I Can't Believe I Forgot to Tell You About "Beginners"

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This was my favorite movie I've seen in a while. Not least because one of the main characters is Arthur, the Subtitled Dog. It sounds so gross and twee to have a "talking" dog, but the movie is so ultimately heart-breaking (not a spoiler, I swear) that the touches of whimsy feel necessary. It's basically about a man (Oliver!) coming to terms with the way his father, a gay man, chose to live (and love) over the course of his life. Ewan McGregor, you guys!

Here is Arthur, though, the real star:

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"The darkness is about to swallow us if we don't do something drastic," he says, near the beginning of the movie.

Molly tells me this all the time, second-hand stunt queen that she is.

Review: Masha Gessen's "The Man Without a Face"

I am back from New York, where I met all my goals for the weekend (eating delicious things, walking a lot, sleeping a ton, chilling with my Juanbro, finishing this book, deciding to skip the Frick). Except for a foray to the MoMA (God, Cindy Sherman's art from the 90s is so creepy), I barely left Brooklyn, and you know what? It was glorious. At this point, I have seen New York, so when I visit, I kind of just like to wander aimlessly and take in some big city energy while stopping to eat brunch as many times as humanly possible (WHY CAN'T CHARLOTTE GET BRUNCH LIKE THAT? I had these potatoes at one point, and Juan asked me how they were, and I turned to him with what I can only assume was an expression of shock and awe and said "f***ing amazing". And I meant it, dudes! Juan laughed at me. I don't even like potatoes that much!). The weather was ridiculously good. I krumped at bars. I introduced Juan to Archer (you are welcome).

The man wo a faceAs to the book: Gessen's book is an important one, and a brave one given the fates of the various reporters who've previously taken on Putin. If you're looking for a detailed account of the last twenty years of Russia's history, you're better off looking elsewhere (the history here is neither linear nor inclusive), but as a study of Putin's character and motivations and how they've been shaped by and have shaped Russia's politics, it is superb. Putin is like one of those miraculous creatures--walking fish, for example--that are so adapted to the environment that produced them that in any other context they look totally absurd. Putin's personal history is one of mediocrity. He isn't particularly charismatic or intelligent; instead, his great gift is the ability to reflect back on those around him exactly what they expect of him. That's what Gessen means by "without a face"; Putin is someone onto whom others can project whatever they want. I can't even express to you how bizarre his rise to power in Yeltsin's final months was, or how Cold-War-crazy his response the Chechen situation has been, or how blatant his repeated property and power-grabs have been. I mean, he maybe possibly engineered some terrorist attacks to consolidate his power? He possibly stole a billion dollars by putting entrepreneurs in jail? Putin is basically a conspiracy theorist's dream. And the incompetence of these conspiracies! I mean, the arrogance implied by the carelessness with which some of these alleged FSB operations were carried out is unbelievable. Do you remember Alexander Litvinenko?!

Gessen's book is cautiously hopeful: since the Duma elections in December, Russians have risen up in protest against Putin and his cronies. The problem with Russia is that these uprisings don't necessarily mean much. With elections rigged and the judicial and legislative branches of the government totally in thrall to the executive, there's no system of redress for an increasingly disgruntled opposition and no checks and balances. So, what happens next? Gessen says all such regimes--insulated, out of touch, despised--must come to an end, but when is a much more uncertain matter. 

Some observations of very little consequence.

-Molly has the spatial awareness of Helen Keller, but none of the excuses.

-Wednesday is trash day (TRY TO REMEMBER).

-This weekend I'll be in New York. I hope I can walk a lot. I hope I can go to the Frick (it would be my first time). I hope it's nice. I hope I don't catch a silly old cold. But if I can't, and it's not, and I do, that's ok, too.

-Next on my reading list after "The Man Without a Face" are:

    -Finish "If On a Winter's Night a Traveler."

    -Finish "Empire Falls"

    -"Cloud Atlas", again.

    -"Backroads of North Carolina"

    -"Oscar and Lucinda"

    -"Strangers on a Train"    

I have this thing sometimes where if I really love a book, I won't finish it for a super long time, because I don't want it to end. When I was little, I would do the same thing with my desserts. I would take these pinky-nail sized bites of my brownie or what have you. The best part was when everyone else was done, and I was still working on mine for like ten more minutes.

