File under: Things that don't happen in my life

Diary of a Working Girl - Daniella Brodsky (Berkley Books, 2004)

Sometimes, you just need some chick lit. (Well, maybe you don't, but I do.) And the lovely and talented Siel happened to have one, and was all-too-happy to get it out of her apartment.

This novel struck me as almost shockingly derivative of Confessions of a Shopaholic. Brodsky even has her main character namecheck the book and its author at some point. (She also mentions thinking of Bridget Jones as a real person, which is a bad habit I have had at various points in the past.) But I actually liked this way more than COAS. (In fact, I'm surprised I gave the book a good review on my blog, b/c in my memory I was kind of horrified by how mediocre it was.) I found Becky vapid and annoying. But Lane, even if she was doing the same ridiculous things - like going shopping when you're late to work on your first day?!? wtf - was somehow endearing. I felt like it lost a little steam toward the end, when the inevitable happy ending arrives, but these books are more about the buildup than the actual payoff, right?

It also doesn't hurt that I've always liked the name Lane (actually, preferably Laine) thanks to the Babysitters' Club books and also my girl Lelaina Pierce.

I Was Told There'd Be Cake - Sloane Crosley (Riverhead Books, 2008)

Sloane Crosley has a new book out. Thus it seemed like an appropriate time to actually get around to reading the first collection of essays, which has been on my To Do list for awhile. (It also helped that I was at the library, weeding books just 2 aisles away from this one.)

I'm not feeling very review-y right now, but in short: very funny, slightly neurotic essays from a highly educated young woman, covering terrible jobs, bridezillas, sex and love, moving, friends, oh and that Oregon Trail game that we played computer-free in our fifth-grade classroom while everyone else in the world my age apparently played at home on ancient Apples.

I was utterly enchanted with Crosley's search for a legitimate one-night stand, as documented in the essay "One-Night Bounce." While waiting at the vet, I actually read most of the first several pages aloud to my mother, who was amused, but not nearly as much as I was. I kind of want to block quote the first three pages. I won't. But here's a peek:

The second I was old enough to know what sex was, I knew I wanted to have a one-night stand. [...] I wanted to do it immediately. Largely because I had no idea what it entailed. I figured a one-night stand happened when two people, one of whom was a woman, went to a man's apartment for martinis and stood on the bed the whole time, trying not to spill them.

And it goes on from there.

People who are about my age who are more fabulous than me can be depressing, and I wasn't completely immune to this with Crosley, but she's awfully disarming. So thumbs up.

New Yorker Fiction!

So The New Yorker had a summer fiction issue again! And like one of the very first I remember reading, this one features Jonathan Safran Foer. This time, he's one of "20 Under 40" - a pretty eclectic group of young authors, most of whom will be familiar to NYer readers.

This issue had stories by eight of the 20, with the rest to come in the next several issues. I tend to stick with this magazine for the reporting, not the fiction, but it's nice to have a nice big set of stories from time to time.

You can see more about the authors, including individual Q&A and links to their stories (if already published), here. Frustratingly, a bunch of the stories aren't available online except to subscribers, but some are. In brief, I am curious to see if Foer's "Here We Aren't, So Quickly" is part of a larger project, and I heartily enjoyed (as usual) Gary Shteyngart in "Lenny Hearts Eunice." Everything else was good (in that New Yorker fiction way) but I will just leave it at that.

Tweeting Tolstoy

During my reading of Volume One, I also shared regular thoughts on my Twitter feed. Here they are... (hashtags removed except where integral to the tweet)

"If the world could write by itself, it would write like Tolstoy" --Isaac Babel

Feeling far more sympathetic to Pierre Bezukhov than I remembered.

If Prince Andrei turns out to be like Ethan Hawke in Reality Bites, I'm going to be pissed.

I imagine it comes as no surprise that I think War < Peace.

Andrei Bolkonsky is maybe not as awesome as I remember. (I think this is going to be a major theme of my #WandP tweeting.)

chai at Panera and #WandP (Napoleon is winning.)

The aftermath of battle: "All this was so strange, so unlike what he had hoped for."

"He was sincerely beginning to believe in his extraordinary kindness and his extraordinary intelligence..."

"... the more so because, deep in his heart, it had always seemed to him that he really was very kind and very intelligent."

The thought of battle makes soldiers emo. Also? Apparently the emperor is like Jesus or something.

Battles make for all sorts of confusion. And overblown prose. Thus ends Volume One.

Peace > War

War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy (trans. by Richard Pevear & Larissa Volokhonsky) (Alfred A. Knopf, 2007)

Volume One

I was all aflutter when this translation came out, and it took me awhile (a year or so) to actually purchase it. And then it took me even longer to read it. I've mentioned before that I read W&P right after high school and fell dramatically in love with it. But how would I feel 13 years later?

