2009 Recap, and Goals for 2010

First of all, looking back, I see I have read about 32 books in 2009. This number isn't entirely accurate, as there are books that don't merit blogging, but close enough. This is a lower number than I would have liked, but decent enough considering the combination of school and work, and the big project that was Infinite Jest. And depending on how I spend the rest of today, I might get through Wolf Hall as well, another big book. Also worth noting, I actually made it through all my magazines for the year, New Yorkers included. (In 2007, when I finished those, I left a huge pile of other crap. No piles left this year.) I also set the goal of reading 10 books I already owned. Considering how much I love getting library books instead of reading what I already have, this is harder than it sounds. And looking back at my posts, I didn't do it, and hit what looks like 8 instead, although if you count books that were lent to me before the start of 2009, maybe I could give myself credit.

So for the year to come... I'm going to stick to my usual. I'm going to keep up with magazines, and again go for reading 10 books that I already own. This time, I'm going to identify 6 in advance, and leave the other 4 up to fate. So here goes. In 2010, I will read:
2666, by Roberto Bolano
Dreams from My Father, by Barack Obama
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz (why have I been putting this off???)
The Black Book, by Orhan Pamuk
Bel Canto, by Ann Patchett
Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, by Barbara Kingsolver
And in deciding this list (all random except for 2666, which I thought would be part of Infinite Summer, but that appears uncertain, to say the least) I am noticing how many other fantastic books I have that I am really eager to read. Perhaps I need to lose my library card for a little while...

Happy New Year to you and yours.

"Happinesses opted against" or, an iPod love affair

The Song is You - Arthur Phillips
New York: Random House, 2009

I was recently commenting that Phillips has written four very different novels, starting with the Eastern European ex-pat novel in Prague, and then an Egyptology mystery and a Victorian ghost story before this latest about the unlikely romance between a music fan and an up-and-coming singer-songwriter set in present-day New York City. Except that there are thematic similarities. I mentioned in one of those previous reviews that he likes to play with the subjectivities of reality as experienced by different people. That continues here, as Phillips layers actions and memories, such that you are constantly forced to re-conceive of what happened in the previous pages.

Plot brief: Julian is a somewhat-jaded tv commercial director who has lost his wife and son, his libido, and is struggling to hold onto memories of the power of song. Until he comes across Cait O'Dwyer, a young Irish musician who is about to make it big. Julian's estranged wife and Asperger-y brother are also lost and damaged, and so are the other men orbiting around Cait: her guitarist and collaborator, a policeman who much prefers Sinatra, and a washed-up rocker who grasps desperately at a chance to feel fame again. Phillips sets up a whole array of other storylines that could be, most of them freighted with a hint of impending menace. I read nervously, unsure when a misunderstanding - that subjective reality - would lead to disaster. Whatever disaster means.

The novel also contains some lovely musings on the power of music and the way certain songs elicit longing and evoke times and places. And how their power loses potency when called upon too often, or wrongly. It made me want to empty my iPod of all those podcasts and just trip down memory lane, one song at a time.

Sookie Stackhouse, take 3

Club Dead - Charlaine Harris
New York: Ace Books, 2003

And so here is Book 3. Damn, this girl gets around. Also, lots more supernatural creatures out there. It's a little overwhelming. Nothing particularly to add to my thoughts on this series, but figured I would have it here for the record.
(Also, since there are elements here that appeared in Season 2 of True Blood, albeit in different fashion, I'm wondering exactly how they will use this book for Season 3.)

Family Histories

Rain of Gold - Victor Villaseñor
Houston: Arte Publico, 1991

A friend, recommending this to me, describes it as the book that made him want to be a history major. (For me, that was pretty much a foregone conclusion - probably because of this book from my childhood that no one else has ever heard of - but I had a similar experience reading this.) Much as I love history, these kinds of books are few and far between, so I decided I would go find Rain of Gold after my semester ended.

And then I found out it was 550 pages long. And I questioned my resolve. There's a lot I want to read coming up; was I sure I wanted to devote so much time to this book about a Mexican family that eventually settles in California? But then I sped through the book. I could barely put it down. Victor Villaseñor's parents are the two protagonists in this unlikely love story, though the lifeblood of the story likely belongs to his grandmothers, two women who battle to keep their families alive and together through upheaval and violent change. The foreword, just over 2 pages long, is important, so don't skip it. Here he explains how these stories were part of the air he breathed growing up, and how he brushed them aside as he got older, as we all do, until he had a family of his own and realized "how empty I'd feel if I couldn't tell my own children about our ancestral roots." But even more importantly, he explains why the narrative is told in a melodramatic style that is sometimes reminiscent of magical realism. It makes sense then.

