Charles Frazier, Cold Mountain

I really enjoyed Cold Mountain; it wasn't perfect, but I thought it was one of the best and most thought-provoking books I've read in quite a while--which was especially rewarding since I'd picked it up at the Walla Walla Goodwill for fifty cents!

Ostensibly a love story, albeit a nontraditional one, the tale is told in alternating chapters from the two protagonists' own concurrent, but not currently overlapping, lives. It is, at the same time, as much a love story to the land itself, with vivid descriptions of the south--and particularly the mountains of North Carolina. It was also original and enjoyable in its evocation of a bygone era through the language itself. I didn't, as it happens, look up any of the new words I encountered, but there were several--all descriptive of highly specific objects or actions--that I'd never come across before.

It also paints a vivid pictures of the struggle and reward of rustic farming, the horrors of the Civil War, and the power of the human spirit.

I'm finding it difficult to talk much about the book without spoilers, but I will say that I cried, and although I'm definitely a crier--especially, somehow, with books--it had been quite a while since one had gotten to me like this one did.

Highly recommended.

Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion

Richard Dawkins is a pompous ass, and the title of his new book is so unabashedly combative that I consistently found myself hiding it. I began reading it not long after I finished The Pillars of the Earth (or perhaps before, come to think of it), but was too embarrassed to add the title to the "currently reading" section of my blog (hence the very long delay in updating the book blog at all!).

I finally finished it, with some relief, last week. Although it's not terribly esoteric (which should probably be credited to Dawkins as a triumph, given his background), it is rather dense, in addition to being witheringly dismissive of those he seems to perceive as being unintelligent enough to disagree with his own arguments--and thus rather tiring.

It is quite brilliantly written; I think I discovered only one typographical error in the entire book, and pictured the professor himself perusing the proofs.

As far as content, I remain undecided. He presents compelling arguments for his point of view, yet his attempt to disprove the existence of God from the point of science seems somewhat misguided. He seems to believe that science should, and will, be able to understand or prove everything at some point, even if it can't right now, and I'm not sure a scientific approach is really the best way to go about discussing something like God.

When I went to Amazon for the image at the top of this post, I saw at least eight books directly confronting Dawkins' text on the first page of search results alone, so it's clear that he and his aggressively-entitled tome have stirred up some strong feelings. I am interested, and somewhat heartened, to see that there is at least a debate going on. Ignoring texts that conflict with one's worldview may be the quickest way to a quiet and unencumbered existence, but I don't believe it makes the world a better place.

Dan Brown, Angels and Demons

I'm pretty sure it was David's idea that we see Angels and Demons, although I think the reason I agreed was Ewan McGregor.

Nonetheless, being the kind of person who reads the book before seeing the film (which almost without fail makes the film less enjoyable to me and me less enjoyable to other people), I had to read it first.

I read The Da Vinci Code several years ago, and although I thought the puzzles ridiculously simplistic to propel any sort of thriller, and the writing sorely lacking, I did find it highly engaging and devoured it in approximately 36 hours.

The same was not the case for Angels and Demons (although, in an attempt to make my timeline for a Wednesday evening movie date, I did read it in about three days). I found the first third or two offensively bad. The writing seemed blatantly terrible, and the plot refused to move to a degree that I could ignore it. Thankfully, somewhere between the second half and the final third, the action picked way up, and, like a reluctant sink hole, the book finally pulled me in. (Of course, it didn't swallow me whole; what on earth was with Langdon getting into--and for that matter, back out of--that helicopter? Complete inanity.)

The film was also bad, though it didn't take quite as many hours of my life and had the distinct advantage of being shot in Rome. There was even a bit of Italian, which placated me somewhat. Oh, and Ewan McGregor.

If you're curious what the hype is about, read The Da Vinci Code. (I haven't seen the movie, so I can't speak to it.) If you're a Ewan McGregor or Tom Hanks fan (I'm sort of the antithesis of the latter, most of the time), you can probably stomach Angels and Demons--but I wouldn't recommend reading the book first.

Patrick McManus, The Good Samaritan Strikes Again

I believe this was the last of my Christmas books, given to me somewhat sheepishly by my mom. I used to be a pretty big Patrick McManus fan, and his story "How to Go Splat!" still makes me laugh when I think about it. (You can actually read the entire story online, thanks to Google books; I discovered this just now when it was one of the three results Google turned up for the search " 'pulpy mess' banana McManus " [the other two being Douglas Adams references!]).

This was one I hadn't read, and although I didn't think it was quite as funny as some of his other material (I recall also liking the book The Night the Bear Ate Goombaw), it did slip down pretty easily.

