I'm a Winner!!

No, no, no - this isn't some self-help mantra!  The fact is, I won a book from Confessions of a Real Librarian!

The book is The Shimmer by David Morrell.  The Librarian seems to be pretty high on it, so let's see!

City of Thieves - a good book!

I read a lot of great books.  Once in awhile I pick a dog, but overall I have been pretty lucky about my choices.  Once in a blue moon though, one comes along that stands out from the (recent) others.  I am pleased to report that  City of Thieves was one of those.  

Written by David Benioff, City of Thieves doesn't have grandiose aspirations of social commentary or philosophical musings. The pretext of the novel is Benioff interviewing his grandfather about the elder's experiences during the German siege of Leningrad during World War II. While this might add an element of realism to the story, do not be fooled, "City of Thieves" is a work of fiction. The closing line of the prologue is the grandfather telling Benioff, "You're a writer. Make it up." 

This is not to say "City of Thieves" is entirely unrealistic either. Despite some of the more fictional elements of the plot, Benioff keeps the novel grounded in relative plausibility. The novel is narrated by Lev Beniov, a 17-year-old, self-conscious Russian Jew. After he is caught looting the corpse of a German paratrooper, he is taken to prison where he meets Kolya, an attractive and charming deserter. From jail, the two are taken to a colonel of the NKVD, a branch of the Soviet secret police. The colonel gives Lev and Kolya a seemingly preposterous ultimatum: find a dozen eggs for his daughter's wedding cake by Thursday or be executed as enemies of the state. Lev and Kolya opt for the former and thus begin an odyssey through the harsh winter and dystopian landscape of 1941 Russia. 

The relationship between Lev and Kolya is the heart of "City of Thieves." Lev is insecure in a relatable way. His hyper-self-conscious narration is full of self-criticism but combined with an honest wit. While trudging through the Russian woods after dark, Lev thinks to himself, "Nor could I feel the tip of my nose. What a good joke that would be-I spent most of my adolescence wishing for a smaller nose; a few more hours in the woods and I wouldn't have a nose." This sort of narration defines Lev as a character, and sets him as the stark opposite of Kolya.

If Lev is what every guy was at 17, Kolya is what every guy wanted to be. Handsome, clever and smart, Kolya is both good with women and good in a fight. As opposite ends of the same spectrum, Lev and Kolya develop an "Odd Couple" dynamic that becomes strangely endearing. 

While Lev and Kolya's friendship is the heart of "City of Thieves," Benioff's storytelling is the soul. The book moves along at a quick pace. Benioff is not overly descriptive, but adds touches that fill out the characters and settings. The novel is both heartwarming, as Kolya teaches Lev to pick up girls using calculated neglect, as well as heart wrenching, as in Benioff's portrait of a starving boy on a Leningrad rooftop, keeping a solitary vigil over the frozen corpse of his grandfather. In fact, there are echoes of Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" in some of the scenes of frozen desperation Lev and Kolya find themselves in. Plus, there are cannibals. And really, what else could you want?

By no means the 'perfect' book, Benioff gets a tad sentimental and melodramatic, but City of Thieves really is... a good book!

Would you want to be a teenager again?

In honor of my previous post about Sartre's Nausea, I submit for your approval - screeeech! OK really, who could approve of such tripe? And no, I'm not deluding myself into believing that I am fishing for compliments. It really is tripe! Written many years ago in an adolescent fit of Nihilism! I keep it, and post it here because it's actually amusing to me to look back at the things we so desperately feel in different seasons of life.

And I also think: hmm, there really ARE people who feel this way - I am truly sad for them.

I gaze as the Nihilist in
a dead wall reverie,
through a clouded glass that
darkens the shadows.

Believing is futile, for
all that is law is mocked
by my craving for sedation
from my own petty imaginings.

Nauseated by Nausea - or Why do this to myself?

I just finished re-reading Jean-Paul Sartre’s “Nausea” and felt I just had to jot something down about it. I’ve read this book a couple times over the years, and I’m always left wondering - why I would read such a book? It is an apt title, for even as I read it, I am nauseated - body and mind. I suppose the main reason that I have read (and re-read) the book is that so many times in my life I have felt like Roquentin. Ach! Before I go there, let me tell you a bit about the book.