Cake

Writing Notes

One of the things that I come up against often as I am writing is the problem of integrating historical research into a story without sounding like Ken Burns (well, the dollar-store version of Ken Burns) has momentarily taken over narration. 

I know it sounds like I'm about to present a solution to this problem, but actually I'm not, because I don't have one. I'd like to have one. At first I was thinking of doing my craft seminar (due in April! please kill me!) on the uses of setting, but lately I'm leaning more towards this subject. I mean I already know how to use setting, more or less. Also, I'm looking down the barrel of a historical novel once I finish my thesis. So there's that.

Anyway, lately I've been appreciating music I can write to. In particular, I've been finding Django Reinhardt helpful. I think it's such joyful noise...it sort of reminds me that the main objective of creative work should be a sort of joy (and not the feeling that I sometimes get of wanting to strangle something). Actually, it's not quite joy I'm thinking about, it's more like a feeling of being in a state of grace, of perfect order and chaos at once. Do you know what I mean? I'm SORRY things are getting so serious.

Now that I'm coming to the end of my MFA, which is the main reason I started this blog (to keep track of what I was reading), I'm trying to decide what direction to take things in. I've really been digging, for a while, the food-memoir-and-recipe-blog format, where there's a recipe that inspires reminiscing and story-telling. I've been wondering how that would work with books. I mean, we're going to find out together, reader. I hope you're excited to read my pointless musings on life in addition to my pointless musings on books. Don't worry, I promise to stop when this gets embarrassing (hahaha, no, I really don't know how to do that).

So excited to start Masha Gessen's new book about Putin!

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It just came out like two days ago and already the Amazon reviews are totally polarized. The Guardian called it clear and brave. I find Putin and his whole weird bear-wrestling thing so fascinating. I'm going to start it right after lunch...it'll be a perfect read on a cloudy day.

PS- I'm trying out a new format with tiny images and wrapped text. It looks better, doesn't it? Right? I mean, when the entry isn't super tiny like this one.

Food things and a story.

Oh, it's been a long month of eating junk (thanks, thesis). But I'm looking forward to cooking again in March... I already have a bolognese sauce recipe I love, but my lasagna only makes me like 80% happy, so I'm definitely going to be trying Deb's incredibly comprehensive directions for putting together a really good one with the sauce I love. David Lebovitz, as I mentioned to someone recently, kinda looks like my dad, if you look at him really quickly in passing...sort of. Sometimes I like to imagine that he's my gay, pastry chef, Paris-residing uncle. That's not weird, right? His recipes are a secret weapon for me, and I'm so excited to try this egg salad. Speaking of eggs, here is a recipe for a NY deli style breakfast sandwich. I really miss those. And chicken tacos, plus a story about Mexico city that make me want to go there!

Now.

This is a real story about the time my mom made me strap a pillow to my ass so I would agree to put on my rollerblades and skate down the street. I have chosen to tell it to you through the magic of a drawing I made on my Ipad. 

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My parents were always trying to get me to exercise when I was a kid, because they are MONSTERS. They have in common with each other (and the adult me) that they're not-very-diplomatic realists and pragmatic in a way that is often sort of extreme. That tendency really found its nadir in this particular moment. I was like, "I don't want to learn how to rollerblade. I feel like I'm probably going to die." Most parents would've dismissed the idea that I was going to die, but my mom was like, "Yeah, you're probably going to fall a lot. Strap this to your butt." Hey, you know one thing that really throws a newbie skater off balance? A large object tied to her ass. Also, a parent who is laughing so hard she cannot speak or breathe.

The end.

Gonna drop like a stone.

Can we talk about how obsessed I am with the Talking Heads song "Sax and Violins" lately?

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FJ8x6wnZy8?fs=1&feature=oembed] 

Because I am totally obsessed. It's so deliciously...New Wave-y. I think? It's about more than the song; it's about the Wim Wenders film it came from ("Until the End of the World"; a movie that is probably better in my memory than in reality and that I always felt would've made a really good book...why don't people ever do this?) (Did you know that Peter Carey co-wrote the screenplay?).

You know what I need to read? A really good, tragic romance. Of the non-cheesy variety. "Oscar and Lucinda"? 

