How the hell does Karl Ove (I feel as though we are best friends now) pull this off? No way should he be managing this. I loved the first magnum, despHow the hell does Karl Ove (I feel as though we are best friends now) pull this off? No way should he be managing this. I loved the first magnum, despite the downward spiral of a dying alcoholic father, and now I'm giving highest marks to the follow-up opus as well. Four more books are promised to come. I don't doubt it. The man can go on and on and on to the point where detractors might equate his diary-like approach to a diarrhea-like one (only with words, thank you).
I like Book Two despite the fact that the first 80 pp. read like a Mr. Mom rant, despite the fact that the book just ends randomly (or, as the big shots like to write, in media res), and despite the fact that most of the 573 pp. consist of mundane daily existence. It's like a literary reality show, an intellectual soap opera, a blow-by-blow follow-the-author Big Brother live cam from Scandinavia.
So, what gives? I have to think about this. A lot of little things are at work, and a few big ones. Voice, of course. He's hitting the right note, even if I don't quite know what note that is (sharp, flat, whatever). The setting (mostly Sweden here, as opposed to Norway in Book One) gives him ample canvas to paint on, too. Speaking of, he knows a lot about painters. And writers.
And I like to listen to him blather on with opinions about both, just as I love to read Hemingway when he goes on and on about books and writers and painters. And speaking of Hemingway, Knausgard likes to write about drinking just like the big-bearded lug. A little-bearded lug, Karl Ove's picture makes me wonder how he's still standing. By the looks of him, he could keel over any second. Liquor and cigarettes can give you that collapsible, desiccated look. Watch out for stiff Scandinavian breezes, is my advice.
But seriously, a review of some sort at least. It's not a novel. An autobiography, maybe -- or "memoir," which allows for novelistic liberties. Much easier to invent stuff when the stuff is breaking out all around you. And quite a conceit. Not only Proust, but Rousseau would be proud. And so many others who have written Karl Odes to Themselves. You get a lot of young husband-wife bickering here and much ado about bringing up babies. First, though, a Moby Dick-like birthing scene for Baby One. Wife Linda screams for 30 pp..
But more interesting to me (my kids are grown up) was the banter with his best friend Geir. This guy is yin to Karl Ove's yang. Where Karl Ove is withdrawn, a Romantic, and one to avoid conflict, Geir is outgoing, a Realist, and happy to engage (even taking a "vacation" in Iraq!). More interesting still, Geir is a boxer and intellectual. Neat combination, that. And, meeting over beer, aquavit, grappa, or whatever, these two talk about everything under the sun -- mostly the Scandinavian sun, but that's cool, too. You learn a lot about Scandinavian literature (and I love Hamsun, anyway).
So yeah, that. It's kind of like the upside of college, the days you stayed up late and argued passionately about intellectual stuff. Karl Ove still enjoys that with his pals (few as they are), and we get ringside seats. I jotted down names of painters, musicians, poets, novelists, etc., out of sheer curiosity. Unfortunately, many of them are not translated into English.
In the end, then, the Diary of an Everyday Life only works if you care, if your temperament matches Knausgard's, and if you like minutiae and a writer not only willing but dying to digress. He picks up colors and textures and sensory details nicely, too. In that sense and in those scenes, he shows similarities with Tolstoy.
Speaking of Tolstoy and similarities, we might as well throw solipsism in the mix. Knausgard's ruminations on death -- the death of ME, specifically -- admits to us all that he is the center of his universe and not afraid to say so. He almost seems to be saying, "Do you dare to deny that you are the center of YOURS? Who cares what will become of the world. For all intents and purposes, It ends when you do!"
It is said that this book is a modern rendition of Proust's Remembrances, making me an untrustworthy narrator for this review as I've never read the FIt is said that this book is a modern rendition of Proust's Remembrances, making me an untrustworthy narrator for this review as I've never read the French giant's magnum opus of life's minutiae. Yes, I have Lydia Davis's new translation of Proust, but no, I haven't mustered the courage -- yet. Reading Knausgård's book won't help. Rather than inspire me to read Proust, it inspires me to read My Struggle: Book 2: A Man in Love. Such is life.
If plot's the thing, this 440-pager is probably not your best choice. Knausgård is one of those characterization writers who gives every detail of every action. He's more into "exploding the moment," as they say in writing class, than "shrinking a century."
The book shares traits with Petterson's Out Stealing Horses: a strong father-son theme, a strong coming-of-age theme, a distinct 70s flavor, and, what I like, a heavy dose of sensitivity and just noticing things. Like death. Our young protagonist is rather obsessed with it, and the book opens with a worthy "essay" on the subject (you will find others along the way as you read).
Death, Knausgård notes, is just a concept -- one we are happy to discuss and expose ourselves to in reading or movie-viewing -- but make it REAL (that is, find a dead body on your front lawn or consider your own mortality when something goes wrong with your ticker) and it's a whole other matter. We are all fascinated with death -- our own -- and when we run into the real thing with, say, members of our family, we as a society like to keep it hidden, out of sight. In that sense, the Western view of death amounts to the rather lame descriptor: Eew.
Very modern of us, isn't it? I don't think it was always so. Once upon a time, dead bodies used to become part of the living room furniture for wakes and such. And people died in their own homes, as a rule, or out of doors, wherever the Reaper sharpened his scythe and took his harvest. Not much different from road kill, I guess.
Certainly there wasn't such nonsense such as dying in hospitals and special homes for the dying (read: hospices). That would come with capitalism. Death as economic driver. Back then it was just a case of "death happens -- to squirrels and people. Let's move on, thanking God it wasn't us."
