I won MorrowPlanet's Monday Giveaway -- a copy of Percival Everett's Glyph. I look forward to finding it in my mailbox in the near future & will definitely write about it here after reading.
Oh! my TBR pile keeps growing....
22 May 2006
20 May 2006
It's Only A Dog
I was skeptical about reading Marley & Me. It seemed too trite of a subject to be much more than a long article -- how could it be a full length book? With all of the ruckus over memoirs recently, if this wasn't too far-fetched (or maybe if it was), I did think that the made-for-memoirs details would provide a few laughs.
I am a snob about what I read (what a surprise!). It had better be good; it had better inform or entertain or make me think. I better not wish to get back those lost hours spent reading the book. A book about a dog? Not likely.
I read beyond the first chapter. Yes, it was short, but a poor excuse for a book can lose me in 2 or 3 pages. By chapter 3 I hadn't wanted to throw the book across the room, but I wasn't convinced that I needed to finish the book. But then something happened: my own very old dog's health changed drastically overnight. I spent the better part of two days sitting beside him, gently petting him, wishing I could ease his pain, letting him know that he was as valued to me as I think we've been to him.
And that lead me back, a few weeks later to Marley. It is just that affinity between pet & pet owner, between companion & friend, that this book is about. Told in brief slice-of-life chapters, John Grogan recounts the tales of Marley, the rambunctious, always a puppy, canine terror that ruled the roost for 13 years. By telling the stories about the dog, the reader also comes to know John Grogan, his love of gardening and of writing, of his family, and of the pains and joys of being a parent, a neighbor, or a friend. Throughout the book there are plenty of opportunities for the book to fall into a saccharine mess. After all, by it's nature, it is perched dangerously close to such a fall into the sugar bowl. And yet, there are episodes that you can't help but laugh at, like the description of a cross-country move involving an airplane ride with 3 young childen, some goldfish, crickets, frogs, a snail, and one tranquilized dog that howls so loudly in the hold that all of the passengers can hear him.
Pet owners know that it is never 'just' a pet. Reading about how Marley was not just a dog, but a companion and family member to the Grogans is something pet owners will understand. Marley & Me may not be a thought-provoking literary jaunt that you'll remember for a long time, but it is a lighthearted read that almost all pet owners would enjoy spending a few hours with.
I am a snob about what I read (what a surprise!). It had better be good; it had better inform or entertain or make me think. I better not wish to get back those lost hours spent reading the book. A book about a dog? Not likely.
I read beyond the first chapter. Yes, it was short, but a poor excuse for a book can lose me in 2 or 3 pages. By chapter 3 I hadn't wanted to throw the book across the room, but I wasn't convinced that I needed to finish the book. But then something happened: my own very old dog's health changed drastically overnight. I spent the better part of two days sitting beside him, gently petting him, wishing I could ease his pain, letting him know that he was as valued to me as I think we've been to him.
And that lead me back, a few weeks later to Marley. It is just that affinity between pet & pet owner, between companion & friend, that this book is about. Told in brief slice-of-life chapters, John Grogan recounts the tales of Marley, the rambunctious, always a puppy, canine terror that ruled the roost for 13 years. By telling the stories about the dog, the reader also comes to know John Grogan, his love of gardening and of writing, of his family, and of the pains and joys of being a parent, a neighbor, or a friend. Throughout the book there are plenty of opportunities for the book to fall into a saccharine mess. After all, by it's nature, it is perched dangerously close to such a fall into the sugar bowl. And yet, there are episodes that you can't help but laugh at, like the description of a cross-country move involving an airplane ride with 3 young childen, some goldfish, crickets, frogs, a snail, and one tranquilized dog that howls so loudly in the hold that all of the passengers can hear him.
Pet owners know that it is never 'just' a pet. Reading about how Marley was not just a dog, but a companion and family member to the Grogans is something pet owners will understand. Marley & Me may not be a thought-provoking literary jaunt that you'll remember for a long time, but it is a lighthearted read that almost all pet owners would enjoy spending a few hours with.