What works even as everything threatens Juan Salvador and Lupe and their families again and again is that you know the end - you know that eventually there will be Victor, and then this book. And as a result, history seems fated, preordained.

And finally, while the scenes is Mexico when Lupe is a little girl are perhaps the most vivid of the entire book, I was particularly interested in life after the two families make it to Southern California sometime in the early 1920s. My family first settled in Los Angeles around 1950, so learning more about what it was like - for Californians of all races - during the Prohibition era was fascinating.

Yet another vampire post

Living Dead in Dallas - Charlaine Harris
New York: Ace Books, 2002

I read the second book in the series that has become True Blood, which I miss. A classmate has noted that Harris seems to have better editors as the series goes on, and even if this second novel I feel like I might be starting to see a difference.

What's sort of more interesting to me is how drastically the books differ from the tv show. Reading this, which is essentially season 2, you can see where the writers found their inspiration, but then they went off in all sorts of directions. And most of them, I prefer. The television characters, Sookie and Bill excepted, are pretty much all more vibrant and funny and engaging. (Harris pours her all into Sookie, so she is lively on the page, and while book Bill is fine, I find him just sooooooooo boring on the show that it's not too hard to outdo him.)

Anyway, it was a good read for finals week. Vacation reading on the way...

I can see the appeal of small-town life

Empire Falls - Richard Russo
New York: Vintage, 2001

They made a miniseries out of this novel the year after I moved to LA. I was taking the bus at that point, and I remember there were ads on benches everywhere. It was a little over the top.

The book itself is a little over the top though too. Except that it's also understated. Does this make any sense? It's about the life of a fading town in Maine, centered around Miles Roby, who was supposed to leave but didn't, and his family. It's slooooowly paced, except when it isn't, and the main narrative is punctuated with regular flashbacks that explain how it all came to be. You find yourself wanting a positive outcome for (most of) the characters, but just don't know if that'll happen.

This is one of those books where I think I might remember reading it - and the atmosphere it created - better than I remember the plot itself. I started it on a gloriously warm and sunny Thanksgiving afternoon, then spent a lovely portion of an evening reading snuggled in a beautiful hotel lobby. (And then finished it in bed at some point later.) The overall effect was tremendously calming.

Russo is a thoughtful writer, and I appreciated his style. A few of the moments that caught my eye:

• he "especially admired that they were dreamers who felt no urgency about bringing their dreams to fruition."
• "What did you do when you were good at just one thing, after it turned out you weren't as good as you thought?"
• "And that's the thing, she concludes. Just becasue things happen slow doesn't mean you'll be ready for them. If they happened fast, you'd be alert for all kinds of suddenness, aware that speed was trump. 'Slow' works on an altogether different principle, on the deceptive impression that there's plenty of time to prepare, which conceals the central fact, that no matter how slow things go, you'll always be slower."

And this last observation, by Miles's teen daughter, occurs just as the things that had been happening slow start to happen very fast indeed.

Geographic Misadventures

London is the Best City in America - Laura Dave
New York: Viking, 2006

This is kinda the best book title ever. Well, perhaps not ever, but still. And eventually, you actually find out what the title refers to. Anyway, this isn't necessarily the book I expected.

What I especially didn't expect was how creepily it seemed to be written for me, in order to smack me around a little and say, um, hello Erin. What is going on? Which is not to say that I've spent three years since running out on my fiance working in a fishing shop in Rhode Island and working on a documentary of fishwives. Or that my brother is about to get married to a girl he's been dating since I was in high school, except that he might be in love with someone else. Or that my brother has a hot older friend who is a chef, which may or may not be important to me.

Some of Dave's pronouncements can be a little pedantic. Emmy is full of deep thoughts and meaningful realizations. But it worked, and, again, it slapped me around a little. Some examples:

• You don't always know what you'll remember. And, still, it was starting to seem to me that -- if you paid close enough attention -- you could sometimes predict moments that were going to turn out to be important, moments that would stay with you. [This is just the beginning of a reverie about the times "already existing closer to memory than reality"]
• You can't really feel anything entirely unless part of you doesn't know it's happening.
• There are moments when you can feel something fall down inside of you, and never rise up in exactly the same way again.
• I said a small, silent prayer of gratitude that tonight was going to end. Not gracefully, maybe, but eventually.
• I felt this incredible relief at hearing him say it -- and then, almost simultaneously, this incredible sadness. If things were eventually going to work out, did it matter how you go there? Didn't it ultimately just matter that you got the ending you wanted?
• Never. I will never be done with you. I will never be able to think about you and hear about you and not totally -- totally -- miss you. [and more thoughts about her former fiance and her intensely complicated relationship. Not with him, but with the version of him that she's held ever since she left him. And later...] I'd remember [him], and I'd remember him wrong. And that was probably when I'd miss him the most.
  
