The Tiger's Wife

Part of the hazard of reading a book at home is that unless I sequester myself in a back room, I’m probably going to be surrounded by noise. This past week was no exception. The combination of two hyper nephews, the clattering of legos, blocks, and unfortunate falls off the couch onto a wooden floor, and the incessant playing of Rock Band made the possibility of concentrating on what I read about as likely as having Laura decide she wants to listen to Mozart instead of watching Basketball! 

So, perhaps it was the noise pollution, but this book left me puzzled. 

I’m no stranger to magic realism. I discovered Isabel Allende and Gabriel García Márquez years ago. A world where parrots talk, certain cursed men never die, and women become pregnant simply by sitting in the moonlight is something that’s just part of the fabric of the story. Remarkable and unreasonable events are meant to spin the reader into an imbalanced world where what’s supposed to happen doesn’t happen. I like this kind irrationality and The Tiger’s Wife certainly had a lot of it. 

In a nutshell: The Tiger’s Wife is set in a fictionalized Balkan country and centers of the relationship between a grandfather and his granddaughter. Part of the book is narrated in the first-person by the granddaughter and the other is told through the grandfather’s stories to his granddaughter. A “deathless man” dominates the story, as does a deaf-mute girl who becomes the “tiger’s wife.” The Jungle Book is also crucial to the story line; though, I’m not sure how much. 

This book was unique and entertaining. I liked Obreht’s writing style (descriptive, but restrained), yet it was like a puzzle that didn’t quite fit together. Throughout the story I kept thinking, “where is this going?” “how is this going to fit together?” and I fully expected it to by the end of the book. It never quite did. Perhaps I missed the crucial passage that tied it all together while Jhordany and Vincent were reenacting the sword fight in Puss n’ Boots... 

Read Like a Victorian

I had not planned on reading this 989 page beast, but I must have had some sort of epileptic fit a few weeks ago while I was sitting in-front of my bookcase looking for the purpose of my reading life because I saw Bleak House and thought, “why not?”

There is something soothing about Dickens that I never noticed when I was required to read him. After an entire seminar of nothing but Dickens, the accumulation of his life, character, historical period and writings melded into a leaden weight that I quickly dropped at the Semester's end. I’ve referred to him as “that old windbag” ever since. While this epithet came to mind a time or two these past few weeks, I think I've finally discovered how to love reading Dickens.

For most people, suggesting that they should read a Victorian Novel is like asking them to sacrifice their firstborn or pull off their toenail with a pair of tweezers: it’s that painful. Even if they love the period, the idea of committing to read 1000 pages is a major deterrent. However, I’m convinced that if approached in the right way, most people would love the Victorian novel.

1. It’s important to not be goal driven. If you tell yourself, “I must finish 100 pages today” or “I have to be done with this by next week!” reading will quickly become skimming and skimming will become displeasure. I knew the story of Bleak House, but I hadn’t experienced it. Graduate school has that unfortunate ability to replace enjoyment with a frantic need to finish a book as quickly as possible and then dig up criticism so you can, well, criticize. Skim and criticize! Skim and criticize! It’s enough to drive you mad. I promised myself when I started reading this that there would be no time restrictions.

2. Bleak House was originally published in serial mode - meaning it came out in monthly installments. It ran from March 1852 through September 1853. 20 months! To the Victorians, it was like their monthly dose of All my Children. There was no frantic rushing through the pages or wondering what fool graduate student trying to make a name for themselves wrote about “The analysis of Proust and Dickens: How Bleak House shaped the transgender cooking movement of the Victorian Period,” or some such nonsense. Reading was to be savored and enjoyed. It didn’t matter if it took a year or two to read the story. When I started reading I told myself to slow down and savor every word and consider every character. This worked .... most of the time. There were still a few chapters where I muttered, “Dickens, you old windbag, just get to the point!”

3. Appreciate the melodrama as part of the historical context. When a grown man lays his head on his mother’s lap and weeps readers today might be inclined to roll their eyes. I like the melodramatic moments though because it’s precisily what someone today wouldn’t write. Besides, why shouldn’t a grown man weep on his mother’s lap?

4. Love the characters. Where else would you find such a conglomeration of odd people?

Smallweed is a greedy, old man who has to be carried around in his chair, pummels his crazed, elderly wife with pillows and screams things at her like, “You are an old pig. You are a brimstone pig. You’re a head of a swine!” (338). And I thought my grandparents didn’t get along...

Mr. Krook owns a cat that will rip people to shreds on demand and he is fated to spontaneously combust.