19 May 2006
Don't like NYT's 25 best books? For a twist on the top 25 list, check out Playboy's 25 sexiest novels of all times, complete with plot summary and rationale for inclusion on the list. To quote from their intro: "If reading is thinking with someone else's brain, then erotica is feeling with someone else's body parts."
I've never heard of several of the works listed. At first, I was surprised by Judy Blume's Forever , but I agree with the rationale. And I remember having to resort to stealth methods to read it when I was 15!
And the number 1 book? Fanny Hill, published in 1749 and subject to centuries of censorship. Playboy quotes it as "the first deliberately dirty novel in English" (no citation to source of the quote given).
Years ago, I was teaching a Intro the Literature class and had students complain about a story by Hal Bennet,"Dotson Gerber Resurrected" because the notes in the Norton anthology indicated that the story had been published first in Playboy and therefore couldn't be literature. BTW, that short story is in no way 'erotica'. Things don't change much over the years, do they?
Thanks to Largehearted Boy for the link.
I've never heard of several of the works listed. At first, I was surprised by Judy Blume's Forever , but I agree with the rationale. And I remember having to resort to stealth methods to read it when I was 15!
And the number 1 book? Fanny Hill, published in 1749 and subject to centuries of censorship. Playboy quotes it as "the first deliberately dirty novel in English" (no citation to source of the quote given).
Years ago, I was teaching a Intro the Literature class and had students complain about a story by Hal Bennet,"Dotson Gerber Resurrected" because the notes in the Norton anthology indicated that the story had been published first in Playboy and therefore couldn't be literature. BTW, that short story is in no way 'erotica'. Things don't change much over the years, do they?
Thanks to Largehearted Boy for the link.
16 May 2006
Real and Fictional Travels
The New York Times ran an article in Sunday's Travel section on books that evoked wanderlust. I find it amusing that I was reading it while Matt Lauer was interviewing the curator at the Louvre regarding increased tourism due to The DaVinci Code. (No, I haven't read the book.) Say what you might about the confluence of pop culture and high culture, but I agree with the curator who said he thought it was great that people who wouldn't otherwise come to the Louvre were doing so. Isn't that what engaging writing will do: inspire the reader to explore ideas, places, cultures, whether in person or from the armchair?
A few years ago, I sat on the sands of Copacabana and looked towards Pao de Acucar, realizing a dream I had had for over 30 years, inspired by my 4th grade Geography book. Reading Camus and Saint Exupery made me want to travel to northern Africa; Hugo planted a desire to see Notre Dame and the catacombs of Paris; Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey, T.H. White's Once and Future King, Barrie's Peter Pan, and a host of other writers' works lead me to travels throughout England; Hemingway to Paris, Italy, Spain, Cuba (maybe some day I'll get there) and Key West; Bradbury to planets beyond my capacity to travel; Shakespeare's The Tempest to the Green World.
Reading Jessamyn West's Massacre at Fall Creek when I was a teenager made me think about events that happened nearby years before I lived. Sometimes I look out my window and look at that sometimes a trickle, sometimes a torrent of a creek and wonder about that massacre 200 years and 10 miles away and what it taught me about pioneers, justice, how disrespectful people can be towards other cultures.
Writing can both inspire and inform one's travels, both before and after one visits the actual locality. Give me an engaging piece of writing and there will probably be something in it that will make me want to experience it in person, whether it exists or not.
As Steven Colbert (who just isn't right, is he?) was quoted in the Times article regarding his travel inspiration:
"Lord of the Rings." I always wanted to travel to Middle Earth. And now wherever I go, I am always on the lookout for Hobbits."
Yeah, Steven, you're right!
A few years ago, I sat on the sands of Copacabana and looked towards Pao de Acucar, realizing a dream I had had for over 30 years, inspired by my 4th grade Geography book. Reading Camus and Saint Exupery made me want to travel to northern Africa; Hugo planted a desire to see Notre Dame and the catacombs of Paris; Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey, T.H. White's Once and Future King, Barrie's Peter Pan, and a host of other writers' works lead me to travels throughout England; Hemingway to Paris, Italy, Spain, Cuba (maybe some day I'll get there) and Key West; Bradbury to planets beyond my capacity to travel; Shakespeare's The Tempest to the Green World.