• I really wish that I could begin to describe what it was like seeing her being seen that way by him. It was like watching a memory.
• If this were all we'd have to remember this day by, wouldn't it end up looking like this was the only way it was ever supposed to be? So maybe I was wrong to be questioning it still. What did I know about the way things came together? Maybe they had to come this close to falling about first.

So you see? In fact, the whole thing almost made it hard for me to concentrate on the will he/won't he plotline that ostensibly drives the whole book. And perhaps it does. Perhaps it takes other people's dramas to force Emmy out of her holding pattern. And if that's the case, what are the implications for a girl like me?

Hey Lauren Lipton, please write another novel

It's About Your Husband - Lauren Lipton
New York: 5 Spot, 2006

With the exception of some weird Twilight madness that overtook me last fall, I really don't read multiple books by the same author all at once (and by "all at once" I mean within 6 months or so). I tend to spread them out. But occasionally I make exceptions. And since Mating Rituals... apparently got to me so much, I decided to inaugurate my new library card (hello Huntington Beach!) with Lipton's earlier novel.

Let's see. Iris is a newly-unemployed transplant from the San Fernando Valley to New York. (Why oh why does everyone knock the Valley so much, btw?) Because apparently the fact that she confuses twin sisters is a sign of her awesome detective skills, she somehow gets herself hired to track Sister #2's husband, who may or may not be having an affair. And, predictably. mayhem ensues. Oh, and puppies. Two of the main characters are a pug and a Jack Russell terrier (Awww).

One thing I will say about this novel that I really needed is that there really aren't any evil characters. (Is that a spoiler? It might be.) You go through thinking, oh, well this person is a cad/bitch/psycho/whatever, and then they aren't. They're just misguided, or a little selfish, and human, and forgivable. So that's nice. In the middle of stressful life changes and moves and end-of-semester workloads, it's nice to visit a world where good things happen.

Since Lipton's second novel just came out earlier this year, I'm not expecting anything new anytime soon, but when it does come, I will read it. Ooh, and hey! she's working on her next novel. And it's going to be "literary!" Yays all around.

I'm so glad I missed the 70s

The Ebony Towers - John Fowles
New York: Signet, 1974

I'm not sure how I ended up owning this book. But once upon a time I read The French Lieutenant's Woman and liked it. And more recently (well, 8 years ago, but still...) I read The Collector, which I found incredibly disturbing.

This collection of works is kind of sexy, in the way that I now imagine English sexiness to be, a little awkward, far more matter-of-fact than sex today, and awkward again for good measure. Too long to be short stories, but too short to be novellas, they are something in between. And they are meditations that take place at least as much in the characters' heads than in any action. What action occurs is mediated by thinking and overthinking. And each one turns on a mystery which is left unresolved, because Fowles is trying to tell us... what?

Anyway, for the first 100 pages, I had missed that this was a collection and not a novel. Which was a little disappointing, because I had already charted the path of the title story's "novel," and felt a little cheated when it ended abruptly. On the other hand, I was glad it ended, but I found the characters so annoying, so self-indulgent. There's a bit near the end where David, the married man who had decided he is IN LOVE, has an existential crisis because the girl wouldn't sleep with him. (Oops, spoiler.) Anyway, I was going to quote parts of it, but I just can't.

I'm dwelling on the negative. There was lots to like in the reading. Had I come across these stories in The New Yorker, one at a time, and in that NewYorkershortstorycontext that I don't know how to define but changes my readiness to accept certain conventions, I would have enjoyed myself a lot more. As it is though, I just found myself glad to have made it through another book that I can now remove from my shelf.

I heart Michael Ondaatje

Anil's Ghost - Michael Ondaatje
New York: Knopf, 2000

I went through a Canadian phast in my late high school years. While this was largely due to a certain hockey player, it also included a love affair with Ondaatje's The English Patient (both novel and film) and Joy Kogawa's Obasan. I had dreams of moving to Vancouver and having a big dog and taking him on walks to Stanley Park. All of which is introduction, of sorts, to the Canadian Ondaatje's 2000 novel about his native Sri Lanka.