In any event, Knausgård has clearly given it a lot of thought, and you may enjoy his thoughts, too, because I happen to know that you have given mortality some meditation yourself. No one casts a spell like the Grim One.
But really, there's a lot of joyfully dumb adolescence to this first of a 6-book series, too. Young Karl Ove is finding his way -- with friends, with girls, with alcohol, with rock 'n roll, with books, with his one precious soul. He's the kind of sensitive loner most of us bookish, introspective introverts can identify with. Thus, the attention the book has drawn. Thus, the fact that I first discovered it via the New York Times ravings.
Is it THAT good? A classic to be? Please. But it's a great way to spend a slice of calendar. Recommended to fans of meandering, philosophical coming-of-age tomes -- and of Norway. And of hearing the Reaper say, "Not this time, Bud...not yet. Help yourself to another book, why don't you?"...more
Holden Caulfield would love this, as would Ernest Hemingway. HC had it in for the phonies, and Pressfield has no use for them, either. Only he's met tHolden Caulfield would love this, as would Ernest Hemingway. HC had it in for the phonies, and Pressfield has no use for them, either. Only he's met the enemy and it is himself. And you, gentle reader, need only a mirror to find your enemy. Pressfield calls it "Resistance," and it lurks in all of us. What's more, it's every excuse you can possibly think of to delay doing what the Muse put you on this earth to do: procrastination, rationalizations, physical sicknesses, psychological conditions with funny letters, family, drama, Twitter, Facebook, busywork, alcohol, drugs, television, your cellphone, fatigue, hopelessness, etc.
Hemingway? Oh, yeah. To make it more personal for those who would write, EH called out the faux writers who wanted to be seen "writing" at the cafés of Paris in the 1920's. It was the Lost Generation's version of "I'm not a writer, but I play one in cafés."
Pressfield, a writer as well, often alludes to the trade in The War of Art. Too often, writing is something phonies talk of doing and dream of doing but just don't do, or do sporadically, or make excuses as to why they can't do it, or do and fail once or twice, then quit. "Amateurs," Pressfield calls them. The world is split between the "pros" who sit down, roll up their sleeves, and DO IT every day (and he does mean every day) and the "amateurs" who talk a good story while shopping at Excuses R Us.
Of course, the same applies to most anything the Dreamy You dreams (or once dreamed) of doing. Should you be working out now? Dieting? Training for a marathon? Swimming? Writing? Painting? Volunteering? Reading classics? Starting your own business? You name it, you can do it, but you choose not to. That's right. It's a choice, and we make it easy on ourselves.
This little manual falls in the dictionary under “quick read.” Esquire magazine calls it “a kick in the ass,” and I can’t argue with that description. Pressfield pulls no punches. He has little choice. The Pretenders are legion and their excuses like Orc armies -- seemingly endless.
The book is divided in three. Part One is simply called “Resistance: Defining the Enemy” and leads off with a quote from the Dalai Lama: “The enemy is a very good teacher.” Pressfield identifies resistance in its every form. Trust me when I say you'll recognize yourself, perhaps multiple times over.
As the book was penned in 2002, however, he neglects to mention more prevalent forms of "Resistance" that exist today. "I'll start my work, sure... but first, let me check my Twitter feed... or let me check updates on Facebook... or I have to check e-mail and reply to a few folks... or reading can wait because I need to TALK about reading on Goodreads (which, ironically, cuts deeply into reading time, which is sacrificed on the altar of social time masquerading as reading time)."
Hoo, boy. Maybe even reading The War of Art is a form of delaying what I should be doing -- writing. Then again, I'm writing this review. Is that writing? One voice (amateur) says yes, but another (pro) says no, it's slumming -- a shameless ploy for "likes" and comments, not me pursuing art or income as a freelance writer.
Hmn. This is worse than I thought.
Anyway, Part Two is called “Combating Resistance: Turning Pro” and leads with a Telamon of Arcadia quote: “It is one thing to study war and another to live the warrior’s life.” Here's where Pressfield delineates the true pros who tolerate no excuses from “amateurs” who live by them.
Page after page, he shares how a professional lives every day: "A Professional Is Patient," "A Professional Seeks Order," "A Professional Demystifies," "A Professional Acts in the Face of Fear," "A Professional Accepts No Excuses," "A Professional Plays It As It Lays," "A Professional Does Not Take Failure (or Success) Personally," "A Professional Endures Adversity," "A Professional Self-Validates," and on and professionally on. No wonder being a slacker and killing hours online is easier.
Part Three? It’s called “Beyond Resistance: The Higher Realm” and its lead quote comes compliments of Xenophon: “The first duty is to sacrifice to the gods and pray them to grant you the thoughts, words, and deeds likely to render your command most pleasing to the gods and to bring yourself, your friends, and your city the fullest measure of affection and glory and advantage.”
It’s about achievement once you’re disciplined and have mentally accepted the challenge. Interestingly, Pressfield shares some quirky opinions about Muses, angels, William Blake, William Wordsworth, self vs. ego, and hierarchal thinking vs. territorial thinking. Hint: choose self over ego, territory over hierarchy. Then mean what you say and spit out your excuses binky.
Anyway, if you’ve ever wanted to write a book, poem, or screenplay; paint or dance or sing or act; start a business or charity; lose weight and exercise regularly until you look like you should look; run a marathon; fill-in-the-blank with your once-upon-a-time hope for yourself before Twitter and Facebook and e-mail and job and family and social drama and “health issues” and excuses dragged you down, this just might be your book. It's short, but worthy of rereading. I can imagine returning to certain excerpts for an old-fashioned butt-kicking, then getting back on that horse beside Nike ("Just Do It!") and working in "the smithy of my soul" like I ought to.