It also earned me a bit of credit (I think) with David's dad, when I knew what a chukar was and how difficult they are to hunt (thanks, "Chukar Madness"!). Score.

Ken Follet, The Pillars of The Earth

The copy of The Pillars of the Earth that I read--loaned to me by a friend who had read it in her book club--was 983 pages long. Still, I polished it off much more quickly than the far shorter Mrs. Dalloway.

I finished the book in April, and am only just getting around to writing my review, but other than it being long, I mostly remember it as being not at well written, nonetheless highly engaging, and overall rather violent. It was rather like television, actually--perhaps an extended miniseries. It was highly descriptive, and certainly a page-turner, while still being almost unabashedly fluff. Almost, that is, because of its passages on Gothic architecture, which, although it's not my specialty, I at least found non-egregious if not particularly enlightening either.

Additionally, although the characters weren't always believable--the villains, in particular, being fairly consistently one-dimensional--the book did paint a fascinating portrait of life in the 12th century, and how much modern technology allows us to take for granted. Again, not precisely quality, but a quick-paced and interesting story that did get my heart pounding at times.

Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

This was another Christmas present, again from my dad. I'd somehow made it this far in my life without reading any Virginia Woolf, although I had read The Hours several years ago, which lent at least the first part of Mrs. Dalloway a somewhat eerie déjà vu.

The omniscient perspective, it has always seemed to me, is a tricky voice to pull off in a novel, but Woolf handles it with aplomb. And, wow, if I thought The Manticore was hypermetacognitive, this one easily beats it, despite the former's use of psychoanalytical terminology, by sheer numbers of those cogitating.

It's a short novel, but neither compact nor concise; I found it took much longer and demanded more concentration than anything else I'd read recently. It was accordingly also somewhat tiring, because of its intricate descriptions, meandering sentences, and a nagging sensation (at least for me) that something very bad was going to happen. Still, its understanding and depiction of depression, madness, and the relationships between men and women were fascinating, and perhaps more so given its location in a very specific time and place. I don't have a desire to return to it any time soon, but am very glad to have read it and to have experienced the Woolf.

Randy Pausch, The Last Lecture

This tiny book was a Christmas present from my mom. Conversational, engaging, and divided into bite-sized chapters often arranged around a particular story or anecdote, it was easy to read before bed or whenever I had a spare moment.

The book avoids being saccharine or sappy, which is impressive when one considers that it was written by a man dying of terminal cancer and trying to impart life lessons. I thought it might be a tearjerker, but even I, prone as I am to weeping over pages, only got misty once, near the very end.

It's written very simply and isn't great literature, but is a fascinating record of one man's life and achievements, as well as an important reminder to appreciate and embrace life to the fullest while you have it. And though I'm pretty sure one doesn't fully appreciate the gift life is until faced with one's irrevocable mortality, Pausch's entire life, not just the period after his diagnosis, is an inspiring model of attempting as much.

Robertson Davies, The Manticore

Some books are staggeringly brilliant, whether because of their esoteric subject matter, intricately conceived plots, mind-blowing vocabulary, or depth of (often obscure) knowledge; Umberto Eco, Vladimir Nabakov, and Thomas Pynchon come to mind. I had not even heard of the Canadian Robertson Davies until my dad gave me The Manticore for Christmas this year, having selected him from the list of 100 20th century authors who didn't make the Lifetime Reading Plan proper (a book I had given him several years ago).

I don't think I would call this novel staggeringly brilliant; because of its general accessibility, its brilliance is less overt, sneaking up on you slowly. It's there, though, particularly in its superb metacognition, which manages to avoid the perils of complete self-absorption.

In the loosest of definitions, the novel could be called a murder mystery, but it takes the form primarily of Jungian psychoanalysis. Perhaps surprisingly, the two complement each other very well in a careful balance, the plot driving the exploration of self and characters and vice versa. Because I am a sucker for explorations of the psyche--and had never encountered a similar book!--I thoroughly enjoyed it. It's part of a trilogy, and although it stood well alone, I may check out the other two books after working through the rest of my Christmas reading.

Kate Walbert, The Gardens of Kyoto

My brother-in-law, Chris, gave me this book for Christmas. It's a poetic and beautifully-written novel that weaves between three different time periods, telling its story in letters from different characters as well as in first-person narration.

It was engaging and a quick, enjoyable read, as well as an insightful commentary on the costs of war, although not necessarily a re-reader.