We are criminals that never broke no laws. And all we needed was a net to break our fall, you know? No? Yes--

OH MY GOD, get back to work, Ana, your thesis is due in like four days.

This blog is the best ever. Not THIS one, this one.

This one.

It's so thoughtful and well-written. Kate Christensen is an award winning author and bla bla bla. She's really stupendous. 

Anyway, I love her idea for Valentine's Day. It is the business.

"Groups of people should dine lavishly and convivially together on St. Valentine’s Day the way they do on Thanksgiving. Single people wouldn’t have to feel as if they were missing out on “coupled bliss.” Unhappy couples could indulge in a day of social bacchanalia. Happy couples could widen their circle, which is always a good thing. Instead of reverting every year to the timeworn offerings between twosomes of lingerie, roses, and chocolates, making many people feel pressured, inadequate, or left out, it strikes me that it would be so much more fun if everyone just gathered around tables to flirt and make toasts and enjoy one another’s company and feast all together on a traditional St. Valentine’s Day dinner: raw oysters, asparagus, artichokes, fresh figs, chocolate-dipped strawberries… and then have a big, old-fashioned orgy. Just kidding, I think."

Read more at: http://katechristensen.wordpress.com/

A review of book #6 of the Amelia Peabody series by "Michael", standing in for all our moms.

From Audible.com:

"Not half Bad, but get a room!

I like E. Peters' stories of Peabody et. al. As with long series I sometimes get confused as to the chronology of the story [EDIT: we humbly suggest you may be reading them out of order]. In this one, Ramses is a young boy and in some I found him as a young adult [EDIT: we understand that it is confusing when time passes]. The characters are always consistent though. Stories of lost civilizations are usually interesting to me and this one was partially developed and left lots of questions [EDIT: we cannot disagree that the book failed to contain all of ancient Egyptian history, but we love pie!]

Really, the only reason I wrote this review was that Emerson and Peabody seemed to spend a lot of time in the sack. I'm no prude, but it seemed like they were "getting busy" in every chapter. Their special moments were alluded to in a Victorian vocabulary; the author was trying to use every subtle phrase to indicate the onset of the physical act. Peabody seemed to be quite horny, but the reader is left wondering just how did they "Do it" with all those clothes, the sand, and the baying of the camels [EDIT: RIGHT?]. Thus, it is requested that more details be provided or that their rabbit-like natures be minimized." 

Dear Michael, I love you.

The Aura

...is a really good Argentinian thriller I watched recently with my dad. Ricardo Darin (from The Secret In Their Eyes, a movie made famous by this blog) is such a good actor. Watching movies with my dad always reminds me of when I first moved to Charlotte and had the super-ultra-plus Netflix sub so that we could watch a movie every.single.night. This was before streaming. It seemed to me at the time that there was absolutely nothing to do in Charlotte, but as it's turned out there's only mostly nothing to do here.

No, I totally love living here, why do you ask?

*cries quietly*

Here it is on the 'flix.

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Food and travel things.

One of the things that I read about a lot is food. I am thinking of every once in a while gathering up things that I'd like to try out sometime in my kitchen so that if you, my dearest reader, like cooking, you can try them too.

Things like Nigel Slater's chicken curry, Food52's lamb merguez, or vegetable curry. Banh mi (mon amour!) or sardine pate (for real) or carrot soup with miso, or spaghetti with braised kale or this salmon from the Goop newsletter a few weeks ago (no link? no link!) (again, because it was delicious, except for the collards it was wrapped in, which were weird) or another Ivy-style chopped salad (ol' Goopy has the best recipes, coupled with the worst health advice).

I hope you're all cooking something so delicious this week that you just end up eating it over the stove because you sort of forget to sit down.

Meanwhile, when it comes to travel, let me introduce you to the Ateneo Grand Splendid bookstore in Buenos Aires. I want to go to there.

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On the passing of Wislawa Szymborska

I love that when she was asked why she had published so few poems, she said: "I have a trash can in my home."

Here's a poem of hers:

Nothing Twice 
by Wislawa Szymborska 
translated by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak

Nothing can ever happen twice. 
In consequence, the sorry fact is 
that we arrive here improvised 
and leave without the chance to practice.

Even if there is no one dumber, 
if you're the planet's biggest dunce, 
you can't repeat the class in summer: 
this course is only offered once.

