Honestly, I can find an excuse for reading and doing nothing all year long. In the winter, it's too cold and too nasty to go out, and in the summer, it's too hot and too nasty to go out. I don't need excuses in fall and spring, though, because it really feels like reading is what I'm supposed to be doing.
Actually, we've been doing work around the house, which gives me enough of a sense of productivity that I can lie around for hours afterwards reading without feeling guilty. We've been in the midst of a mechanical nightmare over here, I think. Last week, I took the washer apart to retrieve 30 cents from the valves of the drain motor. I was trying to get a nickel out and was struggling with a flutter valve that actually turned out to be a quarter, so.... Soapy water all over the floor and soggy underwear, blech.
And then the car wouldn't start on Wednesday, thanks to an ungrateful squirrel who sheered off two of my spark plug wires! It looked like the little maverick had taken a hacksaw to them. I had some stale pistachio nuts that I was holding onto until colder weather, but now I'm thinking of giving them to the raccoons. Or thinking of sitting on the deck and lobbing them at him. Wonder how effective a slingshot with a leftover broccoli band would be....
Monday, September 8, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Reading Overdose
I have been chewing through books lately, and not keeping up with notes. I polished off three Martha Grimes novels - Hotel Paradise, Cold Flat Junction, and Belle Ruin. In all fairness, billing them as mysteries is a bit deceptive, because the mystery is only a fraction of the plot and the suspense is non-existent. There was something appealing about them, though - some writers move slowly through their material and you feel as though you're swimming through molasses - you just want to read the last ten pages and be done with it all already. Some writers move slowly through their material and you feel as though you're lounging around in an innertube on a lazy river - you know you're going somewhere, but the ride is so nice that you're in no hurry. I can't articulate why this works for some people and not for others, but I can say that it certainly works for me and Martha Grimes. Once I accepted the mystery misnomer, I was happy to just loll along with the plots.
Before vacation I also finished The 19th Wife by David Ebershoff, and I can't say enough good things about it. It's a model of what historical fiction should be. By anchoring his modern-day story with the history of the Mormon Church and the built-in mystery of Ann Eliza Young's fate, David Ebershoff makes you want to dig around for more historical dirt and more stories that are just waiting to be told. I'm sure many Mormons aren't thrilled with the story, as his "dressed-up" retelling of Ann Eliza's story doesn't always deify Brigham Young, but he manages to handle polygamy in a non-National Enquirer fashion. By the end of the novel, I was convinced that truth is so individual that there really is no truth. Personal truth becomes a burden when you feel that part of that truth is the need to hang it on others. A number of good novels leave me thinking about the characters, but few left me mulling over philosophical issues the way The 19th Wife did.
On vacation, I tore through Douglas Preston's The Monster of Florence, written in connection with journalist Mario Spezi. It was better than run-of-the-mill true crime, well-written and reading like a travelogue with quirky bits of information about the history and personality of Florence, although I have to say my heightened awareness of the Italian legal system has made me wary of travel. Truly, after finishing it, I found myself dwelling less on the unsolved horrific nature of the case and more on horrific lack of basic rights that we erroneously assume are part of all advanced nations.
After that was Charlatan by Pope Brock, a odd tale of the growth of the American Medical Association and the fame of quack doctor John Brinkley. Brinkley made a fortune from a number of questionable ventures, but none more questionable than his transplants of goat glands into humans, complete with promises of renewed youth, vitality and longer life. Medicine has come a long way in an amazingly short time, apparently, and so has common sense.
Oh, and Tana French's The Likeness. She's an amazing writer. Story is conveyed through plot, setting, character and language, and so many modern writers get by without the full package. (In fact, any number seem to get by on just one of the four, but that's not what we're here to talk about.) Language is sadly so neglected, and to be honest, many writers known to be gifted with the use of language never make the transition from "literary" to "popular," simply because they fail to create a compelling plot. Tana French is one of the few writers who shapes an addictive story, but uses language in such a way that I'm jolted with an awareness of it that occasionally overpowers my interest in her plot, her setting or her characters. In the Woods, her first novel, got a bad rap, because the publisher needed to pigeonhole it to market it, and it got stuck in the "mystery/suspense/police procedural" category. It is those things, but it presents two mysteries, and only solves one (the less intriguing one, you could argue). I'd read enough raging reviews to align my expectations before starting it. The Likeness is just as compelling, but more traditional - one mystery, one solution, and I'm already waiting for her next book.