Whenever Mr. Jarndyce gets upset he claims that “the wind is in the East” and it seems he has a penchant for escaping through windows and running away whenever someone tries to thank him for something.

The cheerful and carefree Harold Skimpole actually convinces people he is “only a child” in order to pilfer their money and escape all moral responsibility. He actually says things like, “Butterflies are free. Mankind will surely not deny to Harold Skimpole what it concedes to the butterflies” (97).

I’m not sure what the ultimate fate of the Victorian Novel will be. Several of my students have told me they have never read a book; more have said that they wouldn’t read one over 100 pages. Yet, I don’t doubt that the heavy hitters of the Victorian age -- as in, their books are so heavy they could kill someone if you used them as a weapon -- will survive in one way or another (the movies, or perhaps, graphic novels), but I think people will go on professing they love authors like Charles Dickens, George Eliot, and Wilkie Collins long after they have taken the time to actually read them.

My Name is Mary Sutter

     Miles and I were milling around the book table in Costco last week and My Name is Mary Sutter by Robin Oliveira caught my eye. I had never heard of this book, but since we are planning a Civil War pilgrimage (sometime before the 150 Anniversary ends) I have been trying to find interesting historical novels about the Civil War so I’m not left aimlessly wandering around gift shops while Miles thrills in the history of Battlefields and weeps over the grave of General Stonewall Jackson’s arm. In other words, I too, want to know and care about the Civil War. :) 

My Name is Mary Sutter is about a young woman who comes from a long generation of midwives and who is one herself. She wants more though - she wants to be a surgeon. The story that unfolds has four narrative layers: Mary’s struggle to become a surgeon, Mary’s romantic issues with three different men, her sometimes troubled relationship with her family, and the war itself.

Overall, I really enjoyed this book. The story moved at a good pace until around the last 75 pages or so, when it became slow and cumbersome. Perhaps the author was trying to mirror the end of the war itself? In any case, the novel was well-researched (I fact checked with Miles) and when Oliveira wasn’t inserting melodramatic scenes of what she imagines Lincoln felt at his son’s death or when he was planning on writing the Emancipation Proclamation, the story moved seamlessly between chapters detailing historical events and the story of Mary’s many struggles and triumphs.

Oliveira’s prose was impressive as well. She was poetic without being sentimental. For instance, at one point Mary is looking up at the constellation of Cassiopeia:

“Mary was pondering the celestial queen rising to prominence in the southern sky. Ambitious, doomed, reckless. It was unfair, Mary thought, that the stars couldn’t rearrange themselves. That a queen who dared to question the gods would be forever stuck in such an unappealing posture.”

Finally, I think one the most satisfying aspects of this novel was that Mary was not a beautiful woman. It was so refreshing to have a heroine who didn’t catch every man’s eye because she had a willow thin waist and a propensity to faint whenever it was romantically convenient. Mary is a robust woman with frizzy hair, yet she’s attractive because of her confidence, compassion, and ambition. What a nice change to read about a woman who is valued for what she does and who she is, rather than how she looks.

Sarah's Key

I had been warned that I would need a box of kleenex and a prescription for Prozac to accompany this book; happily (I suppose), that was not the case. 

Don't get me wrong, Tatiana De Rosnay's Sarah's Key held my interest and I certainly learned something about the Vel' d' Hiv roundup that happened in France in 1942. During this roundup, also called "Operation Spring Breeze" the French Police (via Nazi persuasion) rounded up men, women, and many French born children and locked them in an events center in Paris under deplorable conditions before shipping them to interment camps in France and, eventually, to Auschwitz. I appreciated this book for the history and the compelling premise of the story (young girl locks her brother in a cupboard thinking he will be safe from the Nazis and then must make her way back to him), but that's about it.

De Rosnay will never be blamed for an overuse of adjectives or too much introspection. I'm afraid her Freshman Composition Professor forget to install the "show, don't tell" maxim in her. Her writing is very simple. I finished all 293 pages in about five hours and even though the story was tragic, I honestly didn't feel like I knew the characters enough (or liked some of them enough) to cry into my pillow all night long. 

Julia Jarmond, the journalist who becomes obsessed with finding out what happened to Sarah, was hard to connect with. She seemed cold and distant to me. Her husband was a complete imbecile and the reader is supposed to believe that Julia has put up with fifteen years of his caustic cruelty and an open affair with another women because he is good in bed (presumably, because he is French and French men are supposedly so sexy that even if they cheat on their wives and treat them with no respect they are still considered a great catch). Right.  

