it happens, I think I'm beginning to like you more and more. You're a good listener. Plus, I bet you have a winning way of turning the page."

*On Eugene, the pompous lover: "he believed that the later work of the French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan was derivative of Eugene's early work, which was an audacious theory, in my opinion, since Eugene hadn't entered Lacan's field of work until Lacan was dead."

None of these play as well out of context as they do on the page. (Boo.) But I hope you can read this entry and see how a steady stream of digressions and non sequiturs is exactly my kind of thing. If it's yours too, check out Patricia Marx.

Book Party!

While I was stressing my way through June, Siel spent a productive month. And she capped it off with a book exchange last night. People have such eclectic tastes in books - the gamut ran from philosophy to Buddhism to memoir to sci fi. I came home with Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies, a Pulitzer winner I've been meaning to read.

So thanks Siel for the fantastic party. And the idea - maybe I'll have a book exchange of my own.

The Suitors, cont.

I remain a little freaked out by Ben Ehrenreich. The Suitors definitely didn't get any less strange as I finished it. Which is not to say that it isn't really good and intriguing and all that - because it is! - but dude, it's a bit of an emotional roller coaster.

Suffice it to say that not only is every character flawed, but they are deeply, deeply so. Drunk with lust, gluttony, avarice - all of the deadly sins, in fact. And while the motley crew that form Penny's kingdom (formerly Payne's army) love one another, they will betray that love in a moment to get closer to Penny, and will blame anyone - including Penny herself - who pierces through her defenses.

I wish Ehrenreich had written more about Bobby, Penny's son, a preternaturally solemn child growing up in a sea of anarchy. And he eventually takes to the sea. He reminded me of Gunter Grass's Oskar, in The Tin Drum, carrying more meaning than his little body could possibly hold.

Anyway, what this all makes me realize is that I should read (or re-read - have I read it before?) The Odyssey.

The Suitors, or Acid Trips with Homer

(No, not Homer Simpson, although that would be interesting too.) I want some of whatever Ben Ehrenreich was smoking when he wrote The Suitors, a modern retelling of The Odyssey. It's a timeless, placeless setting, in which there are sidewalks and cars and televisions, but sometimes there are no phones and people run around naked. Oh, and creating a moat and filling it with sewage when you can't find crocodiles makes sense. And there are chamber pots. And a band of free spirits (although that's too high-minded a phrase) who spend their days loving and gamboling and huffing paint thinner. Until our modern Odysseus Payne comes along and conscripts them into his dream.

What is his dream? Well (and it sounds a little something like some presidents we know):

...the everlasting glory of a nation founded on the vital principles of freedom and opportunity, of the responsibilities that accompany good fortune, the sacred obligation to boast of one's virtues and display one's wealth for all to see, and thereby, he said, spread freedom to the farthest corners of the globe [...] A free people always wins.

And now he gets them started on his arsenal. And then the looting and the wars. And coming up, the War.

And you wonder, what binds Payne and Penny together? And why are you willing to continue to spiral downward with them?

Angelica, or The Perils of Parenthood

It seems appropriate that on Father's Day (happy day to all the dads, including mine who is on the 5 right now) I get to blog about a father-daughter relationship. And a father-mother one. And a mother-daughter one. Oh, and the mother-daughter-ghost one. And the spiritualist. And the maid, and ...



Anyway, Arthur Phillips has shown he likes to write mysteries. Not of the whodunit kind, but of a deeper, where is the truth when everyone can see only their own experience of the truth? variety. Even in his first novel, Prague, he employs multiple viewpoints to get at a wider sense of expat Budapest. (Siel has been reading about subjective reality too.)

In Angelica, Phillips goes all out - and shows how entirely people create their own truths. And with each retelling (there are 3 1/2) of the haunting of the little girl and her mother - possibly by the spectral manifestation of the father's sexual appetite - sympathies shift and misunderstandings are laid bare. And still any objective truth remains elusive. As a grown Angelica finally laments:

If each of the players performed his own unconnected drama, then it is only in the intersection of those dramas that my life can be seen, through the latticed spaces where light can pass between three stories laid over each over. And yet when I lay these stories atop each other, no light does pass and no space remains. All my knowledge consumes itself.

House of Meetings, or Wanting to Kill Yourself

As I mentioned in my earlier post (below), Martin Amis' House of Meetings is a downer. The main character has returned to Russia to die. First revisiting the prison camp where he spent over a decade, a time where he protected his brother even while hating him for having the girl he loved.

