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.

Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart

I had to return this to the library before I had the chance to read the introduction (which, thanks to a teacher in high school, I always save for last; after all, the introduction was written after its author read the book, and I've found that this order makes much more sense). It's unfortunate, because I wanted more insight on why the book is such a vaunted classic.

Although I can appreciate the intimate capturing of a way of life and a mode of thought, and although it added depth to some of the West African art I'd studied, I was a bit disappointed by the literary value, which didn't seize me the way a classic often does. In retrospect, the austere style was somewhat reminiscent of Hemingway, although without the lucid dialogue. It was simple, straightforward, and captured a sense of the oral storytelling tradition, although I wasn't particularly entranced or engaged.

Anybody want to step in here and enlighten me?

Janet Fitch, White Oleander

A friend had recommended White Oleander to me years ago, and since she was one of the most prolific and interested readers I'd ever met, I put it on my list. When I saw it at the yard sale across the street for .25, I fished out a quarter and brought the book home.

The novel was beautifully written and evocative, but I had a hard time both suspending disbelief and giving the author credibility; as the novel is written as a first-person autobiography, it feels disturbingly voyeuristic since it was ostensibly written by someone with a far less horrifying background than the one portrayed.

One thing I did find very interesting was the way that place functions as a character in the novel. The descriptions of California were probably my favorite part of the book.

Richard Morgan, Woken Furies

I had reserved both Broken Angels and Woken Furies at the library, and this one actually came in first, so as soon as I finished the latter, I started this one. I finished both in about a week.

There were passages in Woken Furies that felt oddly as though someone else were trying to imitate Morgan's style, but without his panache. It was a disturbing effect, and I didn't know whether he'd actually turned over the writing, changed editors, or just lost the edge. It also made me wonder whether the flawless language in the earlier books was due less to his intelligence (and Britishness) than to a really good editor. Thankfully, those stretches were short and few, and didn't ruin the entire novel.

Of the three Takeshi Kovacs novels I've read, this one revealed most clearly, I thought, exactly how unlikable the protagonist can be. "Antihero" is putting it lightly. Kovacs is ruthless, violent, and driven by an irrational revenge. Still, it's a tribute to Morgan's craft that you can't help pulling for him.

The third novel was also full of genuinely impressive plot twists building on the worlds created in the earlier books. Morgan reveals that his intricate universe continues to reveal productive, fascinating, and highly entertaining possibilities.

Richard Morgan, Broken Angels

Broken Angels is the sequel to Altered Carbon, which I read twice this spring/summer. I didn't think it was quite to the level of Morgan's first Takeshi Kovacs novel, but it was similarly gripping, creative, and entertaining.

Morgan's writing is cinematic, deftly weaving vivid scenes that immerse you in his carefully-crafted fictive world. Although this novel did not seem quite as fast-faced and intricate as Altered Carbon, it was a worthy sequel and certainly an enjoyable read.

Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

At my favorite Palm Springs used bookstore this summer, I spent almost all the cash I had on a paperback copy of Anna Karenina. I spent the summer studying for my exams, and figured that this would be the perfect time to read a classic Russian novel I'd had on my list for ages. However, it surprised me by being good. This is what I wrote last July:

So I'm reading Anna Karenina, and loving it. I don't know if it's just the Wuthering Heights Effect* or not, but I'm always excited to crack it open when I'm eating or before bed, and would certainly much prefer to read it to whatever is on the exam bibliography for the day. I did not expect to like it this much; although several of you have recommended it, I've had some experience with Tolstoy, and happen to know he's crazy. I've read other Russians, too (including Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life, Chekhov's Three Sisters, Dostoevsky's Brothers Karamazov, Gogol's Dead Souls, and Nabokov's Pale Fire and Lolita) and figured that the best way to get through a substantial (800 page!) novel like this one would be to contrast it with something I'd rather avoid, like the readings for my exams. I ended up really liking The Brothers Karamazov, but that occurred only after a painful slog through the first THREE QUARTERS OF IT. Anyway, 'turns out that Anna isn't a slog at all. I'm totally digging it.

Even after finishing all 800 pages of it, I still feel the same way. This was an excellent, absorbing story with intriguing characters and thoughtful social commentary. I'll readily admit that I didn't understand all the political machinations, but they hardly dimmed my enjoyment. The characters remain lively in their humanness, and though the details of their situations are rather different than those today, they remain relevant (although I was certainly glad for the freedoms I have now).

I would definitely recommend this, although I'd suggest making sure you have a contemporary translation (mine was the Signet Classics version pictured above).

*I read Wuthering Heights the summer I was in Florence, between sessions, when I should have been fully immersed in Italian. Instead, I sneaked chapters of Wuthering Heights, which an American friend had left behind, and I LOVED it. I haven't revisited the book, but based on others' overwhelming impressions of it, I'm thinking my enjoyment may have had primarily to do with the context of it being my guilty pleasure.