Like most Holocaust Fiction, the echo of "we must never forget" is felt throughout. However, the social/philosophical implications were too black and white for me. Everyone who wants to forget is bad and everyone who wants to remember is the bearer of light and goodness. However, because of what happens to some of the characters, De Rosnay seems to undermine her whole remembering = good/forgetting = bad binary and it left me with this question: if remembering means you are going to wallow in misery and forgetting means you can move on with your life and be happy, than isn't it better to try and forget? 

No, no - I'm not saying we shouldn't read, teach, and learn about the Holocaust, but I think De Rosnay handled the issue in a very elementary way. 

I wonder what she would say about the Israeli Orchestra's recent decision to play Wagner (a notorious anti-Semite and Hitler's favorite composer) despite a ban on it. Many people have said its an abomination to the memory of those who suffered, but the Orchestra Chief Executive argues that "the performance shows the world the Nazis failed in their attempt to exterminate the Jews" and he sees it as a "victory concert." Personally, I think there is something hauntingly (perhaps, ironically?) victorious about it. I doubt if De Rosnay would agree. 

 I really think Sarah's Key will make a better movie than a book, and if this trailer is any indication, it's much more likely to make me cry. 

The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane

This was one of those books where I became so engrossed I could hardly put it down to eat, sleep, or brush my teeth. I stayed up until 1 am reading and the next morning I woke at 6 just so I could finish it! It's not that I think the author, Katherine Howe, is a phenomenal writer (she had a strange fascination with the word "glimmering"), but her story gave me the pleasant sensation of being incredibly entertained whilst still learning something constructive. It would be nice if Stephanie Meyer had realized that entertainment and substance can occur together before she Twilighted a generation of impressionable young minds into the black hole teenage emotions and fangs.... won't go down that path right now though.

The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane is categorized as historical fiction and the story is premised on this question: what if the women accused in the Salem Witch Trials were actually guilty of witchcraft? 

Set in Cambridge and Marblehead, Massachusetts, the narrative goes back and forth between the story of Connie Goodwin, a PhD candidate who has just inherited the job of cleaning up her Grandmother's crumbling 17th century house which has been abandoned for twenty years, and a line of 17th century women whose possession of the gift of magic usually brings them more pain than pleasure. The mystery begins when Connie discovers a small key and a piece of paper with the name "Deliverance Dane" written on it. From there on out it's alternately a treasure hunt, mystery, and mild academic thriller. There were some hokey hocus pocus kind of moments, but overall I highly recommend this one! 

Mansfield Park

I am a professed Jane Austen fan and I have a confession to make: I have never read Mansfield Park. I believe I have actually been living in denial of this fact because when I went to add the book to my goodreads account I found I had already marked it as read. Shame on me. 

I have started Mansfield Park about five times and always ended up putting the book down around the part where Fanny is left on a bench in the park while everyone else is having romantic intrigues around her. My problem, I suppose, is that Fanny never seemed to be an active participant in anything. She's not boring, but I wanted her to be different. A little more vibrant and a little less moral. 

Fanny is the most passive, philosophic, introverted, self-deprecating heroine of Austen’s creation. At times, she really seemed to have a serious self-esteem problem. Still, one can’t hate her just because she’s not Elizabeth Bennett. Not everyone can be witty and self-confident. Mansfield Park is different, the characters more complicated than Austen’s other works. I found that I was actually hoping for the rake - a staple character in Austen’s fiction who is the young, dishonest man that tries to flirt his way into the amiable heroines good graces only to end up eloping to Scotland with a far less amiable character, usually a silly sister or cousin - to make his conquest and not be the jerk I knew him to be. 

Of course, everything ended as it should, but the process of getting there was stranger and more complicated than I’m used to in an Austen novel. It was definitely worth the read and now I can hold my head high when I proclaim: I love Jane Austen! 

The Help

Well, an International Bestseller snagged me again. I know, I know. After my last experience I swore to return to the 19th century and I did; albeit, via the BBC. It only took watching Anthony Trollope’s 1869 novel He Knew He was Right to lower my blood pressure and lull me into a blissful Victorian coma. I did bring my Kindle on our trip to California (most 19th century works are free on it), but when we went to Costco the other day I was drawn to the book table and one $9.99 “Bestseller” could not be ignored.   