Before vacation I also finished The 19th Wife by David Ebershoff, and I can't say enough good things about it. It's a model of what historical fiction should be. By anchoring his modern-day story with the history of the Mormon Church and the built-in mystery of Ann Eliza Young's fate, David Ebershoff makes you want to dig around for more historical dirt and more stories that are just waiting to be told. I'm sure many Mormons aren't thrilled with the story, as his "dressed-up" retelling of Ann Eliza's story doesn't always deify Brigham Young, but he manages to handle polygamy in a non-National Enquirer fashion. By the end of the novel, I was convinced that truth is so individual that there really is no truth. Personal truth becomes a burden when you feel that part of that truth is the need to hang it on others. A number of good novels leave me thinking about the characters, but few left me mulling over philosophical issues the way The 19th Wife did.
On vacation, I tore through Douglas Preston's The Monster of Florence, written in connection with journalist Mario Spezi. It was better than run-of-the-mill true crime, well-written and reading like a travelogue with quirky bits of information about the history and personality of Florence, although I have to say my heightened awareness of the Italian legal system has made me wary of travel. Truly, after finishing it, I found myself dwelling less on the unsolved horrific nature of the case and more on horrific lack of basic rights that we erroneously assume are part of all advanced nations.
After that was Charlatan by Pope Brock, a odd tale of the growth of the American Medical Association and the fame of quack doctor John Brinkley. Brinkley made a fortune from a number of questionable ventures, but none more questionable than his transplants of goat glands into humans, complete with promises of renewed youth, vitality and longer life. Medicine has come a long way in an amazingly short time, apparently, and so has common sense.
Oh, and Tana French's The Likeness. She's an amazing writer. Story is conveyed through plot, setting, character and language, and so many modern writers get by without the full package. (In fact, any number seem to get by on just one of the four, but that's not what we're here to talk about.) Language is sadly so neglected, and to be honest, many writers known to be gifted with the use of language never make the transition from "literary" to "popular," simply because they fail to create a compelling plot. Tana French is one of the few writers who shapes an addictive story, but uses language in such a way that I'm jolted with an awareness of it that occasionally overpowers my interest in her plot, her setting or her characters. In the Woods, her first novel, got a bad rap, because the publisher needed to pigeonhole it to market it, and it got stuck in the "mystery/suspense/police procedural" category. It is those things, but it presents two mysteries, and only solves one (the less intriguing one, you could argue). I'd read enough raging reviews to align my expectations before starting it. The Likeness is just as compelling, but more traditional - one mystery, one solution, and I'm already waiting for her next book.
The Dangers of Sentiment
Also known as Family Vacation. It always seems like a good idea, right up until the moment that it doesn't, but will magically seem like a good idea again by the time a vacation deposit is due. I've no idea how that happens. It's like my friends describe childbirth - nature intentionally allows you to develop amnesia, probably because family (like children?) is a necessary evil. Nostalgia and sentiment are always painted in folksy sepia tones, but those of us ensnared by them know otherwise!
Actually, vacation was okay. It was SO hot, with the heat index reaching 100+ nearly every day, but as with all things vacation, this has only served to make being home, where it is a comfy 80 degrees, delightful. We ate well, although a little morosely, as vegetarians. Fresh seafood was a powerful temptation, but we managed. We read lots. Lay about like beanbags, snoozing in the air-conditioning when the heat was too much. Found hundreds of shark teeth. Corrupted a small child as much as possible. Avoided my 15-year high school reunion. All in all, a success.
Cats and tomato plants are happy we're home. Both have been sprawling about in a disreputable, disorganized fashion in our absence, and I'm now whipping things back into shape. Am obviously having more luck with tomato plants than cats, but perhaps I should try binding them up with twine as well....
Actually, vacation was okay. It was SO hot, with the heat index reaching 100+ nearly every day, but as with all things vacation, this has only served to make being home, where it is a comfy 80 degrees, delightful. We ate well, although a little morosely, as vegetarians. Fresh seafood was a powerful temptation, but we managed. We read lots. Lay about like beanbags, snoozing in the air-conditioning when the heat was too much. Found hundreds of shark teeth. Corrupted a small child as much as possible. Avoided my 15-year high school reunion. All in all, a success.
Cats and tomato plants are happy we're home. Both have been sprawling about in a disreputable, disorganized fashion in our absence, and I'm now whipping things back into shape. Am obviously having more luck with tomato plants than cats, but perhaps I should try binding them up with twine as well....
Monday, July 28, 2008
Futon Jenga
Well, actually it's Reverse Futon Jenga. Instead of removing parts, we're putting things in. That's the game we're playing at the moment. After five years, the wood frame on our Walmart-composition-board-came-in-a-box-for-$200 futon is starting to crack. Our solution? Stick a book in there! After some ominously cracking last night, the futon is beginning to visibly sprout books. Some people throw money at a problem, we apparently throw books at it. This futon does not know who it's dealing with! We have thousands of books - it's only got four so far, and some of those were just reading copies!