No day copies yesterday, 
no two nights will teach what bliss is 
in precisely the same way, 
with precisely the same kisses.

One day, perhaps some idle tongue 
mentions your name by accident: 
I feel as if a rose were flung 
into the room, all hue and scent.

The next day, though you're here with me, 
I can't help looking at the clock: 
A rose? A rose? What could that be? 
Is it a flower or a rock?

Why do we treat the fleeting day 
with so much needless fear and sorrow? 
It's in its nature not to stay: 
Today is always gone tomorrow.

With smiles and kisses, we prefer 
to seek accord beneath our star, 
although we're different (we concur) 
just as two drops of water are.

 

Book Review: The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

Hi! HI! Hi! This morning, because I needed to WAKE UP, I decided to forgo my usual espresso and take a caffeine pill instead. The package claimed that one caffeine pill=one cup of coffee. They must have meant this cup:

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Anyway, I feel like I'm on speed. In the minute since I published this I've found no less than 5 typos. So the lesson is: don't take a whole caffeine pill. Maybe take half and see how it goes. I guess I should have known. Saved by the Bell totally tried to warn me.

Moving right along (because I can't stop moving)...

Shadow of the Wind

To borrow a ratings structure from Reading Matters, I'd give The Shadow of the Wind 3 out of 5 stars...it is (very much) a good read. If it sometimes seems a little amateurish, the kind of book that just barely holds together, it more than makes up for it in terms of sheer verve. Zafon is an ambitious, imaginative writer, and if his Gothic sensibility, his rather adolescent views on love, and his linguistic acrobatics sometimes are more of a negative than a positive, well, you didn't want to read another book about middle-class midwesterners experiencing spiritual malaise anyway, did you?

The Shadow of the Wind is set in Barcelona in the forties and fifties: a bleak place, ravaged by the Spanish Civil War, which is an enduring darkness in the background of the story. It's a story about a boy who finds a book called (eponymously) The Shadow of the Wind in a mysterious library called The Cemetery of Forgotten Books. One of the rules of the cemetery is that the first time you go there, you pick out a book that becomes yours forever: it's your job not to forget it. The copy of The Shadow of the Wind that Daniel (that's the boy, our narrrator) finds turns out to be extra-special, because it's the only existing copy. It was written by a man called Julian Carax, who may or may not be dead. In any case, someone has definitely been going around burning his books. Why this should be is the first mystery Daniel encounters, and it leads him to unravel the larger mystery of Carax's tragic life and possible death. The more Daniel learns about Carax over several years (he's an adult by the time we get to the meat of the story), the more the two men's lives come to resemble each other. Zafon's book is a lot about loving books, and about how they come to shape our lives in both abstract and concrete ways. It sounds pretty great, doesn't it? It is.

What I didn't love about the book: the characters can be a little one-note, especially the women, who have little to do aside from love and be loved. No one seems to have any serious ambition aside from the single, consuming romantic passion. And once you go evil, there's nothing about you that can be redeemed. Technically speaking, Zafon often has a character gives us some information that, though relevant, the character shouldn't or couldn't know. The supernatural explanations for some of the plot points struck me as a little lazy (I mean, a Cemetery of Forgotten Books? How? Why?). His metaphors are just awful (maybe it's the translation?). Like a fat man in a tutu dancing in an otherwise normal performance of Swan Lake. See what I did there?    

Still, I had a hard time putting it down once I got over the little flaws I mention above. I'm excited to see what Zafon does next.

1491 by Charles C. Mann

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This was actually quite a different experience from reading 1493. For one thing, it had a lot more material to cover, and as such, compared to the other book, I was left with so many more questions (I guess it's not really a bad thing per se when a book makes you want to learn more about whatever topic it covers, though). It was also more...political, I guess, is the word I would use. I feel like before Mann wrote this he must often have thought "If I had a nickel for every time someone regurgitated some completely wrong-headed notion about Native Americans, I could definitely break a coinstar machine." I also have a complicated relationship with coinstar machines, so Imaginary Charles Mann has my sympathy. And he's right: everything you've learned in school about Native Americans is probably pretty wrong.