I can also imagine unplugging, or at least creating more strict guidelines for bad habits that have snuck in to choke my creative being like so much hypnotic kudzu. Wait. Did I just say "imagine"? What an amateur pledge that was.......more
Although SNAPPER is called a novel, I'd say it's closer to a string of related short stories or extended vignettes, all featuring the narrator, NathanAlthough SNAPPER is called a novel, I'd say it's closer to a string of related short stories or extended vignettes, all featuring the narrator, Nathan Lochmueller. Fasten your seat belts, then, for an episodic book that jumps back and forth in time while chronicling Nathan's boyhood days, college days, career as an ornithologist, and married life.
For those keeping score, the first half of the book is stronger than the second. That is, author Kimberling is at his best when describing three boys going out onto a reservoir with a giant snapping turtle (tethered, yet) on board, or when telling the story of his adventures in the woods tagging songbirds' nesting sites. When he gets to his drug-loving roommates later in the book? Not so great. Married life? Like marriage, prosaic at best.
If you love plot as a reader, this one will probably disappoint. The voice is strong, however, and Nathan is a likable enough guy who has some wry takes on life. Better still, you learn a thing or two about various songbirds (Nathan's a fan of the wood thrush) and predators (like Ben Franklin, Nathan gives thumbs down to the bald eagle, which is overrated, to say the least). So, yeah. Educational in its way, but don't worry -- knowing something about birds is NOT a prerequisite. This is Kimberling's tongue-in-cheek homage to his oft-maligned home state of Indiana. Knowing something about Indiana, however, is also not a prerequisite. ...more
Sam Sheridan's The Disaster Diaries is a fun dash through dire straights of all sorts with a "What Would YOU Do?" spin (or maybe a "What COULD You Do?Sam Sheridan's The Disaster Diaries is a fun dash through dire straights of all sorts with a "What Would YOU Do?" spin (or maybe a "What COULD You Do?" spin is more like it). For most of us, what we could do is not much. Why? Because we're pampered, spoiled, complacent, and dependent babies. Meaning: The first minute all hell (and there are many varieties, apparently) breaks loose, we'll be toast along with the majority of our wimpy compatriots.
The book is episodic in nature. In each chapter, Sheridan tackles a different "life skill," and although women might enjoy this, it comes across like a reality show from the Oxygen channel for men. In each case, Sheridan gets some "on the scene" training in the skill and screws up (at least initially) just like we would. The highlight for me is listening to the wisdom of the crusty, borderline eccentric "masters" that he serves apprenticeships under in his various pilgrimages -- some more eccentric than others, granted, and others pretty old-school solid like Don Yaegar, son of Chuck.
Some examples of skills Sam samples: We learn about strength from a weightlifter because you never know when you need to lift that Toyota off of your wife's leg, right? And a gun master shows Sheridan the art (and most of these skills are packaged in almost Zen-like terms) of firing a weapon. Pistols are good, but rifles are better. Most are fired in close quarters -- inside a room, yet. Cheerful thought. But just think of that wife (now on crutches from the Toyota) cowering behind you as an armed intruder comes at you in your castle!
We also meet a Yoda-like survivalist, who teaches Sheridan how to make fire out of whatever nature offers -- even in the rain. Back to the Toyota -- a car thief shows our hero how to start and steal a car without the key. Hey, you never know when you'll need emergency wheels, right? An EMT guy instructs on first-aid, CPR, and how tiny bacteria can rip you to shreds as quickly as a Grizzly bear if you don't treat your wound right. Then there's the dude who shows Sheridan how to drive cars in tight quarters at high speeds, the Obi-wan who counsels on knife warfare (his best advice if you're attacked by a knife-wielding opponent: run like hell), and the Nanook of the North-type whose sagacious wisdom includes tips on living in brutal cold and putting animal oil to good use (hint: best kill them first).
And so it goes. If there's one annoyance, it's the italicized beginnings and endings of each chapter, where Sheridan riffs on hypothetical Armageddon-like scenes where the skills might be necessary. Many of them are populated by zombies, giving the borderline serious scenarios a borderline silly bent. After a while, I just skimmed over these parts. Overall, though, if you're a guy, you'll enjoy learning how much you don't know about being a fire-making, gun-toting, wound-doctoring, car-thieving, knife-wielding, elk-shooting, igloo-building, high-speed-driving, wilderness-surviving poster boy for testosterone. All you need is a proving ground. Let the nuclear holocaust commence..... ...more
Breadth. This 8-pack of short stories has it in spades. We have send-ups of vampire stories, Gothic Old West stories, contemporary stories, horror stoBreadth. This 8-pack of short stories has it in spades. We have send-ups of vampire stories, Gothic Old West stories, contemporary stories, horror stories, humorous stories -- everything but haiku, practically. And, if your thing is "writers' writers," you've come to the right lemon grove. Karen Russell's best friends are words. She plays around with language, with sentences, with unexpected words, and she exults in it. Sometimes you just pause and say, "Nice."
But what about the stories, plot-wise, you ask? Well, it's like this. Some are more satisfying than others. They're meaty stories, for one. Most of them are 30 pages or so. Sometimes you feel they have one aside too many. Sometimes you feel they could use a touch of Maxwell Perkins' scissors. But that's a quibble, over all. Description and character are Russell's forte. And weirdness.
