Revisiting 2008

Running a program and being back in school don't exactly lend themselves to lots of reading and writing and thinking about reading and writing. Well, thinking some. I was constantly sad that I didn't have more time to read. Or didn't make more time to read. Probably both.

Anyway, I wanted to revisit a couple of the goals I had mentioned for the year. Last year I set the goal of finishing all of my 2007 New Yorkers before the end of the year. (And succeeded with 2 days to spare.) This year, I am still working on the November 17 issue. So I will finish this year 5 issues behind. (Also, it is dangerous to read coverage of Election Night, even now, while at the gym, b/c when you get all weepy and choked up, you then start worrying that people are thinking you are going to pass out b/c the elliptical machine is clearly just too much for you.)

I also joined the Russian Reading Challenge and made it through all 4 (plus one) of those books. In that post, I also claimed I would read another 5 books that I already owned. It appears that I read 7 (there were a couple more, but they were books I purchased this year, so don't count). In total, I read something more than 38 books. (There are some that don't get posts because they are texts for class or I am embarrassed about them. Plus I did a fair amount of re-reading of older books this year too. But anyway...)

Goals for next year? Honestly, I don't know what to expect. 2009 promises to bring a LOT of changes, and I don't know what that's going to mean for me and reading. I guess that I should commit to reading another 10 books that I already own. This would probably be easier if I selected them and listed them here, but that's just not going to happen. Not tonight.

Happy New Year to all! May 2009 bring a lot of happy change for us all.

Anne's secret diary? Kinda boring

Since this has seemed to be a kind of Elizabethan year (not providing links to past entries), I figured I would bring it to a close with the novel my mom lent me: The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn, by Robin Maxwell. I knew it wasn't likely to be "good" but I figured it could probably be pretty fun. And it's kind of a kick to compare all the pop culture portrayals of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. Plus, this offered the bonus of juxtaposing young Elizabeth settling into her reign while learning her mother's fate through her long-hidden diary.

Um, no. It wasn't bad per se, and the idea that it was Anne's fate that led Elizabeth to spurn marriage where she would have to submit to a man is a nice conceit, but it didn't really have any kick. Perhaps I'm just spoiled now and want something sexier and more colorful. Or perhaps I'm really ready to return to more serious fare. Either way, I'd say it's probably time to move on.

Light & serious reading = Egypt & Afghanistan

I've been trying to trade off between lighter fare and actual literary fiction. So this week I started out with an Elizabeth Peters mystery - Serpent on the Crown - and then moved on to The Kite Runner, the rather well-known book by Khaled Hosseini. I know there was a movie at the end of 2007, but I don't remember the source of the hype before. Was it a big book club selection?

Anyway, I knew what to expect with the Peters, although really I miss having Ramses as a more interesting character. I'm not sure she knows what to do with him as a full-fledged adult. Somehow I managed to not know much about The Kite Runner, except vaguely about one of the climactic scenes. And I think that Hosseini is a doctor, like Chekhov. (Yep.) But this novel seriously wore me down. Every time you think, okay, enough tragedy, something else goes wrong. Yet I think that Hosseini managed to avoid melodrama, which is impressive. The book is famous enough that I don't really feel like I'll have anything to add to the conversation, esp not today, when I am worn out from hiking in Griffith Park and very ready to go to bed. Perhaps next time I read a book, I'll manage to blog about it when I'm more awake...

New books are just more fun?

See? Just the other day I wrote about how I have a hard time reading the books I actually own. And today I come across a Booklist blog on the same topic. Based on this WSJ article and its comments, Keir Graff muses on the to-read pile.

And yet I still buy and hoard books. I’ve joked–joked–that I’ll have to quit my job as a book reviewer in order to read books. But given that I won’t, I imagine I’ll spend my first months of retirement doing math, dividing the number of pages per day I can read into the number of years I think I have left–and weeding my thousands of books to read accordingly.

Jesus, I hadn't even thought about doing that math. I need to get on this.

But it's mildly reassuring to remember that I'm not alone, b/c we all have more books to read than we ever will read. And we all let books sit for far too long. I think I might be unusual in that I am more likely to use the "But I will like it so much I just want to save it for a little longer" excuse. But in the end, it is still an excuse. And one that gives me time for re-reading Emma and watching deliciously bad teen shows.

Oops (which is also something a Soviet artist who gave up his dreams might say)

I am realizing that I'm not a very good blogger. I forget to post. I prattle on about the wrong things. But then, since I pretty much always intended this as a reading journal, perhaps it doesn't matter that much.

I am also not very good about reading books in a timely manner. Some books, yes. But others will languish unread for years. And strangely enough, this is not because I don't want to read them. (Well, sometimes maybe.) Rather, it is that I am looking so forward to them that I want to prolong the anticipation. I used to do the same thing with my favorite Halloween candy, which backfired when my parents ended up eating all my Twix. And there would often been Cadbury cream eggs in the refrigerator into the fall.

(Hmm, I was just struck with the thought that this delayed gratification streak is one of the things that is really good about getting so many of my books from the library. First, I get the delay while I'm waiting to get to the top of the list. But then! there are deadlines. I have to pick up the book by a certain date, and then I have to get it back to the library, read, just a few weeks later. It's very good for me.)

Anyway, I digress. One of those languishing books, a gift from almost 3 years back, was The Dream Life of Sukhanov, by Olga Grushin. (By the way, should I be spending mental energy wondering why Grushin, who grew up in Moscow & Prague before moving to the US, is Grushin instead of Grushina?) In Dream Life, we meet a self-satisfied art magazine editor in his late 50s, who appears to be on top of the world with a cushy job, all the perks of being high up in the Soviet apparatus, and a lovely family. But it's the mid-1980s, and there is a new Party Secretary, and a bunch else is about to begin to change. And more importantly, a quarter century earlier, Sukhanov, a talented artist, put aside his ideologically impure art in favor of security. Now, the decision is coming back to haunt him, literally.