There's a little passage early on in the book, when Mann is describing the Siriono people of Bolivia, that I'm going to quote here because it so perfectly encapsulates what I think is the main argument of 1491: 

"Before Columbus, Holmberg [who first sudied the Siriono in the early 20th century] believed, both the people and the land had no real history. Stated so baldly, this notion--that the indigenous peoples of the Americas had floated changelessly through the millennia until 1492--may seem ludicrous. But flaws in perspective often appear obvious only after they are pointed out. In this case they took decades to rectify."

Native civilizations of the Americas were largely exterminated by European diseases, often before making contact with European people (diseases moved across the continent faster than the Europeans themselves), and so the accounts that we have of these societies are often those written by Europeans, and are descriptions of these peoples after they'd been devastated by various epidemics. What seemed to Europeans to be a virgin, untouched wilderness (both in North and South America) was often the result of millenia of Native American stewardship that had only recently been disrupted by societal breakdown.

It's only in the last century that we've begun to get a better picture of what the Americas were like before the Europeans arrived here. Complex societies to rival those of the Old World flourished and passed into obscurity many times over before Columbus ever set foot on Hispaniola. For centuries, much of this history has been obscured, much of it lost. Who knows what those cultures and their people would have contributed to humanity if they'd ever been able to interact in the same way that European, Middle-Eastern, and Asian cultures did over so many centuries? That loss is, as Mann himself says, a tragedy on a scale that is probably unequaled in history.

I mean, at least we still have the Mayan calendar, though! Happy investiture of Bolon Yakte' K'uh next year, guys! I hope a meteorite doesn't kill us!

(Yes, that prophecy thing is also nonsense.)

Evenings Alone/ Review: In Other Rooms, Other Wonder by Daniyal Mueenuddin

Because I live with my boyfriend, it's only about once or twice a week that I have dinner by myself. The result of this sudden onset of absolute freedom is that I get really giddy and always make the wrong choice. My thought process goes like this:

"C isn't home! I could eat ANYTHING. ANYTHING in the WORLD. I could drive to Huntersville and eat there."

*Spend twenty minutes researching restaurants at a totally unrealistic distance from house*

"ANYTHING AT ALL."

*Spend another twenty minutes looking up a really complicated recipe for souffle and writing down ingredients. As soon as that is done, lose desire to cook.*

"I mean REALLY. I could eat a raccoon and no one would even know. I could throw the bones in the creek that runs past the back of the house."

*Wonder why that would even occur to anyone. Possibly, hunger is making me delirious? Look at watch, realize it's 9:30 and too late to eat out. Get angry.*

"I mean, everyone is so unreasonable."

*Eat junk food. Feel ill. Am full of regret. The end.*

 

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Anyway, let's talk about books. I finally, finally finished the totally wonderful Mueenuddin short stories. This book was shortlisted for the Pulitzer last year, and even though I usually end up sort of hating (because I'm a contrary, obstinate person) the books they pick, this was great. It's a series of short stories about all kinds of different characters associated with a Pakistani feudal family: the Harounis. Mueenuddin is equally effective and sensitive whether he's describing KK Harouni (the family patriarch), or an old gardener on one of the Harouni estates. To me, this ability to see people so clearly across class lines, living such radically different lives, was what was most impressive about the book; the naturalness with which he inhabited such a wide variety of characters (especially considering that this is Mueenuddin's first book). I was full of envy, because this is actually exactly the sort of book I'd like to write. 

The stories are tied together thematically as well: there's a strong current of manipulation. Everyone seems to have two faces: one for ingratiating themselves to the people around them, and another truer one. Desire and ambition are something to be kept secret, to be quietly held in some hidden corner of the self, until an opportunity for realization has been painstakingly extracted. This is especially true for the women (there's many more women characters, as I remember, than men). The other theme here is the static nature of Pakistani life. Maybe static isn't the right word...immobile, maybe. To strive for change or improvement is totally futile. None of the characters that do are able to escape their old selves, their places in the world (to which they were born) for very long. So there's all this manipulation, all this pent-up want, continually wrecking itself against the difficulty of life in Pakistan.

Still, along with this aching longing that is at the heart of the book, there is always some measure of hope, and love. Even if they can't last, those things deserve someone like Mueenuddin to record their passing. 

Some Disapointments.