"Vampires in the Lemon Grove" has some fun with the sitting-duck genre of vampire lit -- an earth well scorched by the TWILIGHT series. This vampire couple is on the wagon. No. More. Blood. Strictly sinking their teeth into lemons. And about this sun problem? Bah. These vampires wear sunglasses. Florida is safe no more. The collection gets stranger still with "Reeling for the Empire," wherein young ladies are converted into the sorority sister equivalent of silk worms in the province of Dystopia, Japan (or maybe it's one island over). Odd isn't the word for it.. "Proving Up" is a bit reminiscent of Stewart O'Nan's A PRAYER FOR THE DYING. Old West gothic. But you have to admit, it shows Russell's versatility. Even if she does use a little kid to do it (flag on the play).
Two stories that will definitely send the traditionalists running? "The Barn at the End of the Term," featuring reincarnated U.S. Presidents coming back as horses (Just Say "Neigh" to Nixon!) and "Dougbert Shackelton's Rules for Antarctic Tailgating," a lightweight piece that looked like it hailed from a college lit. magazine, thanks to its sophomoric humor. These two commit the sin of being too cutesy for their own good and would constitute as runts to this litter.
It gets more interesting with the last two, however. "The New Veterans" looks at a lonely, older masseuse who gives an Iraq War veteran regular massages on his massively-tattooed back. Let's just say the tattoo -- a war scene from his tour depicting the death of a buddy -- comes to life a bit under her caring hands. And "The Graveless Doll of Eric Mutis," while striking me as unrealistic, at least is a page-turner, wherein high school bullies get theirs when they go too far picking on a handicapped kid. Clearly Russell has parked her muse in a twilight zone. Rod Sterling would be proud.
Overall, quite a performance. Breadth. Depth. Writing chops. A nice mix, all of it. But reader beware. Some will find the talent wasted because it hews too close to the weird side of life. Me? I like how Russell takes risks. And I'm tired of reading typical MFA fare on American suburbia (all together now: yawn). So if you'd like to challenge yourself and see a pro roll the dice, what's to lose? A couple of lemons come with most any bushel, so anticipate as much and enjoy the grove....more
Watkins is at her best when chronicling 20-somethings already adrift (gee, THAT didn't take long). I especially like "The Archivist" about a girl in lWatkins is at her best when chronicling 20-somethings already adrift (gee, THAT didn't take long). I especially like "The Archivist" about a girl in love with a bad boy who will never do her good. Meanwhile, in the wings, is the good guy who just doesn't do it for her (gee, this sounds familiar). She has a sister with a baby to complicate things. Sis and babes visit her when she's bathing with Reese's peanut butter cups, red wine, and joints (so all-American, don't you think?).
Most of these stories are situated in Nevada, and the one story that plays it to the hilt is about two girls and a boy who holiday in Virginia City, of all places. At least one of the girls pays homage to Mark Twain, who lived there for awhile (I visited V.C. as well and did the same thing). Another long story, a historical fiction piece about 49ers, is the clunker of the set, but when Watkins is on, she's on....more
At times it was like crashing the gates of a private club and reading by-laws meant for members only (more on that in a moment). And at times it was lAt times it was like crashing the gates of a private club and reading by-laws meant for members only (more on that in a moment). And at times it was like reading someone's (OK, Maureen McLane's) thesis paper on this poet or that. And in some cases, hopefully not that. And my, but Maureen writes in a pretty how town way. Professorial stuff:
"Through Sappho she explored as well a kind of somatic poetics, a kind of sensually incarnational NOW." (Huh?)
"The vatic inward versus the detailed observed. The hieratic versus the potentially conversable." (Say wha-?)
"Much of the force of great modernist works arises from their desublimating impulse channeled into shatteringly, newly adequate forms..." (Again?)
Very, very impressive indeed, these $10 gibbers and $5 -ishes. I hadn't a clue, but I nodded at all the right moments. Some chapters dragged on forever. "My Marianne Moore and Moore and More and More and Will She Ever Stop?" That and one to "H.D." Hilda Doolittle? I'd never known this poet. I wear my ignorance on my sleeve but, deep in my vest, wanted to learn -- if only I could clear the vatic hurdles of incarnational, desublimating language.
In another chapter called "My Translated: An Abecedary," McLane deluges the reader with four pages of one liners, each saying things like "My Alcaeus is David A. Campbell," "My Akhmatova is Judith Hemschemeyer," "My Durs Grunbein is Michael Hofmann," "My Paul Muldoon is Paul Muldoon." Of course there are some poets the layreader will recognize, but they are few and far between, and seldom will many readers recognize both names in McLane's apparently clever pairs.
On and on it goes like an insider's wink, and I can't help but regret how this type of thing sets poetry back anew, perpetuating the belief that poetry is rarefied air meant only for rarefied lungs. It's as if McLane is signaling to others in her club, others who will recognize her each allusion and her every dropped historic and contemporary name, nodding knowingly like priests at a secret temple. Don't we put the eru- in -dite, the winks seem to say. We, the Keepers of Truth and Beauty in a great, unwashed world of bestseller-readers or (more horrifying still) TV-watchers and Youtube addicts.
Throughout the book lines of many poets are shared, though seldom in the entirety of the poem they are taken from. Often McLane tries some of her own poetry on for size. (It doesn't fit.) Some of the professional poems are in bold print, others in italics. Often I can't tell which line belongs to whom. Is this McLane? Is it the featured poet in question? Is it other poets brought in as background vocals for harmony?