Reading Jessamyn West's Massacre at Fall Creek when I was a teenager made me think about events that happened nearby years before I lived. Sometimes I look out my window and look at that sometimes a trickle, sometimes a torrent of a creek and wonder about that massacre 200 years and 10 miles away and what it taught me about pioneers, justice, how disrespectful people can be towards other cultures.
Writing can both inspire and inform one's travels, both before and after one visits the actual locality. Give me an engaging piece of writing and there will probably be something in it that will make me want to experience it in person, whether it exists or not.
As Steven Colbert (who just isn't right, is he?) was quoted in the Times article regarding his travel inspiration:
"Lord of the Rings." I always wanted to travel to Middle Earth. And now wherever I go, I am always on the lookout for Hobbits."
Yeah, Steven, you're right!
11 May 2006
Ticknor: A Novel
Ticknor: A Novel, Sheila Heti.
Because this was a nominee for the Spring 'Read This' at the LitBlog Coop, and because it was short, I picked up a copy of Ticknor recently and avoided reading any of the LBC posts until after I finished the book. I can't remember the last time it took me 4 days to read a 118 page book! And that should not recommend it. Heti's book is a tough trudge up a steep hill in inclement weather. I kept encouraging myself: "It's only 118 pages -- you can do this". But, 3 of the last 4 nights I either fell asleep or found myself wondering what I had just read on the previous few pages that I had to re-read before continuing. So, imagine my surprise when I turned the last page and thought: "Well, that wasn't so bad; I liked it a bit."
Heti's work is imaginative and bears little resemblance to the historical persons portrayed. Ticknor is a stream-of-consciousness tale about biographer George Ticknor and his friend historian William H. Prescott. But, it isn't historical fiction. Rather, it is a character study of Ticknor, a socially awkward, obsessive, flawed man consumed with jealousy over his friend's publishing successes, wealth and social standing. Ticknor even seems jealous over his friend's blindness, resentful of how Prescott adapts to and overcomes the fateful boyish prank that injured his eye. More than that though, Ticknor is consumed by his own inadequacies and anxieties.
Ticknor does not interact with any one in the book; the narrative takes place completely in his head. His disjointed internal monologue is so disruptive that it isn't surprising when he reveals that it took him 10 years to write an article. Ticknor's various trains of thought have him ruminating on how his friend's acquaintances won't acknowledge him, on Prescott's dislike for him, how Prescott's wife is horrified by his obvious (to him) lust for her, and his daydreams about how the wife might one day return his admiring glances. Yet, the description of his social ineptitude suggests that he would botch up any return of affection.
There isn't just one narrative point of view in the work, although all points of view are Ticknor's. The changing narrative voice is challenging, but contributes to the overall mood of the work. You want to shout "Turn off the voices in your head, George". Yet Heti's novel depends on that battering din.
You don't end up feeling much of anything but pity for poor George Ticknor, but only in a voyeuristic, 'won't someone help him so he won't be my problem?' sort of way. And this is why Heti's book works: it isn't about Ticknor's friendship with Prescott; it isn't success and failure or wealth and poverty; it is about inadequacies within Ticknor, his introspection and inaccurate observations that drive his actions and keeps him from interacting with others. And it is about the similar inadequacies within those who avoid him. Even the reader. The human condition: Ah Bartleby! Ah Humanity!
Because this was a nominee for the Spring 'Read This' at the LitBlog Coop, and because it was short, I picked up a copy of Ticknor recently and avoided reading any of the LBC posts until after I finished the book. I can't remember the last time it took me 4 days to read a 118 page book! And that should not recommend it. Heti's book is a tough trudge up a steep hill in inclement weather. I kept encouraging myself: "It's only 118 pages -- you can do this". But, 3 of the last 4 nights I either fell asleep or found myself wondering what I had just read on the previous few pages that I had to re-read before continuing. So, imagine my surprise when I turned the last page and thought: "Well, that wasn't so bad; I liked it a bit."