Sometimes I read books and I don't like them, but I don't think that's reflected very well in the blog. I guess I don't think it's fair to review a book I didn't finish, and why would I finish something I don't love? I mean, life is short or something else equally cliche. Anyway, just in time for X-mas, here are some books that disappointed me this year:

-The Life and Opinions of Tristam Shandy, Gentleman. I want to love this book; so many people love this book! But no. I'll try again next year.

-Lord Jim. Again, I am disappointed mainly in myself. I guess coming of age in the era of Everyone With Money or Power is an Ammoral Sack of Flesh (and we all know about it thanks to the internet), I have a hard time really grasping the concept of dishonor. I mean, just donate some money to charity and issue a public apology, gaaaawd.

-I didn't love Because They Wanted To. Everyone loves Mary Gaitskill! Objectively, she's phenomenal, but to me personally something about her writing is just very... it's as if her characters are being dissected under a harsh lab light. On the one hand, she sees them (and we see them) so clearly...on the other hand, there's something about it that's a little bit like a violation. I mean, she's amazing. I just prefer, I guess, a softer gaze; incisiveness that does not take so much pleasure in the ability to expose.

-Memoirs of Hadrian by Marguerite Yourcenar. My dad loves this book. For me this is another try again next year book. I guess I was expecting something more like I, Claudius, or Gore Vidal's Julian (so much drama!). This was a little bit drier (at least, the part that I read). 

-The Hunger Games. I don't think this actually really belongs here, because I thought it was really good. But, at the same time, it's not essential for me. I don't know that I'm going to read the next two in the series. If I had to pick only one coming-of-age in dystopia book for you to read, it would still be The Golden Compass or The Giver. Maybe this would be totally different if I had read this as a teenager, but I didn't think it had anything all that interesting to say. Reality tv sucks, you know, and we're all exploitative jerks, etc. I feel like I've heard it/seen it before. If you really want to make that point, you make Man Bites Dog, which still holds the crown as the most traumatizing movie I have ever seen (that is not specifically a horror movie).

I wish I had read something I really hated so I could tell you about it. I would write something so nasty! But, if you'll allow me to humblebrag for a second, I am basically so good at screening books these days that I rarely get something that is a real dud. It's terrible!

1493 by Charles C. Mann

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I found this book the old fashioned way: I saw it in the window of a bookshop! And then...I bought it on my Kindle because that thing was like five hundred pages long and I was taking it to China.

This is a wonderful book that will turn you into a totally obnoxious jerk every time you read it with someone else in the room, because you'll be compelled to shout out interesting facts. The thing is, they're interesting in context, but probably not to someone sitting across the room trying to read Murakami's new book? Watever, boyfriend, you needed to know that there were exiled Samurais in colonial Mexico, because everyone needs to know that.

The book essentially covers the rise (so far!) of what the author calls the "homogecene era", and which you and I better know as "kudzu". Basically, since Columbus sailed across the ocean sea and everyone in the world became involved in a single economic system, our distinct cultures and ecosystems have been on an inexorable march towards uniformity. Did you ever wonder whether malaria and yellow fever are inextricably linked to the rise of chattel slavery in the Americas? You should! Did you know there were no earthworms in America before 1492? I mean, RIGHT? That's super-weird. Did you know there was a confederate colony in Brazil, at one point? They didn't put that in my American history book!

So, it's full of obscure little bits of fascinating history and also tells an important (crucial) story that helps make sense not only of what is happening to us environmentlly, but politically and culturally. I can't recommend it enough if you're looking for some historical non-fiction that's broad in scope and will make you feel like a smarty-pants.

A Brief (Not Really) Update.

When my trusty old gateway laptop died a couple of months ago, it really took the winds out of my blogging sails. I don't know if you've ever tried to do anything on an Ipad, but don't. I mean, I love my Ipad for writing my stories, because I can't do anything on it but write and read worthless home decoration blogs and those are super-boring after a while, not like Hulu. Oh, Hulu! You are the only thing standing between me and being Sylvia Plath (also, a brain). Anyway, I have this fancy new Mac (I keep thinking something is wrong with it, because I spent so much stupid money on it and why isn't it doing my work for me?) and all this time I've been reading things, and also writing them down and then writing words about those things, but a lot of that got lost in the Great Water Glass Disaster of 2011, so here's this instead.