But I liked OK the chapter (short) on Emily D., the Belle of Amherst. And the one on Shelley, too, but only because McLane talked mostly about his adolescent-like obsessions for free love or lust and half-priced revolutions, and not so much about his poetry. It's as if she took a wrong turn, found herself in the realm of biography, and the natives cheered.
Two of the chapters were found poems. Giant, 85-line poems, each line purloined from a poet's great work. It's a wonderful parlor game, but I wasn't about to trudge through all 85 lines in either case. Like excerpts from symphonies on public radio, all stitched together, it was. Gogol's overcoat, chapter and verse.
Marvelous moments, yes. Ambitious idea, surely. And I was grateful to catch glimpses of some lovely lines previously unknown. But, in the end, the book gets bogged down by too much ivory and too much tower. If you read poetry for a living and don't need a program guide (or an intermission) to get through such "learn'd astronomer's" thoughts as McLane's, you will certainly enjoy her book. Otherwise, pass. Hold tightly to what you already know and love about poems you've met and appreciated thus far in life.
And for heaven's sake, keep reading poetry. ...more
When you read thin books, you always hope that they are succinct as hell -- big books that have been cut to the bone, trimmed to the essence, winnowedWhen you read thin books, you always hope that they are succinct as hell -- big books that have been cut to the bone, trimmed to the essence, winnowed to their winning ways. You certainly entertain no thoughts of repetitiveness. That's forgivable with Dickens, Thackery, and Fielding. They write huge tomes that leave room for error. But the 100-page book? No.
That's my main beef with Anne Lamott's long essay on prayer. I read a NY Times essay of hers that I enjoyed mightily. It told how her family was anything-but religious, how they worshipped at the altar of great writers and lived a Bohemian lifestyle. Lamott cut against the family grain. She got religion -- of a sort. But, in writing about it, she travels six ways to Sunday but I keep seeing the same four-way intersection.
I should have been the perfect audience for this book, which is why I bought it. I am irreligious, yet spiritual; agnostic, yet defensive about God; skeptical, yet trusting in the great unknown. Lamott is similar. She has no patience for Christians who claim to know "the way" because, of course, they don't. Hers is a most laid-back and understanding God. He (sometimes She) doesn't mind if you say, "God, you've pissed me off this time." Eh. This is what happens when you're in the business of creating humans. Frankenstein's monsters, and all that.
But the three sections -- prayers for HELP, prayers of THANKS, and prayers of WOW -- were a bit circular and the writing a bit meandering. I wanted a more poetic precision from this. The smaller the genre and the smaller the size, the greater the demands. Plus Lamott is the writers' writer. Did she not write Bird by Bird, the Gospel of Wannabe Writers everywhere?
OK. Yes, there are some neat moments, like this paragraph on the WOW of autumn:
"And autumn ain't so shabby for Wow, either. The colors are broccoli and flame and fox fur. The tang is apples, death, and wood smoke. The rot smells faintly of grapes, of fermentation, of one element being changed alchemically into another, and the air is moist and you sleep under two down comforters in a cold room. The trails are not dusty anymore, and you get to wear your favorite sweaters."
But overall, I got a "Meh" kind of feeling, like the book needed help, like I owed it little thanks, and like I'd been gypped out of $17.95 (wow!) for 102 pages.
Welcome to the hazards of reading new books, pilgrim. ...more
MacFarlane has some poetry to his credit and it shows. Of course this is not surprising, as he is a travel writer, and travel writers are all about deMacFarlane has some poetry to his credit and it shows. Of course this is not surprising, as he is a travel writer, and travel writers are all about description... imagery, in other words. They are our planes, trains, and automobiles, bound to get us there. And, in this case, once there, McFarlane asks that we walk by his side and listen as he identifies the rocks, trees, birds, cloud types, and historical back stories. These are the "old ways," the foot paths -- the link, if you will, to our ancestors.
The book starts and ends in MacFarlane's jolly own England. He also hopscotches across the globe to walk in Scotland, Palestine, and Tibet. His descriptions can be arresting. A police state of poetic diction, if you will. Good stuff.
So obscure is some of the ancient language of the old ways that MacFarlane provides a glossary in the back. Good thing. I didn't know that lacustrine means "lake-like" or that chert is "a form of amorphous silica occurring in several varieties, of which one is flint" or that a shieling is "a pasture to which livestock are driven for grazing, usually during the summer months" or also "a hut or shelter constructed near such pasture."
Come! Join me at my shieling for a cup of tea!
The book is a nice mix of personal reflection, narration, and history. Included are extended anecdotes about other great "walkers," including the painter Eric Ravilious and the poet Edward Thomas, both victims of wars.
In short, then, the book wanders down some side paths of its own and, in the spirit of it all, readers are more than happy to come along. It's a leisurely ramble. And a literate one....more
Tomas Espedal is a contemporary Norwegian writer, one I had never heard of until I saw this book long-listed for the Dublin IMPAC Literary Award. As iTomas Espedal is a contemporary Norwegian writer, one I had never heard of until I saw this book long-listed for the Dublin IMPAC Literary Award. As it was translated into English and published by Seagull Books, I figured, why not.
Against Art's most prominent feature is its poetic language. Espedal traffics in fragmented sentences piled up against each other like car wrecks on a slippery winter highway. His favorite imagery centers on light and dark, flowers and colors, the seasons. He writes beautiful oddities like, "Brown, thick curtains: it's best when they're drawn in towards the middle, the middle of the window, a small opening in the middle, a narrow strip of light, a September-strip or an April gash, as when you plunge a knife into trouser material and rip."