As the past descends on Sukhanov, his grasp on reality and time grows shaky, as he slips into flashbacks. Grushin emphasizes these transitions by seamlessly switching from a third-person present to a third person past to a first-person past. And the flashbacks become longer, and deeper. Not only does the technique enable to reader to see how and why Sukhanov abandoned what he most loved, it also illustrates the way that he is sinking further and further into this dream life. And perhaps has inherited his father's insanity. The end comes in a dizzying whirl.

This reader's reaction to Sukhanov was complicated. His self-satisfied smugness at the opening is irritating, and I couldn't help being happy that he was going to be taken down a peg or two. And yet, especially as his vulnerability comes through, I pitied him, and wanted him to be okay. To somehow take the action that would save his (artistic) soul while remaining safe from the wild currents of history and madness. And the vagaries of bureaucratic displeasure. What can I say? I have an over-protective nature.

Grushin was a teen in Moscow in the mid1980s. I hope that her fiction will continue to engage this confusing and heady era, shedding light on how Russians of all stripes faced the promise and peril of the times.

AWWWW! I have one of those too.

Cats and books go well together. But you knew that already.

Also, I've been re-reading books in between writing papers. Like comfort food, in tough times I turn to Emma and Helen Fielding.

Interred with their Bones, or the Da Vinci Code for Shakespeare

I was mainly writing papers last weekend, but somehow I also found time to read a fun little mystery a la Dan Brown about Shakespeare. I had heard about this book on a podcast so figured when I saw it at the library that I deserved a change from library science, political blogs, and teenage vampires. (Seriously, what do I read these days?) (Edit: just wrote another two paragraphs without noticing that I hadn't given any other info on the book. It's Interred with their Bones (or "The Shakespeare Secret" outside of the US apparently) by Jennifer Lee Carrell.)

Like with Da Vinci Code, as well as I can remember it, there are two major plots tracking together. The first is the historical treasure hunt, with information that threatens to blow up everything we thought we knew about a historical figure. In this case, it's about a missing Shakespeare play... oh, and his very identity. The second is the willingness of someone to kill to keep the information safe.

I like to think I'm decently perceptive. But when I read or watch mysteries, I really don't get it sooner than the average person. I like to think this is because I enjoy the discovery process more than being right all along, but really, I have no idea if this is true. What is true is that I figured out the twists on the murder plot pretty quickly, and wasn't convinced when Carrell starting throwing up new misinformation. That was a suprise. On the other hand, I didn't mind all that much, because the far more interesting part was trying to follow her and her characters as they march through Elizabethan, Jacobian, and Shakespearean history, plus an overview of the major controversies of Shakespeare scholarship. It made me realize that I totally do not know my Shakespeare well enough. Have I read any of the English king plays? I don't think so. Or Lear? Have I read Lear? (Why, in my "Shakespeare's England" course in college, did we only read Coriolanus and Titus Andronicus? It was a history course, but still...)

I digress. The book is fun, but still sufficiently intelligent. And nicely creepy for curling up in bed at night.

Twilight update

That series is like crack or something. I don't understand it, but I'm willing to concede that I have really enjoyed spending three straight weekends working through the first three books. The fourth, well, that's going to wait until after finals.

A couple quick things worth noting: I know Romeo & Juliet and Wuthering Heights are fairly typical teen fare; now I'm trying to decide whether Meyer's explicit use of them has made them more accessible or has otherwise turned young readers onto the classics. Also, I love this poem. And well before I saw it as the beginning quote to Eclipse, I had been thinking of it in conjunction to this series. However, I think about it kind of a lot, so maybe that's not such a coincidence.

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Now playing: Dave Matthews Band - Warehouse
via FoxyTunes

My new president supports my new career

I know it's just one line from one speech to a special interest group, but still, yay!

“More than a building that houses books and data, the library represents a window to a larger world, the place where we’ve always come to discover big ideas and profound concepts that help move the American story forward and the human story forward. ... That’s what libraries are about. At the moment that we persuade a child, any child to cross that threshold into a library, we change their lives forever, for the better. It’s an enormous force for good.”

-Barack Obama, speaking at the ALA Annual Conference in Chicago, 2005

Edit: 11/10 - so, apparently I already knew about this quote 3 years ago... See, I was an Obama fan back in the day. Glad so many Americans caught up with me.

Okay Twilight

So the Facebook application "Pieces of Flair" may have gotten its inspiration from Office Space, but I sometimes wonder if it would manage to keep going were it not for Twilight, Stephenie Meyer's crazy-popular young adult vampire series. (I would post some, but it kept making the margins all funny, and also some of them seem to need spoiler alerts attached. Suffice it to say, "Team Edward" "I'm in love with a fictional vampire" and "I'm sending this to you because I needed more points for Twilight flair" are popular.)

I don't remember when/why I decided I would have to get around to reading these. Maybe it had to do with my teens. Maybe it was my way of punishing myself for all the times I have mocked my mom for her vampire craze. Or some sort of cruel irony since I missed the last young adult novel phenomenon that was Harry Potter. Anyway, doesn't really matter. The point is, last Friday I came home from the library, big book in hand, and only wondering a little if the librarian was smirking at me.

Twilight is back at the library, so I don't have a copy nearby to help with this post. (On the other hand, I do have New Moon, a fact about which I am not proud.) It is a ridiculously fast read, by the way. I am sure that someone could do a better recap than this, but here we go: Bella moves from sunny Phoenix to rainy Forks, WA to live with her dad. And she falls in love with a vampire, who may or may not want to eat her. And hijinx ensue. Well, not exactly.