“I grasp at each second, trying to suck it dry. Nothing happens which I do not seize, which I do not fix forever in myself, nothing, neither the fugitive tenderness of those lovely eyes, nor the noises of the street, nor the false dawn of early morning: and even so the minute passes and I do not hold it back, I like to see it pass.” Pg. 38

And so goes Sartre's Nobel Prize winning book (1964) Nausea. Many consider this book Jean-Paul Sartre's most important novel, and a “ landmark in existential fiction. ” Sartre is considered one of the most prolific French Existentialist writers of the 20th century. He was skilled as a philosopher, novelist, play-write and critic, ably bridging the gap between the academy and the “lay” person.

The book is the story of Frenchman Antoine Roquentin, a French writer critiquing his existence and surrounding culture in diary form. The main theme of the novel results from Sartre's belief that "existence precedes essence." Roquentin unwittingly differentiates between inanimate objects, or a "being-in-itself," and human consciousness, or a "being-for-itself." For example, when he looks at a bartender's purple suspenders, he is distraught to find that they appear blue in some places. His feelings of Nausea come from moments like this when he realizes that he is creating the essence, or characteristics, of the objects he sees. He understands that color is just an idea, and "purple" just an inadequate word to describe something he has never seen before. He concludes that the essences of objects are just comforting "facades" that hide the unexplainable nakedness of existence. In effect, while studying the root of a chestnut tree, Roquentin realizes that the root first existed and then he attributed an essence to it by describing it as "black."

Nausea takes us into the depths of our souls and concludes that nothing is there. It's a cold-hearted existence locating meaning through our own device, and then watching them flow into the endless vat of meaninglessness. This is clearly felt in Roquentin's sexual dalliances. They are detached experiences that are a result of mutual “needs” devoid of real purpose or depth. There is no sharing of self, because ultimately there is no self to share, only presence. Roquentin tries desperately to make sense of his world, and escape this nausea, but seems appalled at the useless ways in which the characters he observes hypocritically deal with their own lives.

I must say Nausea left me, well, nauseated. However Sartre does an artistic job of pulling you into his world and gives us a soulful description of his brand of existentialism, as felt in the following quote.

“I had always realized it; I hadn't the right to exist. I had appeared by chance, I existed like a stone, a plant or a microbe, My life put out feelers towards small pleasures in every direction. Sometimes it sent out vague signals; at other times I felt nothing more than a harmless buzzing.” Pg. 84

In Nausea, we are reminded that Sartre and atheistic existentialism clearly recognize the fate of the world apart from god. Nothingness, a cruel existence without purpose, a derived essence of meaning. This book rips the heart out of optimistic humanism, and because of this, and it's soulful inventory on the human condition, it is worth the read. Beware though, you may find some of the words haunting your soul, and extricating you from some of your blind coping mechanisms, and casting you into a canyon of despair. This book is reminiscent of philosophers and writers (and on more than one occasion in my life – me) through the ages that have honestly surveyed their lives, and have come up empty, reminding us that there really is nothing new under the sun.

Despite our great technological advances in the past 100 years, man still searches for meaning on his own terms, only to realize, like Sartre, there is nothing to be found. We have discovered all there is, and in the long haul have bored ourselves to death.

I can't say the book was enjoyable, but I can say it was enlightening, and a reminder that like Ecclesiastes concludes, life under the sun, without a god, or a purpose, is “ meaninglessness, meaninglessness, meaninglessness. ” A lesson I wish I could learn once and for all.

Contemporary vs. Victorian - a non-scholarly look at the differences: Part I

Ok, so let me get this out right from the start: I love good writing, vintage OR emergent! In every era there are or have been good writers and bad. Masterpieces have been written from the advent of the written word, as well as out-and-out stinkers. I have a tendency to love the Victorian authors, but as you can see by my "Recent Reads" and the "Books at my Bedside" I also love contemporary literature. What it really comes down to is simply a matter of taste; one man's Trollope is another's Miller is another's Brown... Buuuuut -

The other day I saw this conversation on Yahoo:

Recently I decided to take up reading "the classics" that I've always wanted to read. I read "The Invisible Man" by H.G. Wells last month, and I just finished "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." I had planned on reading "A Tale of Two Cities" next, but reading these books has become too frustrating.

I have to sit with a dictionary while I'm reading, and I spend more time highlighting obscure words and phrases and looking up their meaning than reading. This breaks up the momentum and kills any enthusiasm I have for the story. Something I never have to go through with contemporary fiction. The flowery language seems pretentious to me. Does anyone else find Victorian literature ridiculously hard to read? I would really like to continue, but is it even worth the effort?

My tendency is to get all indignant, superior and insulting and tell this person to stop being so lazy and maybe they'd learn something... but in my dotage I am (finally) beginning to learn to temper my judgmental nature and look to see what is going on here.