Friday, July 18, 2008
Strapless
After reading this, I want to go back to the Met and stand in front of Sargent's portrait of Amélie again. I have the distinct impression that if the gallery ever got quiet enough, you'd be able to hear scandalized whispers wafting all the way from 19th-century France. In 1884, John Singer Sargent submitted to the Paris Salon his portrait of Amélie Gautreau, a woman widely considered to be the most beautiful woman in Paris, a woman whose beauty made her the kind of celebrity that people filled the streets to see, and unwittingly, crushed his hopes of a career in Paris and her social standing.
Deborah Davis tells the story as a journalist, not as an academic, so it's more accessible than most books in the art history section. Occasionally, she takes a crack at being academic, and it's a bit jarring; I was happiest when she stuck to the E! News version of the story. As is always the case with sexual politics, Sargent eventually got a clean slate, starting fresh with wealthy clientele in Newport, while Amélie became a recluse. I was happy to discover that she did at least become a melodramatic recluse - banishing all mirrors from the house and walking on the beach only at night and swathed in white. Nothing tacky like hiding away in a hotel suite in your chemise, surrounded by empty liquor bottles and old newspapers!
It's hard to imagine Parisians being shocked by a wayward shoulder strap, with affairs, mistresses, and scandals readily accepted, but somehow everything unraveled from there. I thought of Willa Cather, O, Pioneers, I think: "There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before." What happened was really just small decisions and unforeseen huge consequences, and it sort of makes even the most unadventurous life seem risky. Answer an email, take a part-time job, leave early, stay late and change your life. Reclusiveness starts to seem much more practical!
Deborah Davis tells the story as a journalist, not as an academic, so it's more accessible than most books in the art history section. Occasionally, she takes a crack at being academic, and it's a bit jarring; I was happiest when she stuck to the E! News version of the story. As is always the case with sexual politics, Sargent eventually got a clean slate, starting fresh with wealthy clientele in Newport, while Amélie became a recluse. I was happy to discover that she did at least become a melodramatic recluse - banishing all mirrors from the house and walking on the beach only at night and swathed in white. Nothing tacky like hiding away in a hotel suite in your chemise, surrounded by empty liquor bottles and old newspapers!
It's hard to imagine Parisians being shocked by a wayward shoulder strap, with affairs, mistresses, and scandals readily accepted, but somehow everything unraveled from there. I thought of Willa Cather, O, Pioneers, I think: "There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before." What happened was really just small decisions and unforeseen huge consequences, and it sort of makes even the most unadventurous life seem risky. Answer an email, take a part-time job, leave early, stay late and change your life. Reclusiveness starts to seem much more practical!
Charlie and the Water Fountain
Charlie, as I've mentioned, has a very tense relationship with the water fountain. He's not afraid of it exactly, just suspicious, and it clearly has a front and back in his mind, because he's decided that sneaking up "behind" it is the way to go. So, he tends to perch on the top and lean over to drink.
He looks a little spooky here, but is much cuter when sleeping in his basket, where he tends to fall asleep on his face.
I also need to post some pictures of the yard. The folks came up last weekend and in less than 4 hours cut down and disposed of three trees, including a 16'+ pine, trimmed a fourth tree back and cleaned out the porch gutters, put an outlet in our well pit (no more bailing! no more swampy dead spider bog water!), removed two large tree stumps/fence posts, and tore out about 8' feet of fence and attendant weeds. It's amazing what you can do with a chainsaw, a 4x4 pickup and some chain. Thanks again!
He looks a little spooky here, but is much cuter when sleeping in his basket, where he tends to fall asleep on his face.
I also need to post some pictures of the yard. The folks came up last weekend and in less than 4 hours cut down and disposed of three trees, including a 16'+ pine, trimmed a fourth tree back and cleaned out the porch gutters, put an outlet in our well pit (no more bailing! no more swampy dead spider bog water!), removed two large tree stumps/fence posts, and tore out about 8' feet of fence and attendant weeds. It's amazing what you can do with a chainsaw, a 4x4 pickup and some chain. Thanks again!
Monday, June 16, 2008
Literary Cowardice
No matter how much I chastise myself or how often I remind myself of Nancy Pearl's Rule of 50, I find it virtually impossible to abandon a book once I start it. Sometimes I take a LONG break (Donna Tartt's The Little Friend still has my bookmark 158 pages in from a vacation two years ago, and I'm still interested in what happens. I've just been more interested in other things since then.), but rarely do I just give up entirely if I have any interest at all in how things turn out. If I'm 50 pages in and don't care two pins about what happens, that's another story....