He revels in nature and staccato-like impressions: "The sun shone. The earth steamed. A thin, white mist above the trees, windflowers on the ground and the streams quietened. Birdsong. The first garden birds, wagtail and blackbird, great tit and sparrow. The black shadow of larger birds, raven or hawk, eagle or owl, a bird of prey. Deer tracks on the edge of the forest. A glimpse of hare, of fox. It was a strange world to the boy."
The book's weakness is its poorly-delineated transitions. Without a moment's (or word's) notice, Espedal is off to narratives about grandparents, cousins, especially his mother. Then he's back to himself. With this woman or that. This daughter or that one. Of course, for the American reader, it's extra tricky due to the Scandinavian names. My kingdom for a genealogy chart, a family tree graphic in the beginning or at the end! So maybe the transition thing was as much my fault as Espedal's. Hard to say.
Plot? Not much. European mood piece awash in imagery, mostly. Some narrative strands develop around the deaths of a few that are dear to the writer/author. Sometimes he tells the story of a relative like Dad by going back to the past and developing a solid stretch of pages about his father's youth and how he met Espedal's mother.
Toward the end, the book shifts to life as a writer. Yes, autobiography pumps through the book's veins. Espedal mentions all manner of Scandinavian writers he reads and I don't: Poul Borum, Inger Christensen, Klaus Hoeck, Soren Ulrik Thomsen, Michael Strunge, F. P. Jac, Pia Tafdrup, Terje Cragseth. All exotic as hell sounding. All making you wonder whether they're made up or not.
In the end it comes to this: If you love books that luxuriate in language, take some focus to read, and feel at best ambivalent about plot, this is a book for you. If not, pass......more
Giant collection of Hitchens essays separated by category. Originally they appeared in many places, but chiefly Slate, Vanity Fair, the Atlantic, and Giant collection of Hitchens essays separated by category. Originally they appeared in many places, but chiefly Slate, Vanity Fair, the Atlantic, and other high-toned, high-paying markets. This was my first exposure to Hitchens. Top-rate mind on this guy, and a loss on the contemporary scene with his recent death. Lots of repeating tropes, such as the Middle East, Islamic fundamentalism, George Orwell (and specifically 1984, mentioned umpteen times), history, nationalism, politics, etc. The man read a lot -- and I mean A LOT -- and knew a little about a lot of things (Renaissance man?). Many of these pieces are reviews of biographies and history tomes, only the essay winds up being a hybrid of review and opinion piece no matter what. Voice? In spades here. Distinctive. Aggressive. Confident. At times funny. Vocabulary? Keep your dictionary nearby. Maybe not for wall-to-wall reading like I did it, but rewarding for the thinking reader, be it as daily snack or as daily meals.......more
I looked for The Perks of Being a Wallflower in YA, but found it in fiction. Now I know why. I read that this book was among the ALA's "Ten Most FrequI looked for The Perks of Being a Wallflower in YA, but found it in fiction. Now I know why. I read that this book was among the ALA's "Ten Most Frequently Banned Books" five out of the past ten years, and now I know why. Of course, it's no problem for high school students because it's just about a messed up freshman with a secret who comes across as spectrum like the kid in Mark Haddon's Curious Case of the Upside Down Dog in the Backyard Whose Title I Can Never Fully Remember. Yeah, that book. Only in this case, it's Charlie. And Chbosky (nice Italian boy) gives us an epistolary novel because we like saying the word "epistolary" every once in a while. Charlie's letters are to someone he doesn't even know. If I got these in the mail, I'd be worried. Seriously worried.
Anyway, it's a movie now, so you can read the movie tie-in like me and then never watch the movie like me, too. Charlie has a nice family with an older brother/football player who goes to Penn State. As the book was published in '99 and is set in '91, we'll just have to pray that Chaz's older brother was safe. He has a moody older sister, too, whose paid to do what older sisters do -- be moody. His parents are very Leave It To Beaver in their way. And he carries memories of his now-dead aunt, talked up quite a bit at the beginning but less so as the book goes on. Shadows come to the fore.
Charlie's greatest friendship is with the brother-sister team of Patrick and Sam. Patrick is gay. Sam is Charlie's crush. They both love to smoke, drink, get high, experiment with drugs, have occasional sex, and think deep thoughts. They also are Rocky Horror Picture Show types. If you did not know the characters of RHPS like me, you will after this book. Both Patrick and Sam are regulars at the shows, playing characters in the film like... um... OK, I've forgotten the characters already and thank the whole pantheon of gods I've never seen it and never will. But them.
Charlie learns the ropes, as they say, but he remains at core incredibly naive and smart and kind and loving -- the type of kid everyone likes to have around, others like to manipulate, and still others tend to bully. His voice is distinctive, no doubt, and his insights are clever and funny. Most readers, I'll venture, will take to Charlie like hot fudge to vanilla ice cream. True, the voice starts to tire a bit on the last turn into the stretch drive. Sometimes Charlie's play by play of the parties he witnesses sound like a jumble of names mixed with all the things teens do at parties over and over until you're as glassy-eyed as the characters.
And yes, the book channels The Catcher in the Rye more than it should. At least it mentions Salinger's classic by name. Charlie has a cool teacher who takes him under his wing and feeds him books. Not just Catcher, but Mockingbird and Separate Peace and Naked Lunch and On the Road and The Stranger and (I swear to God) The Fountainhead. Charlie loves every last one of them. If he were on Goodreads, the average on his reviews would be 5.0.