So here I am this summer, reading this translation. Marveling at all the French. (Apparently P & V's decision to leave so much of the original French, which I think it probably justified, caused some amount of controversy.) When I committed to this big book (1215 pages before the appendix and endnotes) I decided I would serialize my reading. There are four volumes and a (two-part) epilogue. Attaching the epilogue to Volume 4, it makes for about 4 chunks of 300 pages each. I'll be interspersing this with lighter - or at least other - reading. (For example, on my plate right now: essays about being a 20-something female.)

I remembered that Tolstoy cut back and forth between "peace" in Moscow & Petersburg, and "war" out in Austria or wherever. I remembered finding war significantly less interesting. This has not changed. The homefront has women! and gossip! and romance and intrigue. The soldiers on the other hand are mostly just riding around being melodramatic and daydreaming about glory. Seriously, I found myself nodding off multiple times during battle scenes.

I did not remember that the novel starts back in 1805, years before much of the main action. I forgot that we meet Natalya Rostov(a) as a coltish tween. I forgot that before I had an irrational excuse to dislike Pierre, I might have actually found him charmingly inept and adorable, the way I do now.

But of course I remembered the epic scope of Tolstoy's world. And the ways in which he was so generous with detail. No one is an afterthought.

I'm looking forward to Volume 2.

Team Eric

Dead and Gone - Charlaine Harris (Ace Books, 2009)

Just one behind! (Of course it's the brand new one, so who knows when I'll get my hands on it.) It seems fairly clear to me that Harris has a plan for Sookie's love life, and with whom her happily-ever-after (if she ever gets one) lies. I don't think I approve of this plan. But whatever, I'm not in charge. If it's so important to me, I should just go write my own wildly successful series of vampire/werecreature/witch/fairy books. But if you had any doubts where my allegiance lay, check out the title of this post again.

And that's about all I have to say about this installment. It's gotten totally out of control - there are about a zillion different groups of supernatural beings either trying to kill or keep an eye on Sookie pretty much simultaneously. And everyone keeps dying. And really, dying in increasingly horrific ways. When do we get the book where no one dies?

Also, whenever she has a moment of regret, I applaud. Because things were obv kinda awful before, when everyone thought she was a freak for reading minds. And being desired for that very trait is pretty cool. But being desired has an awful lot of pitfalls. Sookie's a do-er more than a philosopher, but I wouldn't mind a DFW-esque cascade of footnotes that consider this somewhat existential dilemma. Just saying.

La sua cantante

Bel Canto - Ann Patchett (HarperCollins, 2001)

I feel like there was this period right around my college graduation where everyone on BART was reading The Poisonwood Bible and Bel Canto. I never got around to the former (though I've read other Barbara Kingsolver) but came across a copy of the latter, so after sitting on my shelf for awhile, it made it onto my list of books to read this year. And I'm glad - it made for a particularly nice antidote to the anxiety of White Noise.

While reading, I kept finding myself thinking of the Stanford Prison Experiment. This novel presented a scenario almost the opposite. A group of commandos, terrorists, guards, set against their hostages, or prisoners. And unlike the escalating cruelty that occurred in the basement of Jordan Hall, the story of the two groups stuck in the Vice Presidential mansion of an unnamed Latin American country is one of relationships built and humanity in ascendancy. Over the weeks and months of confinement, they create a new reality, to the point that several never really want it to end - and even fewer are willing to admit the only possible way that it can end.

This raises a few questions. Does the initial power imbalance account for the differences? At Stanford, you have a group of peers, randomly assigned positions of power or subjection. In Patchett's novel, the prisoners represent the powerful and privileged, and in a sense swing the pendulum back to an original state as the authority of the generals slowly (or rapidly?) erodes. Or is it a timing issue? Zimbardo called things off after 6 days, when they got out of control. In the novel, the situation drags on for months. After 5 days, the guards and generals are still very much in power. Had the Stanford Prison Experiment lasted longer, would relationships have been forged and equilibrium restored? And of course, it's useful to remember that I'm talking about a novel and not real life.

Anyway, at one point in the reading, the phrase "recklessly beautiful" came to mind. I don't know exactly what I mean, but it seems appropriate. The characters fall prey to beauty - to the beauty of music, of love. Their embrace of it leads them to live recklessly, carelessly. Not in their actions per se, but in their suspension of disbelief, that this world could continue, or that things could all come out all right in the end.

So you're left with this mesmerizing story, that invites you too to set aside the dark undertones, to ignore the threatening moment. And believe, for a few pages, in something magical. You can know in the end that the system always wins, and still believe that maybe this time it won't. Or that even when it does, the interlude made it worth it.

[Also, the characters! They are treated with a lot of love. I should have allotted them more time. It's the minor characters that made the book: the vice president turned cleaning crew, the French ambassador, the loud and romantic and ridiculous Russians, the singing terrorist, the chess-playing general. They sound so cheesy when reduced to these terms. They were not.]