now here's a feel-good story

there's a theme emerging here...

willy wonka in b&w

The Doctor's House, Ann Beattie--A woman, her brother, and their mother tell more or less the same events from their respective points of view. This is fine, albeit not groundbreaking, but the woman is obviously the main character and gets about half the book to herself, and I found her POV more interesting. Generally, doing various takes on the same events is intended to show the reader how radically perceptions differ, but the accounts weren't quite as different as they could have been, so the book kind of fell flat on that angle.

Ann Beattie is better at short fiction than at novels. She wrote one of my favorite passages ever, and since I have motive and opportunity, I will share it with you. This is from "The Burning House," 1979:

     "You picked the house, Frank. They're your friends downstairs. I used to be what you wanted me to be."
     "They're your friends, too, " he says. "Don't be paranoid."
     "I want to know if you're staying or going." (This first bit is just context.)
     He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and continues to lie very still.
     "Everything you've done is commendable," he says. "You did the right thing to go back to school. You tried to do the right thing by finding yourself a normal friend like Marilyn. But your whole life you've made one mistake--you've surrounded yourself with men. Let me tell you something. All men--if they're crazy, like Tucker, if they're gay as the Queen of May, like Reddy Fox, even if they're just six years old--I'm going to tell you something about them. Men think they're Spider-Man and Buck Rogers and Superman. You know what we all feel inside that you don't feel? That we're going to the stars."
     He takes my hand. "I'm looking down on all of this from space," he whispers. "I'm already gone."

When I was a junior in college and I read that, I felt it explained a lot.

American Woman, Susan Choi--I enjoyed reading this, but it's built around the concept of a 70s revolutionary-in-hiding who is called upon to hide the equivalent of three members of the Symbionese Liberation Army, including Patty Hearst. By "equivalent," I mean that the group in the novel is different in name only, as is the heiress; we don't know her real name, only her revolutionary name, but her family owns a newspaper empire, etc. I found this a bit distracting, although I can see why that type of character was necessary to the story, in which case maybe making the connection blatant is better than trying to use the same idea (kidnapped heiress identifies with revolutionaries) with a different set of circumstances, because then I'd still be thinking, hey, this is just like Patty Hearst.

The Behindlings, Nicola Barker--I'm sure I would've gotten more out of this book if I'd read it more slowly, but it was such an odd book and I so wanted to figure it out that I ate it in just a couple of huge bites. Think of Willy Wonka, without the bright colors, in a bad mood and this time, strictly for adults, and you're halfway there.

Ten Little Indians, Sherman Alexie--Alexie's short stories are always a joy, always have some Cracker Jack prize in them. This is the book you should read, out of this quartet of tomes.

ten little indians

Sherman Alexie was in town doing a reading for his new book of stories, Ten Little Indians (I have this from the library, but haven't read it yet; I like his shorts, but wasn't impressed too greatly by his novel), yesterday. As a part of his promotional tour-dealie, he did an interview on our locally-produced NPR call-in show, and it was tragic. Part of it made me laugh out loud and possibly threaten the safety of other drivers (I'm exaggerating).

The interviewer--I'll be kind enough not to name her--asked him about his name, noting that "Sherman has another meaning around here."

Alexie: I know! A "sherman" is a joint laced with PCP.

Interviewer: Umm, well, no, more like "march to the sea..."

Alexie: Well, I think about him whenever I have/think about a joint laced with PCP. (I don't remember exactly what word he used--have or think, that is.)

The rest of it, though, was gruesome. She starts off by noting that even though the book is called Ten Little Indians, there are only nine stories in the book. (Imagine that!) He told her he wished he'd only put eight in, because eight's a funnier number than nine. Then she got into the whole "Indian" vs. "Native American" thing. This was before the Sherman conversation.

After the Sherman coversation came the "Indians aren't all alike" line of questioning. "Your stories seem to be saying that not only is there variation between tribes, but the people in the same tribes act differently, too." I couldn't believe he was still being so cheerful and friendly to her as he explained that Indians are just like regular people. At the risk of being highly politically incorrect--and wait a minute, let me don my Cleveland Indians hat for this (I have one, and a t-shirt, too, since I was home the year they were in the World Series)--I have to say that I was hoping he'd scalp her.