What is happening here? Honestly, this isn't the first time I've come across this very complaint. There is something different about the Victorians and contemporary authors, their writing styles, vocabulary and even viewpoints that can make the Victorians seem daunting. I have been a fan of Dickens since my childhood so, for me, reading the Victorians is just kinda second nature. However, I can see how some may find the old styles a bit more difficult. So: 1- what's the difference, and 2- what's to be done about it?

So as not to get all academic about this topic, I will say that perhaps the biggest reason for the seemingly slower, drawn out form of writing noted in Victorian era writing is that many stories were written as installments for newspapers or magazines such as Bentley's Miscellany and All the Year Round. So instead of going to the Book Store or clicking onto Amazon, each week, or month (depending on the journal's frequency of publication), you would read the next part of the story. Talk about patience and anticipation! Can you imagine having to wait a month at a clip to read each chapter of The Da Vinci Code? Today's books, for the most part are page-turners designed to grab your attention and keep it 'til the end. The Victorians could afford to spend much ink on the development of characters, plot, even scenery; besides, as-often-as-not many authors (Dickens for example) was paid by the word!

But I'm not. So, this post will be continued within the next few days (got ya sitting on the edge of your seat?)!

Looking for Love in all the Wrong Times

Every now and again one of those stories comes along that just grab ya, and The Time Traveler's Wife is one. Nonlinear is the word that bounces around in my mind, for as I read, the story pings from one lobe to another 'til it finally finds that little bit of gray matter (or is it the white that matters?) that begins organizing the vignettes presented in this book.

Beyond the mind-bending physics, this is one of those love stories that sucks you in, grabs hold and makes you wish the author could somehow do that same time-travel thing into your life with these characters. I found myself wanting to know Claire and Henry, maybe just sit around and smoke a cigar together and just get to know each other a bit. Maybe they should start a blog - you know, just keep us filled in on their chance rendezvous. Aubrey Niffennegger's characters are so richly drawn, that the characters come to life, right there on the page. And, as I hinted at as a possible future post, these characters are introduced to us in a way that would be so foreign to the great Victorian authors, yet every bit as effectively!

I recently saw the movie and, no spoilers here, but I will say this - the movie will definitely bring a tear to the eye, but the book will just break down every ounce of machismo and leave you bawling!

Wilkie Collins and Me -OR - Where Have I Been?

Ever since the first time I saw Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol when I was a little kid (probably about 8 LOL-inside joke) I have loved the great British writers; Dickens (the spirit who haunts these walls), Keats, Wilde, and I always loved reading the sermons of Charles Spurgeon. Now let me say this before I come across as a complete idiot - I have heard of Wilkie Collins. Probably as long as I have known of Dickens, I have known the name. Over the years I could easily spout off at least a few of his works and what they are about. Given context and a line-up of mugshots I could even point out his picture! But this summer I had an epiphany, ok, epiphany's a little strong, but this ranks pretty high on the wake-up-and-smell-the-roses scale, - I realized I have never actually READ any of Collins' stuff! Fo' shame! Yikes! Ugh! Where have I been? I mean really! I read A LOT, no really, trust me on this one - I read A LOT, but I have never read a single work written by a contemporary, nay, a friend of Charles Dickens!

So, long story short - I have finally read some Wilkie Collins!! I started out with The Dream Woman and Other Stories. Like any author, I didn't care for every story, but a few were really outstanding: The Dream Woman, Nine O'Clock, and others. I liked these stories so much that I just had to run down to my library (another post for another time) and pick up a copy of The Woman in White, which is at the bedside right now.

I have just started The Woman in White, and I'm not sure yet what it's all about, but so far I am loving it! There's just something about the vintage authors that grab me and keep me coming back for more! So, when I finish this book I think we will have to discuss the Victorian writers and see what makes them different from emergent literature... nothing too heavy, I promise! 'Til then...

Good as Bad, or Bad as Good as Bad as ...

This was one of those books. I started it, put it down, started it... I don't know - somehow I had a hard time getting started. The title of this book is the tale of the book also! The story is disguised as a pretty chick story, maybe even a story for teenagers, but Rajeev Balasubramanyam weaves a poignant tale that left me thinking about the turns my own life has taken, and left me wanting to know how our heroine's life turned out! In my mind's eye, I see Balasubramanyam sitting in his study reading Frost's The Road Less Taken and finding himself writing a story of a young girl following her own roads. Hmmm, sounds a little corney, but I suppose it works. Anyway...