So yesterday I started Karin Fossum's The Indian Bride. When we were on vacation, I noticed an interesting woman reading it, and judging both the person and the book by their covers, I thought it was worth a try. I actually started with her first book translated to English, Don't Look Back, and thought it was okay. I was a little disappointed, because she's Norwegian, the book's set in Norway, but really, there was absolutely no reason it couldn't have been set in a rural area of Iowa. (Just because I'm reading fiction doesn't mean I'm not expecting or at least hoping to learn!) And the translation is more than adequate, but a truly gifted translator is required if a book isn't going to come out with a slight woodchip quality to the writing - precise, bland, stiff. (I'm still not sure if Carlos Ruiz Zafón is a literary genius or if Lucia Graves is - go read The Shadow of the Wind right now, and develop an appreciation for why your college professors demanded a certain translation of Dante.) Still, it was okay, and when we stopped in the library over the weekend, The Indian Bride, her fourth book, was available so I snatched it up.
The story is that a confirmed Norwegian bachelor decides to get married, heads to India, finds a wife, and on the day she's to arrive, due to an accident, he's not able to meet her at the airport and she's later discovered beaten to death not far from his home. Small town, few but likely suspects, etc., etc.
I'm not giving anything away here - this all happens within the first thirty pages or so. I know because that's all I read. The bachelor is such a decent, kind man, so earnest and hopeful, and you spend most of the beginning of the book with him, viewing things from his point of view. He's just a nice guy, and knowing what was going to happen to him was enough for me. I felt so kindly toward the character that I just didn't want to see him devastated in detail. Imagining it was enough, so I skip to the end, figured out enough to determine who committed the murder, and put the book down.
I don't believe that's ever happened to me before, but I just couldn't bear it. It seemed sadistic (or masochistic) to stick around and watch him be devastated, watch what I had a vague sense of be writ painfully large, so I just bowed out, opted not to the take the journey. Of course, the character still has to, but somehow, not having a witness seemed better. You know how when you trip, the first thing you do is look around to make sure no one saw you and somehow that's a little bit of saving grace? It seemed to be a little bit like that: if I didn't witness it, then it didn't happen or it was less painful. Odd, but I don't know how else to explain it. Anyway, I'm a chicken or overly empathetic, but I know the end, and sometimes, knowing how things turn out has to be enough.
So yesterday I started Karin Fossum's The Indian Bride. When we were on vacation, I noticed an interesting woman reading it, and judging both the person and the book by their covers, I thought it was worth a try. I actually started with her first book translated to English, Don't Look Back, and thought it was okay. I was a little disappointed, because she's Norwegian, the book's set in Norway, but really, there was absolutely no reason it couldn't have been set in a rural area of Iowa. (Just because I'm reading fiction doesn't mean I'm not expecting or at least hoping to learn!) And the translation is more than adequate, but a truly gifted translator is required if a book isn't going to come out with a slight woodchip quality to the writing - precise, bland, stiff. (I'm still not sure if Carlos Ruiz Zafón is a literary genius or if Lucia Graves is - go read The Shadow of the Wind right now, and develop an appreciation for why your college professors demanded a certain translation of Dante.) Still, it was okay, and when we stopped in the library over the weekend, The Indian Bride, her fourth book, was available so I snatched it up.
The story is that a confirmed Norwegian bachelor decides to get married, heads to India, finds a wife, and on the day she's to arrive, due to an accident, he's not able to meet her at the airport and she's later discovered beaten to death not far from his home. Small town, few but likely suspects, etc., etc.
I'm not giving anything away here - this all happens within the first thirty pages or so. I know because that's all I read. The bachelor is such a decent, kind man, so earnest and hopeful, and you spend most of the beginning of the book with him, viewing things from his point of view. He's just a nice guy, and knowing what was going to happen to him was enough for me. I felt so kindly toward the character that I just didn't want to see him devastated in detail. Imagining it was enough, so I skip to the end, figured out enough to determine who committed the murder, and put the book down.
I don't believe that's ever happened to me before, but I just couldn't bear it. It seemed sadistic (or masochistic) to stick around and watch him be devastated, watch what I had a vague sense of be writ painfully large, so I just bowed out, opted not to the take the journey. Of course, the character still has to, but somehow, not having a witness seemed better. You know how when you trip, the first thing you do is look around to make sure no one saw you and somehow that's a little bit of saving grace? It seemed to be a little bit like that: if I didn't witness it, then it didn't happen or it was less painful. Odd, but I don't know how else to explain it. Anyway, I'm a chicken or overly empathetic, but I know the end, and sometimes, knowing how things turn out has to be enough.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