To my mind, clearly the best part of the novel is the "will they or won't they?" aspect to Bella and Edward's relationship. I believe that Meyer knows her Jane Austen well, and was not surprised when Bella breaks out a copy of the collected novels. Edward is very much the Austen hero: wicked smart, extremely honorable, and tortured by his own imperfections. (This may be a coincidence, but as in Austen, any declarations of love are also oddly embarrassing for this reader, who feels both as if she is intruding on something private and wanting to correct the lovers - er, are you sure you want to say it that way?) Yet, unlike legions of Facebook users, I don't feel about Edward the way I feel about Mr. Darcy or Mr. Knightley. (And given that the character is 17 going on 107 or whatever, that's probably not a bad thing.)

So, as far as teen girls go, I totally get it. (Do teen guys read Twilight? Anyone have statistics for me?) Since the protagonists are teens, I imagine it has limited adult appeal. Vampire buffs can get their fix from other series, and romantics will probably seek out something with more sex. But it's awfully charming, and a little addictive - hence Book 2 on my couch and Book 3 somewhere in transit between libraries. I will try to put off Book 4, since really? There has to be delayed gratification somewhere along the way.

Cue Anxiety

Anxiety is actually a pretty good topic for a chick lit novel, as it Aurelie Sheehan's The Anxiety of Everyday Objects, which is almost not quite chick lit. But still is. I mean, it's important for the protagonist to be lovably neurotic, right? And what says lovable neurosis better than anxiety? (This is what I tell myself.)

Anyhow, TAOEO is the title of Winona's movie project, which she dreams about while working as a legal secretary. This is what it means: "Do you ever look at a sign and you think it says something different than it really does? Like the sign says TURN AHEAD and you read it as TURN AROUND, and you feel as if it's a personal message just for you?" [... questions from love interest, including whether this is magical realism or surrealism] "It doesn't have a name. That's part of the anxiety."

I liked this theme, but I never thought it got played to its full potential. I also never really understood Winona's infatuation with new attorney Sandy, who is beautiful and takes Winona out for a facial and as a result is somehow magical. Or something.

Perhaps the best way to put it is that I wanted to like this book more than I did. Which isn't exactly to say that I didn't like it. Maybe I just wanted a little more.

Blog Action Day: oh yeah, I signed up for this

Today, bloggers are harnessing the power of the web (or something like that) to foster a massive conversation on poverty. Thus... Blog Action Day. Last year was about the environment, and this year they are taking on an equally weighty topic.

I could probably have a lot to say. I could ponder about how John Edwards did so much to bring the issue of poverty out of the shadows during his campaign. Or I could make a pitch for the awesome microfinance site Kiva (here's my lender page.)

Instead, I'm going to revisit an old post from 2005 where I discussed economist Jeffrey Sachs' book The End of Poverty. Here's some of what I said:

I am heartened by the fact that Sachs sees the impoverished as people, not just numbers. And that he believes in the free market, but sees a role for governments and institutions in breaking the cycle of poverty. And I hope that he is going to do what he says, provide a step-by-step plan to ending poverty. (It will be interesting to see how "liberal" and humanitarian this is, and also how well it meshes with last week's G8 discussions. I know he believes in debt relief.)

Oh, I forgot. Foreword by Bono. He's kind of a funny writer. But he is lavish in his praise for Sachs, and credits him for providing the kinds of insight and knowledge that have made the rock star a credible speaker for third world debt reduction.

I'm reading a new book

The Anxiety of Everyday Objects (Aurelie Sheehan)

It seemed appropriate.

"This bright brute is the gayest"

...of his novels. This is how Nabokov described King, Queen, Knave, which he first wrote in exile in the late 1920s and which his son translated into English in the 1960s. Set in Berlin, the king is the moneyed entrepreneur Dreyer. He's a bit of a buffoon, like the caricatures of Germans in French literature from the late nineteenth century. (I did a paper on this in grad school. Don't ask. Actually, you can ask. It was really fun to read kids' books that made fun of Germans in Alsace.) The queen is his wife, Martha. She's kind of a cipher, beautiful and cold and bewitching. Except maybe also not that attractive. The knave is our naive (and any pun there is an accident of translation) Franz, Dreyer's nephew, who has come to Berlin for a job at his uncle's store and soon becomes a fixture in the Dreyer household.

I started reading and got swept up in it immediately. I loved the way it was so much a product of a gay and glittering and yet not-so-glamorous time. And so entirely Russian, even as it was set in Berlin with German characters. But then, after a few days, I found myself distracted, and picking up other reading material when I got into bed. The last 50-60 pages came well after the rest. And it shouldn't have gotten boring. I put it down right in the middle of a murder plot. So what happened?

I can't answer the question. I - or the book - just lost momentum. Sometimes that happens. When I finally did get to those last few pages, it came together in a perfectly satisfactory way. I can't complain. But all the joy and passion in my reading was gone. Strange. But still, for the first 100 or so pages in particular, it was a delight.

Oh, and this was my fourth and final selection for the Russian Reading Challenge. I do have one more bonus entry though before the year is through.

Library girl (that would be me)

I've been busy with school. The bulk of my reading has had to do with information science, or management theory (or political blogs or the ever-present New Yorkers, which have gotten the best of me again.) And even my airplane reading on the flight back from Hawaii turned out to be related to school...

Which takes me to Quiet, Please: Dispatches from a Public Librarian, from McSweeney's contributer and Anaheim librarian Scott Douglas. Douglas is about my age. Except he started working as a library page in college, and then went straight to library school. So he's been official for something like 5 or 6 years. And working in libraries for more like 10. (Also, most of my classmates are already longtime employees of some library or another. This makes me nervous for my future career prospects. How am I going to get hired when everyone else already has way more experience? Answer: quit my day job and get unpaid internships?) Anyway, I'm going to say that Douglas has certain writing quirks that mark him as part of the Dave Eggers cadre. (I'm not sure what I even mean by that, and am afraid of getting myself into trouble, so I'm just going to link to a wiki post for Eggers, and make a vague reference to a sort of self-referential, insouciant, nerdy hipsterism.) He also reminded me - with his penchant for wanting to share more information than he can possibly fit in through use of footnotes and "for shelving" asides - of David Foster Wallace, which just makes me sad.