Douglas Preston & Mario Spezi, The Monster of Florence

My parents' neighbor brought this over while I was studying for my exams this summer. He thought I might be interested in the subject matter, having lived in Florence for six months. I was interested, and ended up reading the book in about three days, taking guilty little breaks from my exam studying.

Preston, who is a crime novelist, brings an unmistakable drama to this already almost improbably dramatic, but nonetheless true, story. I had never heard of the Monster of Florence (although I'd read two reviews of the book before the neighbor brought it over), and was stunned to encounter the tale. The police investigation of the crimes proves to be as riveting--and alarming--a story as the murders themselves. A very quick, very easy and entertaining, if rather macabre, read.

William Gibson, Neuromancer

I first read Neuromancer sometime between high school and college, when this guy (who gave me The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide--wrapped in a towel!--for my 17th birthday) recommended it. He claimed that most of The Matrix had been taken from it, uncredited, and that if I liked the latter, I should check it out. It was unlike anything I'd ever read, and there were definitely distinct echoes of The Matrix, but I don't really remember much at all, beyond a scene or two that stuck with me, about that first time.

Recently, however, as I've been reading a lot about cyborgs, Neuromancer keeps showing up. It's considered the grandfather of cyberpunk novels, so I thought I should revisit it. I'm glad I did (I'm much better equipped to critique the essays that reference it), but in all I was pretty underwhelmed. My main impression was that it was not nearly as well-written or absorbing as Richard Morgan's Altered Carbon, which I had just read. The latter reads like a film; the former reads a bit more like the lines of characters that comprise the matrix and have to be deciphered. The real importance of the novel, though, I think, is that he's the one who imagined it.

Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love

Pretty much everyone read this book before I did, and thought I would love it--especially the Italy bits, since I had lived there. They were right! I found the book completely charming, in turn hilarious, insightful, and moving.

I was initially struck by how similar to me author/narrator Liz Gilbert felt--her love of travel, her ability to make friends, her passion for my Italy. It became subsequently clear how very different we are, despite our similarities, but I think that's one of the book's strong points--a wide variety of audiences (at least of women) can relate.

I read the book in Hawaii, either on the beach or on the balcony, but I think that even if I hadn't, the book would have seemed like a miniature vacation. It did make me cry--I could identify more closely than I might have liked to with the heartbreak she felt--but it also made me laugh out loud and feel calmed and encouraged by her wisdom and the wisdom of others that she shares.

Richard Morgan, Altered Carbon

In my Time and Interactivity Seminar, I met a woman who, like me, was interested in cyborgs, and she and I ended up presenting on that subject on the same day. When we met at the Bad Waitress to talk about what each of us would be presenting, she mentioned this book to me, and loaned it to me at the next class period.

It looks like pure pulp sci-fi, especially its purplish, holographic cover, and I wasn't too sure about it. Plus, it's long--an inch and a half thick, and 534 pages--and so it didn't look like the sort of thing I could just breeze through and return. Still, I was about ready for something new to read, and accepted it.

In good sci-fi/cyberpunk fashion, the story opens right into the fictive world, terms and concepts undefined and left to the reader to work out. It makes for a bit of work at the beginning, but is not overwhelming and is well worth it. Morgan, an educated Brit, weaves a creative, carefully crafted, novel that is part cyberpunk, part noir detective story. His writing is highly literate, and, like the story, is articulate and complex, yet exciting and engaging.

Especially fascinating for me were the concepts introduced and the questions raised: what does death mean if the entire mind can be downloaded and re-uploaded? what does it mean to live in a previously-inhabited body? what about a synthetic body? how would it feel to know someone was wearing your old body? how much of attraction is embodied or chemical?

It might sound a little loopy... but I ended up writing a short paper on it (in relation to Henri Bergson's ideas about memory) and reading it twice. So there it is.

Willa Cather, My Antonia

I actually finished this sometime last month, but hadn't gotten around to posting it here.

I enjoyed that it had very short chapters the perfect length for reading just before I fell asleep; that Ter had been reading it when she came to visit me in Italy; and that it was about a state where I lived, off and on, for half a decade, and brought back good memories. In addition to those recommendations, it was also an interesting story, and well-told.

I'd include some of my favorite quotes (one about how the primary feature of Nebraska, when one is driving through it, is that it keeps going, and the other about feeling attuned to the universe), but I ended up finishing it and racing it back to the library on my bike with just minutes to spare before it was overdue. So I guess they'll have to wait.

John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men

I read Of Mice and Men last Thursday. That is, all but the first three pages, which I'd read the night before. It was short, engaging, and provided a striking contrast to what my brother calls Hemingway ("Old Hem")'s focus on "the one true word and the sort of war on the adjective."

