George Sand, The Bagpipers

My dad found this cool old copy of The Bagpipers at the Whitman College bookstore, and gave it to me for Christmas. I recognized George Sand's name, but really didn't know anything about her other than that, like the similarly masculinely-monikered George Elliot, she was a woman.

It was my primary reading material while I was in Washington over the holidays, as I had somehow managed to bring only Deleuze and Guattari with me and they weren't exactly the light reading I was looking for. The Bagpipers ended up fitting the bill fairly perfectly, actually.

Sand was apparently quite the character--walking around Paris in men's dress, smoking tobacco, and taking a variety of famous lovers, of which Chopin is perhaps the best known. The book, alternatively, seemed quite tame and traditional, although I did think I detected hints of feminist leanings in places.

Set approximately a century before it was written in 1853, and framed as the story of a grandfather telling about his youth, it is a romantic look back at simpler times. The female characters are beautiful and virtuous, the men strong and capable, and the elderly brimming with gentle wisdom. I didn't find it as eye-rollingly romanticized as The Deerslayer (1841), as deep as The Scarlet Letter (1850), as scandalous as Madame Bovary (1857), or as contrived as Silas Marner (1861), but it nestled familiarly with their memories in my brain--as much, I think, for the rhythms of the language as for any subject matter similarities.

Actually, if you feel like a little light nineteenth century French literature, I'd say this is a pretty good bet. I did enjoy it.

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!)

Richard Adams, Watership Down

I finished Watership Down sometime in July, I think. Like Cold Mountain, it was another Walla Walla Goodwill find, and I picked it up because it was a classic and because I had the vague sense that my brother-in-law and/or sister owned and probably recommended it.

I had a hard time getting into it, but did keep plugging along, and was rewarded for that. Although it's ostensibly a children's book, an an adventure at that, it sometimes seemed a bit mired down and slow. And long! Heavens! It was nearly 500 pages.

Still, it was at times quite engaging indeed. Surprisingly to me, it also provided some keen and interesting insights on the development of religion. And despite feeling generally less moved throughout the tale than I thought I might be, I was caught off-guard by the Epilogue, which completely sneaked up on me and make me cry. As I've mentioned before, I'm a crier.

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.