Louise Rennison, Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging: Confessions of Georgia Nicolson

Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging: Confessions of Georgia Nicolson was another of my sister's Christmas gifts to me. A very short, quick read, it was not my usual fare, but provided plenty of laughing and snorting out loud. Written as the diary of a 14-year old schoolgirl, it is rife with British slang, which I do find generally delightful.

The tale is very far from anything I experienced my first year of high school, but I never know what kids are up to these days. I'd be interested to know how representative it is!

Neal Stephenson, Snow Crash

Snow Crash is sort of a cyberpunk novel, though I'm not sure it precisely fits that definition. Like Neuromancer, it's frequently cited in the literature, and so I was very excited to receive it from my sister for Christmas.

Ultimately, however, I was disappointed. It is full of very interesting ideas, some of which would probably have been even more so 16 years ago when it was originally published. Certain of its themes are even rather brilliant and Eco-esque. Unfortunately, as literature, it's pretty bad. It does have its moments of geeky humor, and is an entertaining and fairly engaging read, but suffers consistently, unfortunately, from a grating lack of literary style, which is distracting and disappointing.

William S. Burroughs, Naked Lunch

Naked Lunch is a very familiar title, and an oft-cited work when it comes to postmodern literature. It works interestingly as a conceptual piece, but not so much as a book one would actually want to read.

I made it most of the way through, but it was so repetitive (due to Burroughs' cut-up method) that I did go ahead an skip the last several chapters, something I rarely do. Instead, I wrapped it up and put it under the tree for my dad, who thought, despite my descriptions, that he would enjoy it. I have my doubts, but now it's in his hands!

Whether I just didn't get it, or because today's culture is so different from the one in which it was written, I found the "novel" neither particularly impressive, shocking, creative or innovative--and certainly not enjoyable. This is another one I would not recommend; a brief skim should be sufficient, I think, for the curious.

Rohinton Mistry, A Fine Balance

I read this book because it was #10 on this list. Otherwise, I'm not sure I would ever have heard of it, let alone read it.

I found it quite long, not particularly well-written, and generally depressing. I didn't have to struggle in particular to finish it; the story does clip along, even if it's from disaster to disaster. For that reason, it reminded me of nothing so much as Tess of the D'Urbervilles, which was also rather bleak for my tastes.

A Fine Balance, for all its darkness, which seems to border (intentionally?) on the absurd, does provide an interesting description of life in India under the caste system, and to illustrate how wealthy even the "poor" in the U.S., for example, are in contrast to the abject poverty described. I can't say I enjoyed or would recommend this book; perhaps I just didn't get it.

Kate DiCamillo, The Tale of Despereaux

The Tale of Despereaux: Being the Story of a Mouse, a Princess, Some Soup, and a Spool of Thread was on my sister's coffee table over Christmas, and I was smitten as soon as I began reading it. In fact, I loved it so much that I persuaded her to let me take it to Walla Walla while she was working that weekend, and, when we were stuck on Snoqualmie Pass for an hour and a half en route, read parts of it aloud to my parents.

I've long had a soft spot for talking animals (see The Chronicles of Narnia, Brian Jacques' Redwall series, and more), and DiCamillo's speak exquisitely: the tiny protagonist's French mother is just one charming example. The style is witty and engaging; the narrator repeatedly editorializes directly to reader, in a voice that lends itself equally well to being read to oneself or aloud. Delicate illustrations round out this small gem, and I'll admit that having seen a preview for the film, I have my doubts that it will capture the glory of the book, let alone the drawings. I'll probably check it out, out of curiosity, when it hits the cheap seats or DVD; I'd love to hear the opinion of any of you who have already seen it.

Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

I'd had Love In the Time of Cholera on my to-read list for 10 or 12 years, since a friend (Albanian, I believe) recommended it, writing the title for me on a Post-It Note that lived on my bulletin board for years. Maybe because it was released as a movie this year, or because it was on this list that I've been working my way through, I finally checked it out from the library.

I'd seen posters for the movie, but only just watched the trailer. I'm used to books being better than movies (of course), but this one just looked appalling. It didn't look as though they'd gotten the characters or even the plot right. How irritating.

Then again, Love in the Time of Cholera is hardly "the greatest love story ever told"; it's not nearly that simple. The book is fanciful and eccentric, seemingly concerned far less with crafting a moving love story than describing, in rich detail, scenes of life in the times and places it addresses, as well as the inner lives of its quirky protagonists.

I was charmed from the first page by its elegantly whimsical language and rich descriptions. Though it didn't ultimately prove to be one I'd include in my top 10, I did thoroughly enjoy it and might at some point consider reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, although my friends--almost all of whom, when I mentioned it, said they'd read Love in the Time of Cholera in high school--said it was a bit trying because of all the names.