The only other Steinbeck I'd read was The Red Pony, close to two decades ago. I suppose eventually I'll have to read some of his longer novels, having now read (unintentionally) what must be two of the shortest classics of American literature.

I may also check out the film version(s); I've seen only one scene (a rather pivotal one) of the Malkovich version, and just the opening credits (while TA-ing Intro to Film) of the 1939 film.

Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

I'm a little embarrassed to admit that this is actually the first Hemingway novel I've read. I found it engaging and extremely readable, with flashes of insight into human relationships and sometimes strikingly spare, realistic dialogue. And as I'm currently trapped in snowy Minnesota, it was thrilling to vicariously visit sun-baked France and Spain.

Also, out of curiosity, did everyone drink that much back then, or was it just Hemingway?

Eli Gottlieb, Now You See Him

This book was given to me by my parents' neighbor, to whom Amazon.com had sent an "advanced reader's edition," the first I ever remember reading. As it was a galley, "from uncorrected proofs," there were quite a few errors, which were somewhat distracting. Still, I read the book quickly; the plot was fairly interesting and the language, though at times unconvincing (especially the dialogue) , was relatively eloquent. Overall, however, I was not much impressed, and was left feeling rather disappointed--though glad enough to have finished.

C.S. Lewis, The Last Battle

C.S. Lewis, The Last Battle.

My parents read C.S. Lewis's Chronicles of Narnia aloud, in rotation, to us kids growing up; when we finished The Last Battle, we'd start over immediately with The Magician's Nephew. I had thus heard them multiple times (and had myself done some of the reading aloud), but had never gone through the series by myself. My mom gave me the set (a nice, slightly moldy used set of the vintage of theirs) for Christmas, and I cruised through them in about a week.

It was an interesting experience on many levels. One was reading them after the other British fantasy I've read since hearing Narnia for the first time--including Tolkien's Lord of the Rings books, Brian Jacques' Redwall series, and most recently all of Harry Potter--and seeing parallels. Another was comparing my adult interpretations of the language with how I'd (mis)understood it as a child--for example, when the Witch gives Edmund "a stunning blow," she's not puckering up and pushing air at him through her lips. And this time, because the time frame in which I went through the series was so compressed, I got a stronger sense of the cleverness and creativity of Narnia's rich and complex history. Finally, I remembered my dad tearing up as he read certain passages, but had never felt particularly compelled as a child--although the Stone Table scene in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe did make me a little sad. This time, though, I was much more aware of the emotional impact of the stories. It was the end of The Last Battle, which I had remembered as the most boring and vague of the series, that really got me.

Between Harry Potter and the new Golden Compass film (and of course the recent Lord of the Rings and even Narnia films), Lewis's children's stories have been in the media recently. Apparently J.K. Rowling never finished the series, and Philip Pullman has made clear that he despises Lewis; he's popularly credited with saying such things as, "I loathe the ‘Narnia’ books. I hate them with a deep passion, with their view of childhood as a golden age," and calling them "one of the most ugly and poisonous things [he's] ever read." I will grant that the books have clear moral content that's not exactly complex or subtle, but it's hard for me to picture them making kids somehow dumber, less discerning, or generally worse people; in my (biased, but thoughtful) opinion, the alternative seems more probable.

C.S. Lewis, The Silver Chair

C.S. Lewis, The Silver Chair.

Series review here.

C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the "Dawn Treader"

C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the "Dawn Treader."

Series review here.

C.S. Lewis, Prince Caspian

C.S. Lewis, Prince Caspian.

Series review here.

C.S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy

C.S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy.

Series review here.

C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

Series review here.

C.S. Lewis, The Magician's Nephew

C.S. Lewis, The Magician's Nephew

Series review here.

Nick Hornby, How to Be Good

Nick Hornby, How to Be Good.

Deanna was going to take this book to Goodwill, but I snagged it. I had really enjoyed the films High Fidelity and About A Boy, although I hadn't yet read anything by him.

This book was funny, creative, well-written, and entertaining, although I didn't think it any particular classic. I'll probably still try High Fidelity and/or About A Boy, but should probably take on something a bit more substantive in the meantime.

Umberto Eco, The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana

Umberto Eco, The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana.

Umberto Eco is such a genius--see, for example, his texts on semiotics--that it seems unfair that he should even be able to write novels. The facts that they are brilliant, critically acclaimed, and that at least one has been turned into a well-regarded film* just makes it crueler. He has even written a book called History of Beauty. I want to be him.

The Mysterious Flame was another Christmas present, a huge hardback tome peppered with full-color illustrations. It was, predictably, erudite, esoteric, and highly literate. Unlike Foucault's Pendulum and The Name of the Rose, however, I didn't find it particularly entertaining; at times, it was a veritable slog. Still, it did have its moments... and one less-than-riveting novel from this brilliant polymath is small consolation.

*The Name of the Rose, with Sean Connery, which I haven't yet seen.