I read it in Denver, and the cold weather and warm family atmosphere made for a gripping counterweight to the book's sultry temperatures and political chill. You understand why Anil left for England, America, etc., and work to understand why she returned to practice forensic anthropology, investigating the murders and atrocities committed by political factions within and against the government. You also work to understand the two brothers who accompany her, one an anthropologist, one a doctor, both destroyed both by their own pasts and the turmoil of their country.

It's hard to say that a lot happens, in the traditional sense of the word. I found myself thinking, well this is where I would go with this plot, and then remembering that Ondaatje is a lot less trite or more interesting than I can be. His prose is lyrical and haunting and quiet and disjointed and all sorts of other good things. Had I not been on vacation, I might have noted passages to share; instead you will have to take my word for it.

In short, he's gorgeous, and I was unsettled and unsatisfied in an entirely satisfying way.

What was sexy (and what wasn't) in medieval England

The Illuminator - by Brenda Rickman Vantrease
New York: St. Martin's Press, 2005

I kinda hate it when I wait awhile between finishing a book and blogging about it. I forget things. I stop caring. But I can't just skip it, not that whatever readers actually exist out there actually care. But I digress, as usual.

The Illuminator is probably much more about the a widowed noblewoman than the title character, a former noble who know creates the beautiful illuminated illustrations on religious texts but who also works with the heretic texts of proto-Protestant John Wycliffe. Life is all sorts of perilous for everyone in late 14th-century England. And the novel's plot feels the need to reinforce the point by letting bad things happen to good people. (That's not too much of a spoiler, right?) Anyway, in order to safeguard her home and lands with the protection of a nearby abbot, Lady Kathryn takes in the illuminator and his daughter. She's a single lady, he's a single dude, and she also has twin boys the same age as the girl. Oh, and there's an evil sheriff, an evil bishop, a female religious recluse, a dwarf, and a servant girl who can read auras. Mayhem, predictably, ensues. Also lots of pride.

But lest I make this sound like fluff, it's really not. It seems fairly well historically grounded, and I didn't feel like it was too anachronistic. I found the sympathetic characters sympathetic, and rooted for them. Vantrease's style is quite pretty, and during a stressful period, I found the quite different stresses of this world a comforting escape.

Vampires

Okay, I would like this vampire to be my boyfriend. But I digress. To the review...

Dead Until Dark - Charlaine Harris
New York: Ace Books, 2001

I would never have read this were it not for True Blood. And I don't know if I would have continued watching the show - which is entertaining enough although I'm still not sure about Anna Paquin - were it not for Eric.

But I did watch the show, and got pretty into it. So clearly that meant that I had to try reading the books. My mom gave me the copies of 2-4 that she got from a friend, but I don't like starting in the middle. So I ended up buying a copy really cheap. (And now I'm babbling. Have I mentioned that Eric is hot?)

Okay. So here is Dead Until Dark. It's difficult not to compare it to the tv show. Sookie is a strange character. She can hear people's thoughts, and that creates problems for her, even as she tries to keep out of their heads. People think she is definitely weird, and possibly a little retarded. She's hot enough, but a virgin in her mid-twenties. She handles with aplomb situations that would fell me, and then gets weirded out by other things. I don't get her. And then Bill is a vampire. That's about all there is to say there.

Wow, this is a bad review. (Have I mentioned though that Eric is hot? Although not so much in this first book. Will he get more hot later on? I guess it doesn't matter as long as he stays hot on tv.) The book is enjoyable enough, and it's got some suspense and a decent mystery. I'll keep reading the series.

I read newspapers & stuff...

A couple book-y articles that have caught my eye in the last couple days...

I didn't even notice the title of "Hero librarians save my babies" ("Librarians saved my babies" in the print edition) until I finished reading it. This says something about how little I notice headlines when I am charging my way through the paper. Anyway, it's a cute essay about how the characters in a novelist's work are like children that you send off into the world, and that reviews and fan mail and sightings of your book on store shelves are the ways in which you hear that your little ones are all right and making their way out there. And that when you hear your book has been remaindered... well, that's bad news for your characters. Except...

The horror of the "R" letter is mitigated by only one thought: Your babies are safe at the library! Were it not for libraries, there would be no safe harbor for characters and stories, nowhere for them to wait out disasters and economic storms. And were it not for librarians, there would be no one to introduce your characters to new children as the older ones grow up and move on.

And for this, I want to thank librarians, for the work they do and for the many, many lives they save.

So, there it is. Good job, libraries.

And then courtesy of John Dickerson's Twitter feed, I get to find out this morning about a woman who is reading a book a day for a year. (This was impressive enough back in 2007 when my friend Siel did so for a month.) So, Nina Sankovitch, I envy you. I want to do this. And then have a blog about it. Except I wouldn't want to give up the things that the NYT article says she has: The New Yorker, coffee with friends. And what I definitely would miss is getting to take time off after reading a book that really moves you. Or getting to stop and wait at least a day before you finish, because you want to prolong the experience of being inside the book's world.