Anyway. Douglas is funny. I laughed. He is good at noting the ridiculous. Yet everytime he edges toward being mean, he tries to take a step back, and I believe he is fundamentally a good guy who just happens to love telling a good story. None of the story of his time in school at SJSU or his early days at the library particularly makes me excited about what lies ahead. In fact, I sat at the airport wondering if I could run out of there and just live on my uncle's couch in Honolulu and swim in his building's beautiful new saltwater pool. But that's a life dilemma for another moment.

And Douglas isn't all "working in a library with librarians is C.R.A.Z.Y." He mocks them, and says they really don't read (working with books too much kills some of the joy, like Dr. Franzblau in this episode). But still, libraries will always be "the gateway to something greater." And the community that they inspire as they serve the community (tortured sentence structure, I know) is really something special.

Erin reads The New Yorker

...and links to random things that catch her fancy.

from July 28:
Jonah Lehrer, Annals of Science, "The Eureka Hunt," The New Yorker, July 28, 2008, p. 40
I knew I was right about this!

The insight process, as sketched by Jung-Beeman and Kounios, is a delicate mental balancing act. At first, the brain lavishes the scarce resource of attention on a single problem. But, once the brain is sufficiently focused, the cortex needs to relax in order to seek out the more remote association in the right hemisphere, which will provide the insight. "The relaxation stage is crucial," Jung-Beeman said. "That's why so many insights happen during warm showers."

fave Aleksandar Hemon has a new book, and is separated at birth from another fave?

(left, Hemon; right, Vladimir Mayakovsky)



from Aug. 4:
Sasha Frere-Jones explains contemporary popular rock:

The main antecedent [to Coldplay's sound] is U2, who invented the form that Coldplay works within: rock that respects the sea change of punk but still wants to be as chest-thumping and anthemic as the music of the seventies stadium gods. Translated, this means short pop songs that somehow summon utterly titanic emotions and require you to skip around in triumphant circles and pump your fist, even if it is not entirely clear what you are singing about.

from Aug. 11 & 18:
Matthew Dickman writes a lovely and haunting poem mostly about suicide, that includes the following line: "If you are/travelling, you should always bring a book to read, especially/on a train." Sound advice.

The Golden Compass

One of the reasons I was slow in getting to The Girl with No Shadow is that I was determined to finish the next book club selection first. Some date tbd we are going to meet to discuss Philip Pullman's The Golden Compass, the first entry in the "His Dark Materials" trilogy.

While reading, I was reminded of how lovely stories for young readers can be. How magical, and allegorical, and balanced between danger and safety. I was too old when this series first appeared to read it as a child, and I often found myself wondering what the experience would have been. Would I have identified with young Lyra? Or were there little moments in which Pullman hit false notes? Would they have mattered? (I have always leaned toward getting swept away by books - I am good at suspending my disbelief.)

Reading the novel now, I thought instead about the parallel universe in which Lyra lives, where people's souls (to oversimplify) reside in animal daemons. I thought about the little nods toward history - or moments in history where two paths diverged into separate universes. I wondered about how different things would be if the emotions you normally learned to keep hidden were on overt display. I meditated on the notion of loneliness - Lyra is terrified by the very notion of what it would be like to ever be without her daemon, Pantalaimon - and whether children feel that intense loneliness. I puzzled over the class distinctions, particularly at first before the plot took off and left most of those questions behind.

And perhaps most strangely, I stopped and thought about this passage, and wondered why it reminded me of Derrida:

The idea hovered and shimmered delicately, like a soap bubble, and she dared not even look at it directly in case it burst. But she was familiar with the way of ideas, and she let it shimmer, looking away, thinking about something else.

Not only did I play with it as far as an idea of meaning residing on the margins, which is where Lyra leaves her plan so that it cannot disappear, but I also stopped to consider myself and my friends. Our predilection toward overanalysis. This right here seems to me an simple and elegant explanation for why we should stop making ourselves crazy by overthinking. Grasping at straws (to begin some fun mixing of metaphors) we cause the very soap bubble we desire to pop.

I'll eventually take on books two and three. Looking forward to seeing where Lyra's adventures take her.

CHOCOLATE (and magic)

I read Chocolat sometime during the spring of my sophomore or junior year in college. I am unclear on how I had time to read a pretty little tale on domestic witchcraft and the joys of food and love and identity and acceptance and friendship, etc. while I was taking classes. But I have very clear memories about where I sat in our backyard and everything. The movie was not as good, despite my love for Juliette Binoche. In part I blame an intransigent movie-mate, and in part I blame the subterranean theater, and the NYC subway trains that shook the whole place every 5 minutes or so.

All of which leads me to Joanne Harris' sequel, The Girl with No Shadow (or The Lollipop Shoes in the UK) which I read in a great big rush at the beginning of the week. [We emphatically do not like the LAPL's new loan period. It is hard to begin a 440 page book on Sunday and turn it in on Tuesday.] But this was a good book to read all at once. It's immersive and fast and mysterious and (literally) magical. We meet Vianne and her daughter four years after the events in Chocolat. They have new names, and there is a new daughter, and a new witch on the horizon. Plus Vianne has abandoned magic in an attempt to create a normal and safe life for her family. And obviously this is not going to work. No surprise.

I was often swept away by the book in that lovely way that books can sweep you away. Where the magic of storytelling just makes you feel safe and free and alive with possibility. But I was also very deeply troubled. The dark aspects of the book were very dark, and the villain's cynicism seductive. The result for me was a kind of dissatisfied turmoil, not a black mark against the novel, but all the same enough to knock me off-kilter.

My Name is Will - actually about the book

This was my favorite line from the whole book. Totally simple, and yet it really got to me. (Maybe because it was in italics?)