Anyway, at the end, we learn something. This helps the slight doldrums the voice was beginning to hit due to the novel going on for too long and for Charlie's narration beginning to sound a tad redundant. Also, Patrick does something that ticks the reader off, but Chbosky wisely remembers it and has Sam address it with Charlie before the book ends, so victory is snatched from the jaws of major mess up in that case.
Overall, you can see how a book like this would be candy for young readers. And despite all the questionable goings-on which are OK for us to engage in as kids who loved to party but not for impressionable young people to read about in a book today, the book is at heart loving and well-intentioned and morally sound.
That's the irony with most banned books. The knuckleheads parade its parts out and don't want to bother with the whole. No. That would require reading it, for one. And being human and understanding of what it means to be one -- something author Chbosky has down in spades. ...more
Enough! If it were the summer, I might slog on through these giant books, but for now, I'm satisfied to say that I have a taste of what all the fanfarEnough! If it were the summer, I might slog on through these giant books, but for now, I'm satisfied to say that I have a taste of what all the fanfare is about. And yes, George R.R. Martin has his moments of writing splendors. Among occasional writing clunkers (sentences) as well. The ending here features my least favorite parts of the book, those dedicated to the daughter of the dragon. It also reads like corny fantasy, whereas much of the rest of the book comes across as realistic medieval intrigue. And, without spoiling anything, I got angry with the death of a character. It's a personal quirk of mine. Kill a character I like -- a lot -- and you've shown me the door.
For now, at least. Maybe some day. I have #'s 2, 3, and 4 of the series, after all. And I have a ridiculous predilection for the north and all things boreal, making this series an odd natural of sorts.
Recommended for fans of fantasy. As for students, I'd say more high school than middle....more
Shani Boianjiu's unwieldy title foreshadows the book's events itself: "The People of Forever Are Not Afraid" is a mixed bag. Don't let that scare you Shani Boianjiu's unwieldy title foreshadows the book's events itself: "The People of Forever Are Not Afraid" is a mixed bag. Don't let that scare you away, however. There are golden moments for those willing to pan the shallows. Most intriguing? It is a new voice (the author is 25) from a rarely-heard from area (Israel) on the literary fiction scene. The point-of-view is unusual, too. Boianjiu's tale unfolds from the perspective of three female Israeli soldiers, Avishag, Yael, and Lea, in a series of extended vignettes loosely connected over the course of the book.
Trust me when I say these girls are not your ordinary gals plucked from the streets of Israel for military tours. Each comes with a particular personality and all manner of quirks. In episodic riffs, we jump from one to the next, giving the book a staccato-like effect that adds variety but impedes narrative momentum. Some memorable sections include Yael's training of a male soldier who can't shoot straight. Their one-on-one sessions are funny, yet humanly insightful. Then there's Lea's post-service story of life as a sandwich kiosk girl. Up front? Deceivingly simple and heartening. But what lies beneath is another story -- a secret that the sandwich store owner, Ron, soon uncovers when he falls for her in a big way.
Ultimately, despite some solid stretches of writing here and there, the book failed to win me over. Most damning, I had trouble generating much sympathy for any of these girls. For me, that bodes ill for any book. But you may feel differently. You may be a literary contrarian, saying, "Am I supposed to love Edgar Allan Poe's protagonists, too?" Well, no one's stashed any hearts under the floorboards here, but a lot of hearts are broken and the violence to these girls' psyches and bodies sometimes make the whole scene cringe-worthy. All in all, an interesting tour of recent Israeli history chaperoned by three girls who could make a shrink very rich. Sometimes artful melodrama and sometimes over-reaching and graphic, Boianjiu's book will, at the very least, elicit some strong reactions....more
What? The word "extrovert" is layman's spelling for the real world "extravert"? Just another "extra" you learn about the verts, for those of you a litWhat? The word "extrovert" is layman's spelling for the real world "extravert"? Just another "extra" you learn about the verts, for those of you a little green on the topic.
Anyway, Susan "Not Raisin'" Cain's book has broad appeal as she uses examples from the business world, child psychology, education, law, etc. Introverts will like it more than extroverts (duh), but I guess the publishers were OK with that because introverts are 30-50% of the population.
Anyway, there's a lot of science and especially psychology (notice I separate the two) here, so you'll learn the latest thinking on why you are the way you are. A lot of it has to do with the amygdala, which has been in the news a lot on the brain science front. By the time you're done reading, your limbic systems will be quite limber. Neo-cortex will be geared up, too. But you still will prefer weekends alone to booked weekends, reading books to dinner parties, and not answering the phone to running like an idiot to pick it up (well, assuming you have a land line and a corded phone like I still do, and that's probably one hell of an assumption).
I like how Cain took trips to witness speakers, seminars, college courses, etc., for inclusion in this book. It gave it a "You Are There!" feel. She also interviewed some professors and psych gurus of note, too, none of whom I'd heard of (but, again, I'm a bit tone deaf in psychology).
Granted, not all parts of the book are equally interesting, but you get that in any "survey course-like" book that covers a lot of real estate like this. My favorite section is the one comparing eastern cultures (lean strongly to quiet, studying, and introversion) to western ones (lean strongly to noise, socializing, and extroversion). Insightful stuff there, especially her interviews with Chinese-American high school students who feel like strangers in a strange land (cock an ear and listen to that obnoxious chant: "USA! USA!").
