David Sedaris, When You Are Engulfed in Flames

Last night I finished David Sedaris's most recent book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames.

Mostly because Me Talk Pretty One Day reduced my aunt and me to tears when we read it out loud in Italy one summer, and because I got to hear him read in Omaha five or six years ago (and now hear his stories in my head as if he were reading them out loud), I buy and read all his books (albeit rather late, in this case) despite being less impressed with them. Probably the humor is quieter and more mature, but I can't help feeling like he's not quite as funny as he used to be, or at least that the novelty has worn off.

This is not to say that When You Are Engulfed didn't have its laugh-out-loud moments. The final chapter, "The Smoking Section," was definitely my favorite, even though I have no experience with smoking or quitting.* Perhaps I simply find him at his funniest when he's writing about the difficulty of learning a language?

Actually, the final section was so funny that it kind of redeemed the rest of the book for me, which I felt started quite slowly. (I did, however, finish the book in under two weeks, while reading two others; short stories--and in Sedaris's case, often quite short--do slide down awfully easily.)

I'd recommend the book for established fans who want the usual nicely-packaged, if somewhat less hilarious, morsels of Sedaris wit. If you've never read him before, I highly suggest starting with Me Talk Pretty and moving on from there if you feel so inspired.

*It occurs to me that my life might be better if I did have more experience with quitting things, generally.

Stephanie Meyer, The Twilight Books

Okay, I read the Twilight books. All four of them. In about three weeks.

My sister, knowing, certainly, that I would not take the initiative to hunt them down myself, placed the entire stack in my hands when I visited her in Seattle this summer and instructed me to read them, although, she warned, they were like crack.

Yes, I scoffed, especially when I read the first page. It's possible I groaned, "It's even written in first person?"

However, it didn't take me too long to get past the frequently less-than-elegant writing style. It did distract me occasionally, especially in the first book (though I think her writing--or at least editing!--actually did improve in the subsequent volumes), but was quickly subsumed by the highly engaging story.

And the story is highly engaging. For anyone who has ever been a teenage girl--and for me, it's been a good decade since I could claim that distinction, and closer to 15 years since I was really in the throes of adolescent angst--it is also strongly emotionally resonant. Better yet, although I'm sure we can all remember the giddy highs and crushing lows of high school crushes, this is straight-up wish fulfillment: the crush object is not only beautiful, intriguing, and completely irresistible, he is, unlike any actual high school boy, a heady combination of not only masculinity and dangerousness, but intelligence, articulateness, sensitivity, restraint, and good manners.

Further upping his irresistibility quotient, he's ostensibly completely unattainable. But because we're in wish fulfillment mode (and, really, isn't that what fantasy is all about?), he is attained, and of course is even more perfect in that state than he was as simply an object to crave! What's a little stylistic roughness compared with sweet escapist reimagining of what teenhood might have been like in a world so kind to quiet, bookish, physically-disinclined girls?

New Moon, on the other hand, made me weep (see: crier). Who knew that my own feelings of abandonment, pain, and disintegration at male hands were still so fresh? Eeps. I found myself trying to hold myself together right along with Bella.

I won't go into the last two books, except to say again that I do think the series generally gets better as it goes along, thanks to improvement in skill or editing. They really are very fun, easy reads, and, as my sister warned, quite addictive.

My theory on why we love them is that they are so emotionally resonant. My theory on why we hate ourselves for loving them is that our emotions and desires are so predictable: even the strongest, best-educated, most enlightened feminists, it would seem, still want a strong, sensitive partner to want us more than anything, to treat us like it, and to say he'll be around forever.

So, yes, I guess I do love boys who sparkle. (David sent me that link yesterday because he thought it sounded like something I might enjoy. Yay, sparkly vampires!)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.