Things I Seem to Remember Reading in the Last Few Months:

-Remembrance of Things Past-- the key to reading Marcel Proust is to listen to Marcel Proust instead, which I did and it was wonderful. Walking on the greenway, listening to his description of a walk through the French countryside somehow brought both things to life for me. They sort of merged into this lovely, sensual whole. Also, some of the time I zoned out and that made the book go faster?

-The Private Patient, A Taste for Death, Devices and Desires, Cover Her Face, The Lighthouse, all by PD James-- well, of course I did. My very favorite of these was A Taste for Death

-The Likeness by Tana French-- this was a really well written mystery with a totally absurd premise. It was like she finished her first novel and thought "I am really, super-good at writing. I'm going to write something with a ludicrous, almost Shakespearean premise (sidebar: I have never met a convincing transvestite, and yet Ye Olden Times were apparently full of them), and see how it goes." I just couldn't buy the set-up (which is: a woman, Lexie Madison, is murdered and Detective Cassie Maddox looks so like her that she goes undercover as the woman to find her killer. Also, the dead woman stole her identity from a previous Cassie Maddox undercover job. Lexie Madison, per say, never existed. What?)

-The Looming Tower-- a fascinating account of the rise of Al-Qaeda. It was incredibly frustrating to realize all the opportunities there were to prevent or limit the events of 9/11.

-Under the Banner of Heaven-- I actually had to stop reading this half-way through because I got so depressed. As a history of Mormonism, and especially, of the shortcomings and missteps of early Mormon leaders, this is a really riveting story. As a case study of religious extremism and how a religion is actually made: great stuff. As an account of the 1984 murder of a woman and her child by Mormon fundamentalists: intensely depressing. I mean really, really desperately sad. I may take it up again, I'm not sure? I've been reading (on and off because it's a tough read) Bartolome De Las Casas's writings on the early Spanish colonies in the new world, and I've realized that the entire world of fervent faith and religion is outside my understanding. I just don't get it (and I'm not saying that's a good thing, actually, just that it's totally diferent from my own experience). 

-The Franchise Affair by Josephine Tey-- Tey is a lesser-known writer from the golden age of British mysteries (Agatha Christie is probably the best known writer from this period). This was the first novel of hers I've read. I loved this, are you kidding? It's a mystery without a murder. I always think it's a little bit morally suspect that I get such pleasure out of reading murder mysteries, you know? 

-Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy-- I think I like the idea of Le Carre better than actual Le Carre. So many names. So many names! How am I supposed to follow the story, since I have no memory and can't pick up a pen due to this crippling laziness?!

But: SPIES.

-A Dance With Dragons by George R.R. Martin-- OHMYGAH. I mean, I know I already said this, but whatever.

I think that's it. That's probably it?

 

CBR III Week 14: Dubliners by James Joyce

Dubliners

A lot of the time when I am reading, I am like Clark Griswold in this scene in Vacation:

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQJH5tZLGis] 

I hope you know German!

What I mean is that I don't take the time to digest whatever I'm reading, and to really try to understand what the author has done. This works well a lot of the time; after all, not everything deserves a long, hard look. Dubliners is the other kind of thing. What can you say about James Joyce, though, that somebody else hasn't already said? That his short stories are still startlingly good a million years later? That my favorite was "A Painful Case"? 

Ok. There's that.

Also, did you know that the common usage of the word epiphany is something James Joyce is [partially] responsible for? One of the things that unifies Dubliners is that each story contains a moment of epiphany, which Joyce thought of as a sudden manifestation of the essential nature of something, a realization of the truth of a situation. As he put it, "little errors and gestures - mere straws in the wind - by which people betrayed the very things they were most careful to conceal." I also love what he wrote about epiphanies in Stephen Hero: "Its soul, its whatness, leaps to us from the vestment of its appearance. The soul of the commonest object, the structure of which is so adjusted, seems to us radiant. The object achieves its epiphany." 

Slings and Arrows

Slings and Arrows is such a good little comedy. When I first started watching it I was like "how did a satire about a Shakespearen company get a second season?" but then it turned out to be a Canadian show, and everything was explained. My favorite line is from the premier of the second season--the moment that I fell in love with this show for keeps--and is spoken in reference to a cremated theater director who's been replaced by his protégé, who can never quite get out from under the former's shadow: 

"Oliver Wells is dead! I poured him in the river and swans ate him."

And they did.