After listening to this nightmare, I could understand why he wrote a book about an Indian boy who, having been adopted into a white family, grows up and becomes a killer of white people. (The book is more sophisticated than that makes it sound, though.)

many pages, not many of them good

The Crimson Petal and the White, Michel Faber--Carolyn and I did this as a read-along type thing, and when she posts her review, it will be far more informative than this one, since I don't really do "proper" reviews. Petals is around 850 pages long, yet it comes to an abrupt end, as if the author's editor told him that he couldn't possibly expect to hold his readers past page 860, or something idiotic like that. Or maybe they sent it to a test audience. Faber obviously researched this book to get the period right (late 19th-century London), and the story definitely drew me along. But by the last fourth of the book, I started to feel like things were regressing, and after that ending, well...I couldn't, in good conscience, recommend that anyone read this, since it would be cruel to put someone through all of that for no payoff.

Prague, Arthur Phillips--I'd wanted to read this book since it came out, because the reviews were so good. When I saw it at the library, I was pretty psyched. I doubt I read 20 pages, however, because it was a pretentious piece of Gen-X expat tripe.

The Little Friend, Donna Tartt--Also long, also no payoff. Tartt is trying to do this Southern Gothic thing, but the only really gothic aspect is that you sort of want to shoot yourself for wasting your time on the book. As Rachel said, it was torture. I did want to find out what happened, so I kept reading. I read pretty quickly, fortunately, so I didn't waste tons of time on this or anything. Friend rips off To Kill a Mockingbird, Member of the Wedding, and Night of the Hunter. I'm not kidding. Might as well go back and read those books, or see the movie versions, or both. The way the reviews related the title to the story really didn't hold up for me at all, so the title ended up not making a whole lot of sense--more of that Southern Gothic wannabe stuff.

Then, at the end (and this is kind of a spoiler, but not really), Harriet, the main character, is diagnosed with epilepsy, as if that's supposed to be meaningful in the context of the story. But it isn't--the epilepsy is just tacked on there. I find that kind of irritating; if the author reveals that the main character has a chronic illness on the final page or two of a book, it should damn well mean something. Petals had a similar disease problem; the main character, Sugar, had psoriasis, and the text discussed it a lot & referred to her "tiger-like stripes," yet it didn't seem to have any purpose in the story. I couldn't even pull out my good postmodernist skills and make something up.

as if you needed a reason to buy books...

Gwen's got a post about a great way to help needy libraries. Apparently, one can order books from Amazon, pick a library from their list, and they take care of the rest. Maybe you should see if the library you grew up in is hurting, and help them out. Gwen found out about this at pamie.com, and Pamie's description of the harm that will come to library patrons if you don't donate is hysterically funny.

I know that the libraries in Durham have cut back on their hours, which weren't great to begin with, and their book-buying budget has been severely curtailed. This means that, since they have to please the public, there won't be as much variety in the new books, because everyone wants to read that new John Grisham piece of tripe.

Personally, my local library, which was less than a five-minute walk from my house, was very important to me in my youth. I was a voracious reader, and the children's librarian took it upon herself to pick out books for me--eight or ten--every two weeks, the length of the loan period. And I'd read them all. (Of course, I didn't do much of anything else, but that's another story.) Her name was Ursula, although I don't recall her last name. I still have trouble controlling myself in libraries; my brain screams "Free books! Free books!" When I was old enough, I volunteered in the summer reading program. My summers were all about the library.

University libraries aren't immune to the cuts, either. I worked in the Special Collections library for a while, which was great, and apparently they've now run out of money to hire anyone else. (I haven't worked there for a couple of years, but their website, which I designed, needs to be updated.) And librarians are having to make painful choices about which journals to keep subscribing to, and which to cut. All of this, of course, when the coach of the basketball team makes almost twice as much as the university president, blah, blah, blah...don't even get me started on college sports.

A.M.

The Autograph Man, Zadie Smith--I didn't read this book when it came out last year because it was universally panned, but I just finished watching the BBC version of White Teeth (her first book, which I really enjoyed--and the miniseries was quite well done, too), so when I saw A.M. at the library, I picked it up; I'm glad I did. Definitely a good read, but one of those books in which the main character just doesn't get a break, it seems--I was just dying to see him dig himself out of his hole, just a little, but he always seemed to fall back in. Don't get me wrong--this isn't a depressing read; he digs his hole in an amusing way, more or less. I especially appreciated the Recurring Rabbis, although I've yet to figure out their significance.