My advice? If you're an introvert, read it and be quiet. And if you're an extrovert? The same, if your stimuli-seeking brain can hold it in that long.......more
In a word: Wow. Hard as it is to believe, Lance Weller's WILDERNESS, polished and accomplished, is listed as a debut novel. If you love literary fictiIn a word: Wow. Hard as it is to believe, Lance Weller's WILDERNESS, polished and accomplished, is listed as a debut novel. If you love literary fiction, enjoy reading a writer's writer, and have an affinity for Civil War literature, you can't do better than this.
This is the story of Abel Truman, a veteran of the Civil War, an odd sort of Everyman who hails from New York yet fights for the South because he is in North Carolina during the outbreak of hostilities. The chapters alternate between 1864 and 1899. In the former, we see Abel fighting with the Rebs in the Wilderness Campaign. Using realism and his keen gift for description, Weller provides a graphic narrative of the fighting and the deaths, balanced by the nobility of friendship among the soldiers and even acts of kindness between the enemies. History buffs will note Weller's careful research as well. Much of the action focuses on Saunder's Field here. As for the latter, we move to a different wilderness altogether. Thirty-five years later, the older Truman -- scarred physically and mentally by the past -- has escaped to the wilds of the Pacific Northwest. We see, however, how every Eden harbors its snakes as Abel is beset by two brigands who steal his dog for dog fighting purposes and terrorize the woods and mountains along the coast with atrocious abandon. When Abel vows to get his dog back, he is forced to reckon anew with mankind's blunt capacity for killing and maiming.
Back and forth, with compelling stories in both Abel's past and present, we meet various characters and follow a few sub-plots, each with Abel Truman playing his part. The Wilderness becomes a metaphor for life's journey, its sheer beauty and indifferent injustices -- for man himself, with his instinctive abilities to perpetrate good and evil with equal force. Here is a small sampling of Weller's writing style: "It was very cold now; his breath steamed and rose through the trees like moss vapor in the morning sun. Abel clutched the broken grip where the metal was jagged and tried to control his breath, to ignore the thin, high, icy itch at the back of his throat. He could smell himself, root-sour and fusty, speaking of fear and sickness and age and anger and hurt. He went slowly forward once more, and only stopped when he saw the dog's eyes glowing redly from across the burned-down fire."
Some might find the 1864 chapters reminiscent of Charles Frazier's COLD MOUNTAIN with its Civil War bent; others the 1899 chapters of Knut Hamsun's PAN with its ex-military hero hunting the coastal mountains for both day-by-day sustenance and elusive succor from the past, faithful dog by his side; but all should agree that, in the current literary landscape, Weller has emerged as a new force to be appreciated and welcomed by lovers of history, literature, and the sheer possibilities of language itself. Highly recommended. ...more
OK, so I love this book and yet hold back a star. Tough love, call it. And logic, really, considering that Petterson's OUT STEALING HORSES took me by OK, so I love this book and yet hold back a star. Tough love, call it. And logic, really, considering that Petterson's OUT STEALING HORSES took me by storm. This book came before that one. In fact, Graywolf Press will be publishing four from his backlist: two novels, one short-story collection, and one essay collection. So, yeah, I love this book, but realize it does not quite reach the peaks that HORSES did.
That said, I genuinely admire the autobiographical character here. Audun Sletter's hardscrabble life is covered from preschool to age 18. He lives at home with his mom, older sister, and doomed younger brother. His Dad, no stranger to the bottle, visits when he's in the mood to punch a few easy marks. A lone wolf, Audun has but one good friend whom he sees only seldom: Arvid Jansen. The two of them have this way about them, this subterranean understanding that Petterson captures through dialogue. It's no small feat.
In her note to the reader at the start, Graywolf publisher Fiona McCrae writes, "[It's Fine By Me] has a strong, suspenseful plot, memorable teenage characters, and a moody, Norwegian setting." Check and check on numbers two and three, but not so much on number one, unless "episodic" is a qualifier you'd use for strong and suspenseful plots. It's really more of an Impressionistic work, with points of Audun's life drawn in brief, deft strokes. Back up a bit and you get the picture.
Though there are no hard and fast rules when it comes to genders and reading (especially considering how much more flexible women are compared to men), I'd say this is more of a man's book. Add a layer to that if you're a man who once dreamed of being a writer (and I assume that includes many, many men who love to read).
Through his many heartbreaks, fist fights, and rolled cigarettes, Audun has one constant -- books. He's especially drawn to books about writing and writers. MARTIN EDEN, for instance, the lesser-known Jack London work that every wannabe writer reads as a teenager (if you're late for this bus, it still stops for the hungry). And A MOVEABLE FEAST, Hemingway's non-accent-on-fictional account of his writing days in Paris during the 20s ("Hunger is good discipline," and all that). Audun also puts you on to Norwegian authors you've never heard of (unless you've been listening carefully), like Helge Ingstad, author of The Apache Indians, a book in Audun's hand on the last page. Given all this book love, you'll be Audun's bud before you know it.
It's Fine By Me does not have the sweep and descriptive flourishes of Out Stealing Horses, but its spare, direct writing and character-rich details will take its prisoners. Audun is one for feigned indifference, and you'll think you are, too -- until you reach the last page. Really. Decent endings are so hard to write, even for the very best like Tolstoy (who sucked at endings). Petterson nails it here. A perfect convergence of plot (such as it is) and character (Audun's sphinx-like one).
Yep. By the end, you'll feel like you're bidding farewell to an old friend, a kid just like you once were, a kid who might've understood you like no one else had you been lucky enough to know him. That's the feeling that carries the day with this book. Maybe it'll carry you, too.
This review is from an ARC. Actual release date: Oct. 2, 2012....more
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