Heti's work is imaginative and bears little resemblance to the historical persons portrayed. Ticknor is a stream-of-consciousness tale about biographer George Ticknor and his friend historian William H. Prescott. But, it isn't historical fiction. Rather, it is a character study of Ticknor, a socially awkward, obsessive, flawed man consumed with jealousy over his friend's publishing successes, wealth and social standing. Ticknor even seems jealous over his friend's blindness, resentful of how Prescott adapts to and overcomes the fateful boyish prank that injured his eye. More than that though, Ticknor is consumed by his own inadequacies and anxieties.
Ticknor does not interact with any one in the book; the narrative takes place completely in his head. His disjointed internal monologue is so disruptive that it isn't surprising when he reveals that it took him 10 years to write an article. Ticknor's various trains of thought have him ruminating on how his friend's acquaintances won't acknowledge him, on Prescott's dislike for him, how Prescott's wife is horrified by his obvious (to him) lust for her, and his daydreams about how the wife might one day return his admiring glances. Yet, the description of his social ineptitude suggests that he would botch up any return of affection.
There isn't just one narrative point of view in the work, although all points of view are Ticknor's. The changing narrative voice is challenging, but contributes to the overall mood of the work. You want to shout "Turn off the voices in your head, George". Yet Heti's novel depends on that battering din.
You don't end up feeling much of anything but pity for poor George Ticknor, but only in a voyeuristic, 'won't someone help him so he won't be my problem?' sort of way. And this is why Heti's book works: it isn't about Ticknor's friendship with Prescott; it isn't success and failure or wealth and poverty; it is about inadequacies within Ticknor, his introspection and inaccurate observations that drive his actions and keeps him from interacting with others. And it is about the similar inadequacies within those who avoid him. Even the reader. The human condition: Ah Bartleby! Ah Humanity!
03 May 2006
Expressions of Sadness & Secrets on the Web
Onepotmeal had a link yesterday to The Saddest Thing I Own. Contributors submit a photograph and a written explanation about the saddest object they own. Some of the items seem benign, but the narratives can be gut-wretching; tales of lost loves, lost lives, and haunting memories.
Scrolling through the site, I couldn't help but think of similarities to PostSecret, where contributors submit a piece of art on a postcard to reveal a secret. And, yet, for the last day I've been trying to figure out why these sites have a different emotional impact on me. A few posts on The Saddest Thing brought me close to tears, yet I felt like I was rubbernecking at a car wreck. Real life a little too upclose and personal.
Not every secret on PostSecret is traumatic, though many are. Some are witty, some fun, some titillating -- but not necessarily sad. Like The Saddest Thing, the artist is anonymously sharing an emotional experience with the reader. Perhaps it is the limitations of the format that forces the creator to judiciously choose words and images that makes the experience more profound. Maybe it is the catharsis of PostSecret: no matter how horrendous the secret, there seems to be a healing in the revelation the postcard art contains.
I don't find that yet in the first posts in The Saddest Thing. It just seems sad.
Scrolling through the site, I couldn't help but think of similarities to PostSecret, where contributors submit a piece of art on a postcard to reveal a secret. And, yet, for the last day I've been trying to figure out why these sites have a different emotional impact on me. A few posts on The Saddest Thing brought me close to tears, yet I felt like I was rubbernecking at a car wreck. Real life a little too upclose and personal.
Not every secret on PostSecret is traumatic, though many are. Some are witty, some fun, some titillating -- but not necessarily sad. Like The Saddest Thing, the artist is anonymously sharing an emotional experience with the reader. Perhaps it is the limitations of the format that forces the creator to judiciously choose words and images that makes the experience more profound. Maybe it is the catharsis of PostSecret: no matter how horrendous the secret, there seems to be a healing in the revelation the postcard art contains.
I don't find that yet in the first posts in The Saddest Thing. It just seems sad.
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