The love triangle never really explodes, as I had expected, but that just makes the reading all the more tortured. God, this is a sad book. One of the characters explains, about pity:

She understand, and she pities me. In the end you finsih with self-pity. It's too tiring. You want someone else to do it for you.

Thus it is only fair that Amis evokes the reader's pity as well. These poor broken souls. They are fucked up, and you can't really sympathize with them. But you can pity them.

My understanding of Derrida was pretty paltry, but I remember a main point of my professor's being that Derrida eschewed the center in favor of the marginalia, that it was that edges that had the most meaning. I thought of this when considering House of Meetings. The novel's center - what happens on a fateful night at the eponymous House - is ultimately less than what surrounds it at the edges. What is supposed to have the most meaning may in fact have the least.

Or maybe not. If you've read it, or read other Amis, let me know what you think.

Misery a la Russe

In September 2004, a group of Chechen rebels took more than 1200 hostages - many children - in a school in Beslan, Ossetia. When all was said and done, almost 400 lay dead. (It's a testament to the Russianness of this all that I almost wrote "400 souls were lost.") And as a Russian historian, perhaps I expected tragedy. And it was that weekend, walking by the Russian embassy on Wisconsin Ave., that I saw the memorial wreaths and burst into tears. Painful, impotent tears.

These memories came back to me as I began reading Martin Amis' House of Meetings, a gulag novel. Damn, I was expecting old tragedies, not recent ones. But the narrator has traveled back to Russia, to revisit his prisons and perhaps to repent, right as the siege occurs. Thus it has a place in the letter - which comprises the novel - he writes to his step-daughter Venus. And Amis' narrator has the same dull dread I had:

And why is it that we are already perparing ourselves for something close to the worst possible outcome? Why is it that we are already preparing ourselves for the phenomenon understood by all he world - Russian heavyhandedness? For what reason are our hands so heavy? What weighs them down?

Although this leads me to my biggest quibble with the novel thus far. A gulag survivor who eventually escaped to America. Who is old and cranky. Of course he has issues with Russia. And of course he will generalize about his land - Russians and Westerners have been doing it for centuries... the Russian soul, the Russian craving for centralized authority, etc. But Amis does it too much. He spends too much time opining on the deficiencies of the Russian people. It gets old.

I'm much more interested in his characters. The narrator, back in the late 1940s and '50s, is a cipher of sorts. A survivor. A war hero stripped of his heroism. Not a big thinker. He kind of makes me think of Gleb in Cement, a major socialist realist novel. His little brother, Lev, is an intellectual, a dreamer who survives by stubbornly holding to principal. Oh, and he's the one that got the girl. The love triangle is bound to explode - we've already learned as much. It's just a matter of biding our time to find out how.

Lost City Radio

Sad. I am feeling sad right now. Why? Not sure, but I partly blame Daniel Alarcon.

Such a pretty day, so I went out to walk some errands, and ended up drinking chai at Synergy Cafe. Which is where I finished Lost City Radio by the aforementioned Alarcon, a Peruvian transplant to Oakland.

The novel is set in the capital city of a nameless Latin American country, still recovering from a bruising civil war. The central theme of the novel is memory and the struggle to remember against an authoritarian government that is determined to disappear the past. Towns are renamed (actually, renumbered) and the missing seem to number in the tens of thousands.

In the midst of this Norma hosts "Lost City Radio," a weekly program that allows people to share their memories of missing loved ones, and reunites a lucky few who lost one another in the war and mass in-migration to the city. Oh, and Norma also has her own missing: her husband, who disappeared in the jungle shortly after the war ended and who may have been working with the rebels. But he, he remains nameless.

Alarcon weaves together tales from Norma, her husband, the child that appears at the station one day, his cowardly teacher, and a man who ruined other lives and had his own ruined all by accident. They run forward and backwards in time, and you're often trying to place yourself. Is this the present? Right after the war? Before the war? In its midst? City or jungle? The effect is disorienting, but so in many ways are the characters' lives.

What struck me most was the way that simple actions in the novel trigger a string of events that had unforeseen and tragic consequences. And Alarcon shows us the consequences well before delving back to the causes. The cumulative effect is powerful, and troubling. Or, like I said at the beginning of this post, sad.