I know I am a little late hopping on the bandwagon for Kathryn Stockett’s The Help. It was published in 2009 and it has already made such a sensation that the movie version is coming out this August. Obviously, I was still a little skeptical when I started it, but I really liked this book. I appreciated the fact that even though it’s set in what has become an overdone time period and place (1960’s Mississippi) the story is unique. Stockett hit on all the major events and topics of the Civil Rights period: Rosa Parks, the MLK and JFK assassination, separate but equal, and the KKK, but they were a minor part of the novel, the backdrop to the daily lives and struggles of the maids and the white young woman, Skeeter, working to record their stories. 

My favorite character in this story was Miss Celia: a clueless “white trash” lady from podunk Mississippi who married rich and now doesn’t have a clue about how to be a “lady.” She dresses like Stripper Doll Barbie. She does things like getting her platinum blond head stuck in her hair dryer hood. Trust me, she’s a great character. 

The trailer actually looks good. Of course, it won’t be as good as the book. I just hope there aren’t too many movie moments.  You know, those cheesed up scenes that you see coming a mile away and you’re hoping they don’t do it, but then, lo and behold, the music swells and the moment happens and once again, originality and Hollywood separate on the path of entertainment. Still ... I guess one shouldn't pre-criticize. I will keep an open mind. :) 

And how did this become an International Bestseller?

Reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog transported me back to the monotonous and mind-numbing moments of Literary Theory courses; those horrible hours filled with graduate students who were having love affairs with their own voice. Usually, their eagerness to prove their worth and IQ by stringing together infinitely tedious observations about Hegel, Kant, and life in general left me feeling  like nihilism really was the only logical answer to the universe. It took about an hour of fresh air, some normal human conversation, and chocolate to rescue me from the swirling, black hole of graduate student philosophers. In my opinion, meandering observations and questions about the universe are better left to ones self. Muriel Barbery, author of this book and a professor of Philosophy, definitely didn't get this memo. 

Boring and pretentious are the two words that best describe this book. Gifted, disturbed characters are usually interesting, but Renee and Paloma were such stuffy, self-absorbed, uninviting examples of "genius" (geniuses usually aren't very fun, I suppose) that I was rolling my eyes after the first couple of chapters. Renee has bad breath and a high IQ. Paloma is a privileged 12 year old who fantasizes about burning down her apartment and committing suicide when she turns 13. Hmmm. I'm beginning to see that International Bestseller's are highly overrated and I think I'm going to abandon the 21st Century for a while and go back to my beloved 19th century. The English countryside dotted with sheep, a barouche, dashing gentlemen in breeches, and a quadrille are just the thing to lift my spirits! 

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

For my Birthday, my mother-in-law gave me the beautiful clothbound set of Steig Larsson's trilogy from Amazon. To be honest, I added these books to my Wishlist without actually reading what they were about. They are so popular and the box set looked so nice that I figured I couldn't go wrong! I was wrong. 

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo wasn't what I expected. This definitely isn't a book that grabs you from the start. The first couple of chapters were terribly dull; the writing had an almost amateurish quality. Perhaps Swedish doesn't translate well into English? After about fifty pages I was finally pulled into the story and I did find the murder mystery plot interesting. However, after finishing this book I can honestly say that I feel disturbed. The Swedish title for this book is Men who Hate Women and that is an apt description of over half of the male characters in this book. I can only conclude that a large portion of Sweden's male population is made up of pedophiles, sadists, serial killers, and rapists. 

Now for the main character. Lisbeth Sanders, the one with the dragon tattoo, is an pseudo-anorexic, gothic, socially incompetent "genius" with a photographic memory. What confused me most about this character is even though she is constantly described as anorexic looking, tattooed, pierced, and dirty, all the men in the novel seem to be mysteriously attracted to her. Very weird. Her mode of attack usually involves computer hacking, golf clubs, and tasers. Gutsy, yes, but she's quite deranged.  

Now that I own the other two books I feel obligated to read them, but I'm afraid I’m going to need therapy when I'm finished.   

Reading Block

Lately, I've been having a hard time concentrating. I am currently half-way through about seven different books because every time I sit down to read I feel the need to read something other than what I was reading the day before! I'm running out of bookmarks. In exactly two weeks Miles and I will be moving into our new place in Logan and I guess all this upending of our apartment (and lives) is making me a little excitable. When I get restless I usually just give up trying to read and surf the internet instead (a habit I am trying to break ... just not today :). This afternoon I was looking at 19th century paintings on art.com and I couldn't help but notice all of the portraits of women reading. I am captivated by the peacefulness of these paintings. These women seem absolutely tranquil, lost in a world of words. At this moment, I really wish I could be one of these women.