"One minute I'm going too slow; the next too fast. We as a society have a very narrow window of acceptable behavior."

Sex, Drugs, and Shakespeare

I've had some time to get over being disturbed by the whole Drench-a-Wench thing. Certain commenters didn't help, but I am being zen about it all. And so I finished reading Jess Winfield's My Name is Will.

I enjoyed the novel - Winfield is witty and evocative. And his two young Wills are human and flawed and clever and likable. (I have also had fun listening to Winfield on the NYT's Book Review podcast, which has utterly out of date archives, and on KQED Forum.)

Since watching him and the rest of the Reduced Shakespeare Company perform Hamlet was such a part of my childhood - and really the only part of the Faire other than the cinnamon sticky buns and lemon shaved ices that I liked - I feel this odd possessiveness. Like, I knew this guy (or my mom did? Whatever.) back before other people did.

So, reading the novel ended up being only about 20% reading the novel - and I'm sorry about that! I wish I could have experienced just as it is, like most readers probably will. Instead it was revisiting my childhood. (I would have been 6 at the time of the book, and hanging out in the Glade reading a totally unperiod book and sulking about how my costume wasn't pretty enough. And 2 or 3 years later the Agoura Faire would be bulldozed and I would be dancing and the Faire would be irrevocably past.) I was amazed by how clearly I remembered the small details - the potholes and the "5 miles per hour" signs at the entrance to the site, the huge tankers that sprayed water on the paths to keep the dust down, the rough locations of various stages and areas - that Winfield mentions during Willie's drug-induced stay at the Novato Faire. And it reminded me again of how different my early childhood was from that of my friends, whose parents hadn't spent the weekends playing high-caliber dress-up. And reminded me of all the things I did and didn't like about the experience. And more than anything, how it shaped me, and how long ago it was. How I am 3 years older than the swaggering Russian diplomat who came to Elizabeth's court and met my mother. And how strange it is to see my childhood in print.

So I guess Jess that I have to thank you for that.

Oh dear lord

From My Name is Will:

He probably would get laid at the Faire. He'd been to a Renaissance Faire once before, near L.A., a few month ago - May, was it? - and he'd gotten lucky, way lucky. Jesus, he'd fantasized about it dozens of times since. There was this game, Drench-a-Wench, that involved sling-shotting a wet sponge at an array of wanton maids sitting on a little bleacher of hay bales. If you hit one, you got a kiss. He'd wondered how long that game could possibly last with a new STD being discovered every day. Just for fun, he'd played. [He hits and kisses some blonde, and that was fine and then notices an exotic brunette checking him out, and she says...] "Truly, I am shocked, sir. Paying for thy kisses when thou couldst surely get them free."

Lovely. Just lovely. Anyone wondering how I came to exist, there's your answer right there.

Persepolis, or why a country that changes its name along isn't always so stable

It took awhile to get there, but I finally got my library copy of The Complete Persepolis, by Marjane Satrapi, and read it in 3 sittings on Sunday. (The complete version, by the way is Persepolis 1 & 2 - or 1-4 in the French. So it takes you from her childhood in Iran through schooling in Vienna and back to Iran for college and young adulthood.)

Without wanting to look for proof of this, I am sure that others have written more eloquently that I will about the ability of the graphic novel to address trauma and tragedy. (See also: Maus, by Art Spiegelman) Because in some ways it is really seeing the innocence in Marji's big dark eyes that hits home... but without feeling so overwhelming that the reader just turns away. (I was discussing this recently in terms of the way we deal with war veterans, and how our guilt in some ways makes us unwilling to hear and understand them.)

I'm not sure what all to say about the book. I am glad I got the complete version and got through everything at once. But I think that reading about the younger Satrapi separately from her teenage and older self would have been good. Clearly, the Islamic Revolution and its impact is a central theme throughout - but in many other ways the child and the teen have very different stories. All very eventful though. To say the least.

This is one of those times where I wish I felt more willing to write an insightful review. But I am not there. Maybe because there was an earthquake - and it's still earthquake weather - or maybe just because so much has already been said about Persepolis, the book and when it came out as a film as well. And I have yet to see the film. But I will.

(Oh, and I've written about memoirs of life in Islamic Iran before (and here). Just wanted to mention.)

PS - I loved the artwork. I was particularly fond of the depiction of all the little girls in their veils, and God, and more disturbingly the ghosts of the all the lives lost.

LibraryCat

Simon loves my books, or rather loves lounging in front of them. He also likes walking on newspapers.

Also, this is what happens when you have people bring over books to swap...

(Also, I would like to point out that Simon's book pile includes Catch-22, William T. Vollman, Bros. Karamazov, and Lady Chatterley's Lover. It also has some cheesy historical mysteries too. Plus! My Name is Will!)

Minus 2 points for sarcasm

Maybe I'm biased, because I seem to have a soft spot for Turkey, or at least for its Nobel laureates. So this story on Treehugger both attracted my attention and raised a little bit of pique.

It turns out that the Turkish government has provided free textbooks for schoolchildren. (Yay, obviously.) Except that they give them away, at a cost of $800 million and lots and lots of trees, and then they mostly get thrown out at the end of the year. And so they produce all new ones and the cycle continues.

"So [and here comes the snark] they’ve come up with an ingenious remedy that some folks have been practicing for centuries, book lending." Students will now return the books at the end of the school year, which is what I did through my years of public education. Not only is this good environmentally and economically, but it can offer Turkish children the opportunity to engage in such fun activities as seeing who had your textbook in years past, and writing in fake "funny" names to entertain future generations of textbook users.

Hopeless romantic

That is me. I kind of like this about myself - I think it's endearing. (If you don't think so, please don't burst my bubble by telling me as much.)

Anyway, I've been reading more sporadically than usual (and catching up on Stanford magazine, actually) but after several nights in a row where something kept me from the final 40 pages of The Painted Veil (by W. Somerset Maugham), I am through it.