In Beautiful Disguises is an odd, open-ended book. The narrator describes events and conversations, but she remains mystified by most of what goes on around her. She lets herself be carried along, come what may. Only with the first arranged marriage does she put her foot down, refusing to accept what others have decided for her. (Given what is later learned about her intended it proves to be a very wise choice, though she gets little credit for that.)

The narrator experiences life almost by happenstance. Guileless, she is also peculiarly empty. Her longings are unclear, and rarely does she act purposefully or with much determination. Her first attempt to run away is feeble, and only when everything is done for her (by the kindly grandfather) is there any hope of at least short-lived success. Even becoming an actress seems only a hazy dream, not a true ambition.

The tone of the novel is also an odd one, as she recounts almost whatever seems to come to mind. Ultimately, however, it does ring true as the voice of this peculiar character.

In Beautiful Disguises also presents an odd picture of India. It is, in part, satire. The overbearing Mrs. Marceau is almost entirely a caricature, while some of the other characters are finely drawn and sympathetic. Some of the things that happen are too exaggerated, but by and large Balasubramanyam can get away with them. Still, In Beautiful Disguises seems largely the work of someone not intimately familiar with India -- a book by an outsider, with only a selective experience of it. Which actually doesn't work all that badly, given the narrator, who also is not quite grounded in the reality of that particular (or any) world.

I just read what I wrote above and it may sound like I didn't care too much for the book, but that just isn't the case. SEE! Even my review is a disguise! This book is artfully deceptive and is a curious and an oddly winning fiction, frustrating at times - especially in its aimlessness (culminating in a wide open ending) -- but seen simply as a novel (and not, say, specifically as a commentary on life in India) it is an interesting, thought-provoking effort - or is it?

Aaaand - We're Back!

You know how life just has that funny way of blindsiding you? One day you're going along just fine; good people in your life, good job, you know - everything is going well. While you're in the midst of it, you don't even notice it. Sure, maybe you're one of those people who live consciously, savoring the good times and even appreciating the bad times because you know it will just make the halcyon days even sweeter! I'm kinda like that - but not entirely. I can appreciate what a great life I have, but I tend to muddle when things are going badly... but I wander here.

The truth is, nothing serious, nothing bad or grand happened. I haven't posted anything in a long time because:

1. I changed jobs, and much like the high school kid that forsakes all his friends because he has a new girlfriend, I did that with this job change. I got so into it that all but the necessities fell by the wayside. But. All work and no writing...

2. I forgot my password. I used to try to use the same password for all my accounts, but over the years, well - that fell by the wayside too. So when it came time to start writing again, it was a major task to get into my account. I forgot the answer to my security question even! The PDA I once-upon-a-time used to store all that info went by the wayside too (in favor of my new favorite gadget, Blackberry Curve).

Hmm, I'm detecting a pattern - stuff falls by the wayside.

And finally,
3. I had writer's block. OK not really, but it feels kinda cool to say that.

So, I'm back. For now. I suppose until something else sends all the non-necessities to to the wayside. Wonder where the wayside is - can you imagine all the cool stuff that can be found there?

Dickinson's "Ample Make this Bed"

Here's a poem that I love. I first heard it in the movie "Sophie's Choice" and found it powerfully moving. Just thought I'd share it here.



AMPLE make this bed.
Make this bed with awe;
In it wait till judgment break
Excellent and fair.

Be its mattress straight,
Be its pillow round;
Let no sunrise' yellow noise
Interrupt this ground.

Emily Dickinson

Some Thoughts on Langston Hughes' "Dream Deferred" - GB Shaw

What happens to dreams deferred?

Do they fester inside? Boil up with anger and resentment? Do dreams deferred, left alone and dead by the side of the road of life begin to rot from the maggots and stink; 'til we can't stand the very thought of these dreams? Awww, have you ever had a dream that you strove for, worked hard for, desired with the very essence of your being, only to find that it wasn't attainable - at least not now? Then you wake up one day to realize that it's probably too late, and you look at those dreams with derision.

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An Irony of Life and Death - GB Shaw

There reside two personae, the public and the private, within each and every person. It is likely that in most cases the public person, the person that is seen walking down the street, interacting with colleagues, friends and family is nearly the same as the private person, the person alone, either in his own head or alone at home in bed. Most people are probably pretty consistent with who they represent themselves to be to others and who they are with themselves. However, because there are certain social norms that we as a society are expected to live by, we may behave in a particular way in public that may not be consistent with how we are feeling on the inside. To that casual friend that asks how we’re doing we may respond with a stock answer, such as “Good, how are you?” when inside we may not be doing well at all; this is just a part of meeting social norms.

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