      

 

 

 

 

Funny in Farsi

Just to give you a clue on how entertaining Funny in Farsi is ... I had this book with me at a dermatologist appointment the other week and I ended up having to wait in the office for over an hour. When they finally called my name I felt slightly annoyed at being interrupted and had to repress the urge to say, “just give me a minute here while I finish this chapter.”

In a nutshell, this book is a string of hilarious anecdotes about Firoozeh and her family’s assimilation into American culture after they moved from Iran to America in 1971. 

Here is an excerpt from the second chapter, “Hot Dogs and Wild Geese.” 

       Moving to America was both exciting and frightening, but we found great comfort in knowing that my father spoke English. Having spent years regaling us with stories about his graduate years in America, he had left us with the distinct impression that America was his second home. My mother and I planned to stick close to him, letting him guide us through the exotic American landscape that he knew so well. We counted on him not only to translate the language but also to translate the culture, to be a link to this most foreign of lands. He was to be our own private Rosetta stone.

      Once we reached America, we wondered whether perhaps my father had confused his life in America with someone else’s. Judging from the bewildered looks of store cashiers, gas station attendants, and waiters, my father spoke a version of English not yet shared with the rest of America. His attempts to find a “vater closet” in a department store would usually lead us to the drinking fountain or the home furnishings section. Asking my father to ask the waitress the definition of “sloppy Joe” or “Tater Tots” was no problem. His translations, however, were highly suspect. 

This book is short and easy to read - perfect if you don’t want to be shackled to a beast of a Victorian novel for weeks on end. 

28 isn't too old for a picture book or two, is it?

Spring has finally arrived in Lincoln and so has my desire to complete my yearly ritual of reading my two favorite Children’s books: Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows (1908) and Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden (1911). No matter how many times I read these books, I am always newly enchanted by the fun, wit, and extreme Englishness that resides within their pages. This year my reading is being made 100 times more pleasurable by the fact that I was able to use some of my Christmas money to purchase the illustrated editions by Inga Moore. I am in love with Inga Moore because I think her illustrations perfectly capture the spirit of these stories. 

I’m looking forward to sharing these books with our future children ... once they pass the peanut butter on the fingers and the desire to rip out the pages stage. 

Why Oprah shouldn't be allowed to have a Book Club.

Since my “Living Under a Blanket of Smog” blog I haven’t ventured into the blogging world. A great loss for all mankind, I know. However, I recently decided it would be fun to start a new blog about, what else, books! Ok, before you let that groan escape, I actually don’t plan to write only about books. If ever something exciting happens to me or Miles I will be sure to update you on it. Currently, our slightly anti-social, curmudgeonly routine of reading and drinking tea in the evening has seriously inhibited most forms of relatable excitement, (unless you’re into scholarly excitement), so a book blog seemed the way to go. :)

Eat Pray Love (alternate title: Indulge Complain Annoy)

I picked up this book while doing some “impulse borrowing” at the library this Saturday. Miles and I are saving our pennies for our move to Logan next month, so library shopping is the closest I can get to experiencing shopping endorphins. I’ve been hearing about Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat Pray Love for several years and figured it was finally time to give it a go. After all, women all over the world have been raving about it and it is part of Oprah’s book club (cringe). Preparing myself for a possibly enlightening read I eagerly opened the book .... and read .... and realized that it’s amazing how much time rich people have to be obsessed about themselves. 

What Elizabeth Gilbert taught me about life:

Responsibility is optional.

Having children will destroy your ability to travel the world. 

You must be a likable enough person so that when you consistently whine about yourself you will find people willing to listen to your problems. Heaven help you if you don’t have her magical ability to attract people through incessant self-pity. 

Dirty bathrooms are the best places to cry; especially if you’re face down on the tiles next to the toilet. 

Dislike is too delicate a word to describe my feelings towards this book. Abhor might be a little strong, but is definitely closer to the mark. Perhaps I’m a little cynical, but setting off to write a book about spiritual transformation when you’ve already been paid in advance to write it seems a little calculating and discrediting. Her admittedly “cherry-picking” religiosity came across as the all too familiar new-age chant of the rich and privileged. As far as I can tell, this is the recipe for a religion that won’t make you uncomfortable or ask you to give up anything (except your money):

2 cups of your own personal Guru 

1 heaping cup of dislike for George W. Bush 

1/2 cup Indian yogic traditions

2 Tbs of Buddha 

sprinkle with chanting in sanskrit 

Forcing myself to read this book was like rolling around in sheets of fiberglass insulation. Pure torture.