This is the July book club selection, and is a particularly exciting choice because there will also be pizza and movie during the meeting. (Hooray!) I don't like to blog about books before the meeting, b/c then I am over all my "interesting" thoughts. But then I don't like to blog after, b/c by then I'm ready to move on. (This is clearly a dilemma. If you have solutions, let me know. Perhaps I could live-blog the meeting? Because that clearly wouldn't be annoying.)

I really liked this book. I could just start and end there; it was thought-provoking and human and obnoxious and unsatisfying and thus terribly satisfying. I was often distracted thinking about the film adaptation and wondering what they would change and whom they cast, etc. And I also found myself drawing analogies to Gone with the Wind, which I think was first published a decade later than this.

Instead of getting into all of those things, I'll just leave you with this early passage:

He did not speak because he had nothing to say. But if nobody spoke unless he had something to say, Kitty reflected, with a smile, the human race would very soon lose the use of speech.

ugh, depressing

So I read a novella last week when I decided to take the bus to work. This book was on my dresser, and I honestly don't remember how it came into my possession. Based on the handwritten notes inside, it belonged to one of two friends (was it you, Jen?) and was from some course or another.

What was this mystery book? Ellen Foster, by Kaye Gibbons. It is a coming-of-age tale of sorts. Really more just a girl's look back at how she survived a seriously f-ed up situation. And fortunately for her - and even more so for us as readers - we know that she survived. And has created/found a safe space for herself.

I found Ellen's voice fascinating. But I couldn't get into this book. I just wanted to escape. And to take Ellen with me. Too much of a downer for July. But I think it probably makes for excellent young adult fiction (for girls, at least).

Sometimes pretentious can be okay

I don't remember how I heard about Maynard & Jennica, by Rudolph Delson. Doesn't really matter - it ended up on my list so I requested it from the library. It's billed as a love story, with a lot of minor characters. In this it is perhaps like Beginner's Greek. But this is missing a lot of the sweet. You're not rooting against these lovers, but I'm not convinced that you like them very much.

I'm having trouble knowing what to say about the book, and perhaps that's because it is a very talky novel. It's a little like a written documentary - a series of (mostly) monologues by a variety of different characters, explaining what's happening from their point of view. And the characters include family, childhood friends, a kid on the subway, and a rap artist. Somehow this all makes sense. And they all have plenty to say, mainly about an ambitious California girl seeking an "illustrious" life in NYC, and a completely pretentious filmmaker who dresses like he's someone's grandpa. These are Jennica (aka Jenny) & Maynard (aka Arnie, aka Manny, aka Gogi). And these monologues are introduced like this: "Maynard Gogarty, in paradise, tells us something he isn't certain of." The uncertain thing, by the way, is whether Jennica knows he can be a jerk. Jennica follows up by being uncertain about whether or not he plans to propose.

Anyway, etc. etc. For just under 300 pages. Also there is September 11, and a really fantastic indictment of the way non-New Yorkers appropriated the city's grief. (I'm not entirely sure I agree, seeing as how I was not exactly innocent of the charge and seeing as how the attacks were on a nation, not just a city, but nonetheless...) And some very funny moments. Which is all to say... what? I liked it; I did. Maybe despite myself.

The Places We Go For Love

A thematic, dual review...

First up is book club selection Candide, which was fun to revisit for the first time since high school. Voltaire is funny and also complicated. I felt like I wasn't deep enough when I was reading it, if that makes sense. But it's an impressively modern-feeling satire, skewering our beliefs in progress, our obsession with money and being right, and of course our hypocrisy about most everything. The translation I chose was a recent one, from 2005, by Burton Raffel. Comparing mine with other club readers' editions today, I'm pretty fond of Raffel's, with one exception. He notes in an introduction that "il faut cultiver notre jardin" has been mistranslated for ages now. Since garden/jardin meant something closer to "fields," he ends the book with "we need to work our fields." Are you kidding me? Sometimes you've just got to go with the famous line. Which isn't to say that it's not useful to know that Candide isn't just talking about pruning roses but actually tending to crops and plants intended for use. But dude, "we need to work our fields"? Yuck.

(PS - To make it clear for readers who have forgotten or never experienced the novella, it fits into my theme because Candide's rather ridiculous travels and travails all stem from his love for Cunegonde and desire to be with her.)

Next up is yet another of my Eastern European ex-pat books, this one a memoir by journalist Jennifer Beth Cohen. The title, Lying Together, provides a delicious double-meaning that frames her Cohen's affair with the one who got away, a fellow college student and Russophile that at the start of the action is working in St. Petersberg and has leads Cohen needs for a story. Within weeks they are engaged and she is on a plane. And that's where the fun begins. I can't believe how much happens in what I believe is apparently just 11 months. Maybe there was an extra year there that I missed. Dunno. Anyway, Cohen does a fantastic job of recreating the seduction of a good scoop, and the heady first days of love, and the heady crazy capitalism of 1990s Russia. But when Jennifer & Kevin start to fall apart, things get hazy and the book loses focus. Which is fine, b/c by then it's almost over and for a book that you can read in just about one sitting (despite the heat! oh the heat in Los Angeles this weekend!) you can forgiven a weak ending when it's got a strong beginning. Plus it mimics their deterioration.

(PS for this one - do you ever mark pages and notes on bookmarks when you are reading and then come back to them and wonder why exactly you felt this passage was worth noting?)

Bewitched by Beginner's Greek

It really is the best word I can think of - bewitched. I wasn't even sure I liked James Collins' novel while I was reading it, but I just could not put it down. He manipulated my emotions perfectly, so that I was utterly invested in the outcome of the novel.

