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.

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.