The Mercy of Thin Air

The above is the title of Ronlyn Domingue's first novel, which I read earlier this week. I had an advance copy, and the novel - set in and around New Orleans - was set to release in September 2005. Not sure how Hurricane Katrina may have affected that. (A peek on Amazon shows that it was indeed released that month.)

The heart of the novel is Razi Nolan, a sparkling 1920s co-ed who died tragically young and remained "between" to guide others through the process of moving beyond. Or really, she stayed because she couldn't let go. It's 70 years later, and she is still trying to find out what happened to her beloved, Andrew, who was essentially ruined by her death. Mirroring Razi and Andrew's love story is the present-day struggle of Amy and Scott to build a life together despite the ghost that haunts them. (It brings to mind the Magnetic Fields, and the song "The One You Really Love.") And of course, the two stories intertwine and solve one another.

It's a prettily constructed tale, that jumps forward and backward in time, and allows the coincidences to feel acceptable and fated, rather than trite. Mostly, at least. Razi's character is a little too much, and I would have toned her down a bit, but I still grieved over the idea that one with so much life could die so young. Domingue offers a reminder that life and death are often unfair, but that acceptance is the key to moving on, in life and in death.

Someone's feeling a little touchy

I'm feeling too lazy to dig up all the links, but there's been some discussion lately in the press about the plight of newspaper book reviews, and the role of lit bloggers in this trend.

On Sunday, the LA Times ran a piece by film and book critic Richard Schickel. The title? "Not everybody's a critic," i.e. "anyone with a blog can express an opinion about a book. But real criticism is so much more." And all these faux critics are messing things up for the real guys. So I guess I'm part of the problem.

Except am I really? I wouldn't even call this a lit blog; it doesn't purport to be literary criticism. It is overtly a set of (often un- or at least underinformed) opinions about whatever it is I'm reading. And if I don't know you and you're reading this, awesome, but this was always intended as a way for me to share with family and friends my thoughts about the books and articles that occupy so much of my life.

That said, I think Schickel must be trying to provoke when he says

Let me put this bluntly, in language even a busy blogger can understand: Criticism — and its humble cousin, reviewing — is not a democratic activity. It is, or should be, an elite enterprise, ideally undertaken by individuals who bring something to the party beyond their hasty, instinctive opinions of a book (or any other cultural object). It is work that requires disciplined taste, historical and theoretical knowledge and a fairly deep sense of the author's (or filmmaker's or painter's) entire body of work, among other qualities.

Dude. Chill. We respect you.

Even more, I respect D.J. Waldie, who you quote as saying that "blogging is a form of speech, not of writing." Good point. I don't suffer over turns of phrase on this blog the way that I did when writing even grad papers, at least not usually. But I wish I did. And I think a lot of bloggers wish they did too. Cut them a little slack.

My unfortunate new obsession

I love Twitter, the web/text/IM 140 character "what are you doing?" application which is apparently sweeping the nation, b/c Barack Obama is now one of my friends.

But a more intriguing friend is TwitterLit, with roughly twice/day posts of first sentences of books. I love this idea. Would that we were all this clever...

Anyway, if you are a Twitterer, feel free to come visit me.

Sitting at the Kids' Table

I know I'm partial to the name Simon, but in the case of Simon Rich, author of a recent New Yorker Shouts & Murmurs piece, I think deservedly so.

Shouts & Murmurs, the magazine's comedic short, is very inconsistent. It's not even that it depends on the writer; just some weeks it'll be funny, others it will totally bomb. But the March 26th issue carried a piece on children's perspectives that I thought was pretty awesome.

Called "The Wisdom of Children," it imagines what happens with adults when they're not around, and how they respond to the machinations of the young. Here is a clip from the first section, entitled "A Conversation at the Grownup Table, as Imagined at the Kids’ Table":

MOM: Pass the wine, please. I want to become crazy.
DAD: O.K.
GRANDMOTHER: Did you see the politics? It made me angry.
DAD: Me, too. When it was over, I had sex.
UNCLE: I’m having sex right now.
DAD: We all are.
[snip]
MOM: I’m angry! I’m angry all of a sudden!
DAD: I’m angry, too! We’re angry at each other!
MOM: Now everything is fine.
DAD: We just saw the PG-13 movie. It was so good.
MOM: There was a big sex.