Oh, and I imagine we'll see Sankovitch's book at some point in the next couple years? And finally, while I have read excerpts and stories from several more of the books, of the 349 books she has read thus far, I have read a whopping total of 7. Seems like I need to get busy...

Welcome to America, Comrade

K Blows Top: A Cold War Comic Interlude, Starring Nikita Khrushchev, America's Most Unlikely Tourist - Peter Carlson
New York: Public Affairs, 2009

Nikita Sergeyevich makes me strangely emotional. His embarrassing blustery buffoonery, his role in the Thaw and the Cuban Missile Crisis, his eventual downfall. (Soviet leaders in general bring out this reaction in me. Which is strange because most of them don't deserve my pity, and I am sure they wouldn't want it.) I don't know what it is, but for years I've found him utterly compelling. And tragic. And hilarious.

Anyway, so the point is that I was excited when I heard about Carlson's book. He's a former Washington Post reporter, and came across the story of Khrushchev's 1959 trip to America when he was working at People magazine in the 1980s. So while the book came out for the 50th anniversary of the trip, it was over 20 years in the making. And, Carlson relies on one of my favorite historical sources: press accounts. I was planning on building a career as a historian on the legs of the popular media, after all.

But I am digressing again. The book is fun. At least, it's fun for someone like me, who knows and likes Soviet history, and probably knows the 1950s USSR better than the USA of the same period. But I bet it'll be fun for you as well. It really is what the title suggests: a Cold War comic interlude. In a world that was likely far more dangerous than I am willing to imagine. As a historian at heart, I would have liked to have seen more rigorous scholarship, but then it wouldn't have been the same book, and the audience would have shrunk to essentially nil.

I've packed up all my Russia books in preparation for my move, but I am tempted to pull out the Khrushchev stuff now. Maybe when I'm unpacking... :)

My favorite line of the book was buried about 3/4 of the way through the book. Discussing Khrushchev's trip, and commentators' reactions to it as it finally came to a close, Carlson writes, "The trip was, if nothing else, a victory for nuance." Would that we have more of those.

DFW lives on

Brief Interviews with Hideous Men - David Foster Wallace
Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1999

First and foremost, I am still sad that Infinite Summer is over. Although happily it is living on in the reading of more and new books. (I already own 2666 and am ready for January! Skipping Dracula.) And secondly, I am so grateful that LA has Skylight Books, and even more grateful that Skylight hosted an Infinite Summer party so we could all celebrate. (Plus, John Krasinski! see above for blurry proof)

I will skip my musings on how sweet Krasinski was and how much I am looking forward to seeing his film adaptation of the book. I will get right to the book, which I read in a hurry so that I could go see the film.

Here's the thing. With Infinite Jest, I knew what I was getting myself into. I gave myself lots of time, expected it to be hard. Why didn't I expect this with Brief Interviews? I guess because I had already battled through his fiction once, and thought I had the process down. And besides, this was less than 300 pages. And there was a lot going on in my life. What I had forgotten is that DFW never made things easy. So I blame myself for not liking this book all that much. And that said, it had some moments that blew me away. Here they are...

An adolescent boy at a community pool:

And girl-women, women, curved like instruments or fruit, skin burnished brown-bright, suit tops held by delicate knots of fragile colored string against the pull of mysterious weights, suit bottoms riding low over the gentle juts of hips totally unlike your own, immoderate swells and swivels that melt inlight into a surrounding space that cups and accommodates the soft curves as things precious. You almost understand.

And it is, of course, that last sentence that makes that whole paragraph amazing.

B.I. #14 (pp. 14-15) - it's the ones that understand that are the worst, that bring out his contempt. Because his affliction, you see, Is. Not. Understandable.

All of Pop Quiz #9 (pp. 123-36) and its call back to the ambiguity of PQ #4. And the fucking sincerity of DFW, that breaks your heart and makes you want to be a better person.

At any rate it's not going to make you look wise or secure or accomplished or any of the things readers usually want to pretend they believe [you are]. Rather it's going to make you look fundamentally lost and confused and frightened and unsure [...]

With a different writer, that could just be meta and pretentious and everything else. But with Wallace, for whatever reason, you believe him. You believe that he's really had these feelings and these moments of self-doubt, and is sharing them with you because he really wants you to understand, not as some sort of cute exercise. And that's why he means so much to so many people.