Peter and Holly fall in love as seatmates on a cross-country flight, but Peter loses her number, killing the romance before it has a chance to flower. Until fate brings them back together, except now she's with his best friend. Cheesy, I know. Except it works. One thing that particularly pleased me as Collins laid out the scenario was that he skipped the re-encounter. We jump from a heart-stricken Peter looking desperately for the lost number, to him three years after Holly has returned to his life. The meeting happens in flashbacks. A lot of important moments in the novel happen in flashbacks. And we spend a lot of time in various characters' heads, seeing how they see themselves and the starcrossed couple. Holly though? We don't really meet her until page 280, by which point I'm ravenous for her to become more than a cipher onto which others attach their own aspirations.

The rarefied air in which the characters move can be a little annoying - um, why am I not that rich and clever? - but forgivable in the same while Jane Austen & Edith Wharton's settings are forgivable. And like Austen, Collins loves skewering self-interest and hypocrisy. But also like her, he is gentle about it. No one tends to fall very hard or very far.

In fact, therein lies a central theme of the story: "[...] here she was setting off to grab all the love and happiness she could get. He hoped she would succeed. Whenever good people who were weak and timid showed strength and got things that bad, arrogant people always had handed to them, Peter was moved." Indeed.

The Winter Queen

Book 3 of the Russian Reading Challenge: Boris Akunin's The Winter Queen, the first in a series of mysteries set in the final decades of the 19th century. Akunin started publishing in Russia about 10 years ago, and gained massive popularity in a hurry, and TWQ first appeared in English in 2003. (At least a half dozen other Akunin titles are also available in translation.)

The book's protagonist is Erast Fandorin, a very young clerk in the Moscow police department. He is eager and curious, traits that lead him to investigate a simple suicide that proves to be anything but. The mystery has a variety of twists and discoveries, and while it's not particularly challenging, it is awfully fun. (I'd like to hear what others think of the ending though.)

A couple other aspects of the novel that I found noteworthy:
The suicide is a case of "American roulette," better known to most of us as Russian, and it prompted this observation by a rakish count: "It's stupid but exciting. A shame the Americans thought of it before we did." This led me to wonder about the origins of the term, and mini-research (Wikipedia, of course - and in Russian) suggests that Akunin is alone on the American origin thing, although there doesn't seem to be much evidence attaching it to Russia either. But it was still funny to me. (Also, a similar game of chance with gunplay is mentioned in Lermontov's A Hero of our Time - per Wiki the only instance of R.R. in Russian literature - but it's hard to call it quite the same thing, upon rereading the story.)

Aspects of the characters reminded me a great deal of Dostoevsky, particularly The Idiot, although also Bros. K. Fandorin has a shade of Myshkin-esque innocence to him, and he is also drawn to two distinct types of beauties. One is pure and fair, and of good family; the other is dark, corrupted, but utterly beguiling. And the latter has a train of roguish followers. Maybe I'm making too much of it though.

All in all though, an excellent challenge selection.

crossposted at RRC

Mmm, history...

My first week as a grad student, Prof. K assigned both Herodotus and Thucydides for us to read and come back to discuss the next week. (Um, right. So I made it about 1/3 to 1/2 through each. Isn't 600 pages for one class as a baby grad student enough???) And then school got crazy - and then I left - and I've never finished reading them. I want to though! And after reading Daniel Mendelsohn's recent New Yorker article on Herodotus I might even find the wherewithal to do so.

First off, most awesome depiction of H ever: he was "like having an embarrassing parent along on a family vacation. All you wanted to do was put some distance between yourself and him, loaded down as he was with his guidebooks, the old Brownie camera, the gimcrack souvenirs—and, of course, that flowered polyester shirt." (Mendelsohn and co. originally preferred Thucydides. I, on the other hand, hate all that on vacations but LOVE it in my histories.)

Anyway, the article is awesome; it makes me want to go back to the books soon soon soon, and even compares H's style to that of "War & Peace" and the events covered to America's current escapades in the Middle East. So look for some ancient history coming to this blog sometime this summer...

Confessions of a Chick-Lit Reader

I can't help myself. Recently I compiled a list of ideas for my book club's upcoming meeting. Included on the list was Sophie Kinsella's Confessions of a Shopaholic, a book I never really expected to read but somehow ended up owning. The rest of the members totally did not go for it (they chose Candide instead) but I actually think that we could have had a very interesting discussion from Kinsella.

On Saturday afternoon I was feeling tired and grumpy and wanted a quick pick-me-up of a read. So I grabbed COAS and got started. I finished it sometime around 8:30 that evening before getting ready to go to a party (I had to stop for the Stanley Cup finals, else I might have finished earlier) and I must say that it absolutely filled my need. Kinsella took a lot from Bridget Jones' Diary, and I'm pretty sure I had mapped out the plot within about 5 pages, but sometimes that's okay. Becky's disconnect between her lack of money and inability to stop spending is adorable - and unfortunately all too relevant to me these days, although clearly I should aim higher. More biting though, is Kinsella's attention to the way the financial industry helps her along in this self-delusion, offering her new lines of credit even as they are sending her collection letters. That I enjoyed.

Anyway, for all my ridiculous vocabulary and big important books, I still am a sucker for chick lit. And I'm a sucker for all the same reasons other "chicks" are: it is light and funny; we recognize our own foibles in the person of the protagonist; despite those foibles, life and love always work out in the end; and said protagonist is always just that much more interesting and sophisticated than we are. We can aspire to be her, because she made it there even though she is neurotic, or a spendthrift, or has wacky parents, or can't hold down a job.

Are these books good for our psyche, or just empty calories? Probably the latter, but sometimes you need the empty calories. Because what is life if you always make the wise decision?

A Happy e-mail in my inbox

Good news

I am thrilled to inform you that we have successfully restored $1.5
million in funding to our City’s public libraries. We will now be
able to buy new books to fill library shelves and keep regional library
branches opened on Sundays.