And in the final section, the US Govt. responds to youth political engagement:

—Did you hear the news, Mr. President? The students at the University of Pittsfield are walking out of their classes, in protest over the war.
—(spits out coffee) Wha— What did you say?
—Apparently, students are standing up in the middle of lectures and walking right out of the building.
—But students love lectures. If they’re willing to give those up, they must really be serious about this peace thing! How did you hear about this protest?
—The White House hears about every protest, no matter how small.

And a description of Woodstock: "Apparently, young people hate the war so much they’re willing to participate in a musical sex festival as a protest against it."

The Unbearable Lightness of Being, a la Turk

Last summer, I wrote about Elif Shafak, a Turkish author who faced defamation charges because of her characters' comments about the Armenian genocide. The charges were dropped, and the novel in question is available in English.

So this week, I read The Bastard of Istanbul. It is beautiful, full of richly eccentric characters and scents and sights. Women dominate this book; men, to the extent they appear at all, are foils to their more colorful female counterparts, even as their actions have such an impact on the course of all their lives.

The book is about family, in all its convoluted and messy forms. That alone would make a compelling novel. But Shafak has greater aspirations.

It is also about discovery and reconciliation. Within the family, and within the broader family of the old Ottoman Empire. The interplay of memory and forgetting is constant. Characters shed old identities in order to forge on; the matriarch slips into Alzheimers, the "bastard" of the title knows nothing of her past. And superimposed on each character's battles with memory is the broader Armenian-Turkish dispute. Were the events of 1915 a genocide? Why is it important to know? Sometimes it's necessary to forget the past in order to escape its grasp.

Trained as a historian, I obviously have pretty strong views about why we need to address and study the past. For the beauty of its stories, for one, and in order better understand ourselves and those around us. Maybe even to learn from it. But despite (or maybe because?) of my historical bent, I can also see the need to address it and move on. And why for so many individuals and even culture, the second step in that process is often so much easier than the first.

These themes come out clearest in an exchange between Asya, the eponymous fatherless young woman, and Armenian Americans on a message board. She writes,

perhaps it is exactly my being without a past that will eventually help me to sympathize with your attachment to history. I can recognize the significance of continuity in human memory. I can do that...and I do apologize for all the sufferings my ancestors have caused your ancestors.

And a response from another poster, after her "private" apology is rebuffed:

the truth is [...] some among the Armenians in the diaspora would never want the Turks to recognize the genocide. If they do so, they'll pull the rug out from under our feet and take the strongest bond that unites us. Just like the Turks have been in the habit of denying their wrongdoing, the Armenians have been in the habit of savoring the cocoon of victimhood. Apparently, there are some old habits that need to be changed on both sides.

And there you have it. An argument for why history must neither be shunned, nor wielded as a weapon. And yet so much easier said than done.

Festival of Books, Day 2

I almost forgot that I went back to the Festival on Sunday. Essentially just to see Jane Smiley, b/c it wouldn't be the same without her. She and Times book editor David Ulin discussed literature, sex, Boccaccio, politics, 9/11 fiction, and more. Smiley is so good in conversation. I don't know if it's from practice, or if she is just naturally a good speaker. She is comfortable being on stage, and doesn't patronize her audience, but is also clearly really intelligent. Also self-deprecating and witty. This wasn't the most entertained I've been by her, but still worth the trip.

Purchases:
The Other Boleyn Girl, by Philippa Gregory (I've made fun of this book for ages; figured it was finally time to read it)
Friday Night Lights, by H.G. Bissinger (the tv show is one of my guilty pleasures)

Swag:
more Ghiradelli chocolate

Ode to a Library

As a graduate student at Georgetown, I relied heavily on inter-library loan and the Library of Congress. But occasionally, I liked to get away from the academic grind, and turned to the local library.

My local branch was a beautiful mansionesque building at Wisconsin and R. Set up on a hill, it looked over the rest of the neighborhood. And on Monday, it burned. And I can't tell from news reports how much was salvaged. It wasn't alone either - another DC treasure, Eastern Market - was also heavily damaged by a fire earlier in the day.

History suffered too:

The library's archivist, meanwhile, stood at Wisconsin and R streets, heartbroken over warped and soot-covered historic paintings and documents that firefighters were bringing out and placing on plastic sheeting on the sidewalk.

The branch's holdings include photos, maps and paintings of the neighborhood and individual files on each home in Georgetown that have been donated over the decades.

I have no words. Libraries and history should never be lost.