As Vice-Chair of the Los Angeles Budget and Finance Committee I was
honored to fight for one of our City’s most valued resources, our
libraries. But we could not have achieved this victory without the
impressive outpouring of community support to restore funds. I received
hundreds of emails, phone calls and letters expressing concern about the
proposed funding cuts. I thank you for your commitment to keeping our
treasured libraries open and available to all our residents. I look
forward to hearing from you again soon.

Sincerely,

Councilwoman Wendy Greuel
Second Council District

Mary Poppins wrote about this too in today's Times.

Eat Pray Love

Elizabeth Gilbert's tale of her year exploring the above verbs in Italy, India, and Indonesia has been a book club favorite and enjoying a loooooooong run on the best-seller list. I am a self-styled iconoclast. If everyone else loves it, I am emphatically not interested. Until I am.

So I put it on my library hold list, and waited and waited. And then finally read it. Including reading almost the entire Italy section in one sitting after work and before a meeting. I was set to find it shallow, or silly, or obnoxiously wise. And it was those things, but it was also witty and ridiculous and honest and real. So thumbs up to Gilbert, who starts off extremely strong, and then even as it wanes in the second half, has established enough likability for the reader to see her through.

Enough. Some passages that made me smile:

David's sudden emotional back-stepping probably would've been a catastrophe for me eve under the best of circumstances, given that I am the planet's most affectionate life-form (something like a cross between a golden retriever and a barnacle), but this was my very worst of circumstances. [...] His wishdrawal only made me more needy, and my neediness only advanced his withdrawals, until soon he was retreating under fire of my weeping pleas of "Where are you going? What happened to us?
(Dating tip: Men LOVE this.)

I have to admit, I looked around when I read this, guilty, because there was a moment where I recognized this scenario a little too much. This next one though....

So Sofie and I have come to Pizzeria da Michele, and these pies we have just ordered - one for each of us - are making us lose our minds. I love my pizza so much, in fact, that I have come to believe in my delirium that my pizza might actually love me, in return. I am having a relationship with this pizza, almost an affair. Meanwhile, Sofie is practically in tears over hers, she's having a metaphysical crisis about it, she's begging me, "Why do they even bother trying to make pizza in Stockholm? Why do we even bother eating food at all in Stockholm?"

I read that and wondered, how did Gilbert ever make it past Italy? But I guess I'm glad she did.

Why Reading Rocks

Despite the fact that I do not volunteer for the Literacy Network of Greater LA (yet), I managed to get an invite to the Network's volunteer appreciation brunch this past week at the Hollywood Bowl. So my friend and I traipsed over to the Bowl Museum patio, which is gorgeous, and chatted with the staff (who is AMAZING) and ate yummy food. And most importantly, heard about and from people who are giving of themselves to help fellow Angelenos become literate. Hooray for them! My grandmother was a literacy tutor once upon a time (and we just commemorated what would have been her 83rd birthday earlier this week) so it was a nice way for me to honor her memory and also realize what an awesome gift she gave to others during her life. Yay Grandma.

I was really curious about the keynote speaker, a Dr. Danny Brassell from Cal State Dominguez Hills who is an associate professor of teacher education. He spoke about "creating readers for life," which most of you know is something is something I care a lot about. And at the same time barely "get" b/c I became a "reader for life" so young, and so without intention - there's this part of me that can't understand not loving reading. So I was worried when I heard 45 minutes, but those were 45 very short minutes. Brassell was a fantastic pick for a Saturday morning brunch: energetic and funny and irreverent and goofy. He treated us like we were about 8, and that was fantastic. And in the end, his main message was simple. You have to meet readers-to-be where they are at. It's not about you, it's about them. Plus, it's easier to remember things when they have a jingle or a dance. But you already knew that, right?

Here's his website. Where he recommends what clearly my parents did to create me.

My mission is to increase interest in reading by providing cool, short book recommendations for all ages. From interest comes devotion. As teachers, parents or whatever state we find ourselves in, we often cannot find time to read for fun, and I think it is important that our children see us reading for pleasure.

Exactly. You rock. Reading rocks. I need to do more of it.

Charlotte

On my mom's advice, I read Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and did a term paper on Ken Kesey and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. When I was in 11th grade. I'm not really sure I was ready for the Merry Pranksters. But I really enjoyed it. And I got a big kick out of Tom Wolfe's style.

And The Right Stuff became one of my favorite books of all time. Despite being more "masculine" in style than most things I like, it was just so powerful and evocative - and history! - and I loved it.

But Wolfe's social commentary fiction? Not so much. Which isn't to say that I didn't enjoy Bonfire of the Vanities or A Man in Full. Because I did. But man, Wolfe can come off as so judgmental. It can be a little much.

Which brings me to I am Charlotte Simmons. I was afraid of this book, b/c Wolfe spent a semester at Stanford while I was there, walking around in his white suit and clearly researching such important terms as "hooking up" and "dormcest." And even though talking heads kept comparing his fictional Dupont College to Duke, I knew that it had a whole lot of Stanford in there. And I wasn't in the mood to be judged. Not on my alma mater.

And speaking of my alma mater, I felt as though Wolfe laid me totally bare within 10 pages, when a drunken frat boy expounds on the "exaltation" of being recognized as a Dupont student:

Everyone, male or female, who was right now, as he was, in the undergraduate division, Dupont College, or had ever graduated from Dupont College knew that feeling, treasured that feeling, sought one way or another to enjoy that feeling daily if at all possible, now and for the rest of his life - yet nobody had ever captured that feeling in words, and God knows no Dupont man, or Dupont woman, for that matter, had ever tried to describe it out loud to a living soul, not even to others within this charming aristocracy. They weren't fools, after all.

And that's it exactly.

I was able to forgive the plot implausibilities and fixation on the word "rutting" and annoying self-pity throughout the rest of the novel (which is a fun read btw, in a very longguilty pleasure sort of way) because Wolfe had captured that feeling so completely.

AWW