Showing posts with label BOOKS i've read. Show all posts
Showing posts with label BOOKS i've read. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Book: Blue Pills: A Positive Love Story
This book was beautiful.I've been looking for a good opportunity to foray into the graphic novel genre. I didn't want to choose something "just because" it had pictures. And in the past, graphic novels haven't really done it for me. They should. Know me, and you'd know they should. But they just haven't.
Maybe it's because, and I'm just pontificating here, the story lines are somewhat unemotional. Correct me if I'm wrong, but tons of these (let's abbreviate here) G.N.'s are written by men, with these hard-to-grasp, somewhat unemotional concepts. They're more like adventures. Or something. It's like, it takes so long to get to the meat of the story, and there's always so much in-between stuff happening. And it makes it hard for me to concentrate. And sometimes, I'm not sure what I should be concentrating on. The story? The pictures? It's not the type of book I really know how to read. Because the thing is, I really like words, and I really like pictures. Separately. But together? It's like listening to an amazing singer singing with an amazing guitarist, at the same time, each at the same volume. It's hard to know what to focus on. Well, anyway. That's been my experience. Mostly, I haven't liked the stories.
But I was in the neighborhood bookstore, waiting for something to grab me. This book was misplaced, left out on a shelf, not quite fitting in with anything else. It should have been with the Valentine's Day book display up front, but I guess people don't really consider AIDS stories a romantic gesture.
So, what's a man to do?
This is their love story (and a true story!) and it's just beautiful, and mesmerizing, and sensitive, and vulnerable. Yes, the story is vulnerable. Always on the verge of falling into tears, or self-defeating, or missing out on it's own chance for happiness.
But it doesn't. And that's not giving anything away. The book is called A Positive Love Story, which of course, is really what caught my eye. How can something so sad be so utterly uplifting?
Also, I found it warmly inspiring, artistically.
[The author is Frederik Peeters, and is considered one of Europe's up and coming illustrators. Blue Pills was previously published in Europe, where it won the Premios La Carcel de Papel in Spain and the Polish Jury Prize at Angouleme. It has sold over 20,000 copies in its original French edition, and now Houghton Mifflin is publishing it in the United States. -- source]
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Authors: Jonathan Safran Foer
I was supposed to go to a literary event in my town tonight. But plans changed, and at the last minute I found myself back in the car, heading over the GW for a different literary event at BN on 66.
Tonight, Jonathan Safran Foer (my favorite writer as you know, second to my other favorite writer, Nicole Kraus) was introducing/interviewing/supporting another writer named Howard Jacobson. Foer is a 30-something, Brooklyn-dwelling, shaggy haired, bespeckled writer with an incredible talent and a very rich agent. His books are personal, Jewish, pondering, painful, and hysterical. Jacobson is a much older, just as funny, just as Jewish, introspective, intelligent writer from England.
I escalated all the way up to the top floor of the bookstore to grab a hot chocolate before the talk began. I had Foer's book in my bag -- the final novel I bought in Italy during my last lonely but powerful days in Florence. I devoured this book while traveling, and embraced it like a companion.
Standing in line, waiting for my drink to arrive, I suddenly noticed Foer amongst the group of patrons, talking with a friend. I knew it was him immediately. At first my mouth broke into a huge grin, and then I quickly looked away. It was almost odd. I think the gleam of seeing one of your "favorites" becomes tarnished when you see them standing in the same consumer line you are in, simply a pedestrian waiting for coffee.
I wanted to hand him my book. I want to say something. I wanted to ignore him, or call his name, or pretend I didn't notice, or smile in his direction. But, I did nothing. The line passed by me. Because of some confusion behind the counter, people's drinks were coming out before mine and I was left standing to the side watching confused cashiers try to untangle the mess of lattes and skim milks. I was in no rush. With each drink that was handed out, Foer and his friend stepped closer to the front.
And, as fate would have it (can you call it fate?), eventually he was standing next to me, and we were reaching for our hot beverages at the same time. I seized the moment.
"Forgive me for becoming a dork," I said, with a smile, "but I am a huge fan of your work." I didn't introduce myself. I didn't acknowledge him by name. I just, spoke, before I could loose the nerve, here, in the line for coffee.
He smiled, and thanked me kindly. He looked like such a modest man. Somewhat reserved, not as rambunctious as the characters he writes about. "I just loved your book so much, it meant so much to me," I said, words bumping against one another. He told me quickly that I should come to the talk downstairs so I would meet a different writer who was really great. "I know!" I said, "That's why I'm here." And then I added, "And please, tell your wife, if you don't mind, that her book, Man Walks Into A Room, just moved me so much. I mean, I just loved it so much." He said, "I'll tell her." That was it, and I turned away.
I headed down the stairs, boasting with excitement. I took a seat with the 50 or so people who had filled the room for the talk. When it began, Foer started with an introduction of Jacobson and his new book, Kalooki Nights, which couldn't have been a more effusive, hilarious and gushing pronouncement. It was honorable praise, one I imagine an author could wait a lifetime hoping to hear. Genuine reverence is hard to come by these days.
Jacobson was a delight to listen to, and I got the sense that if I were up to date on the English Jewish writer's scene, I would be falling over myself to make his acquaintance. He read a few excerpts from his book, talked excessively and poignantly about the Jewish persona and the valour of comedy (his true religion, he said). He was even bold enough to take a question from someone who asked, "When did anti-semitism against Jews begin?" Jacobson fell back into his chair and inhaled his gasp. "Could you ask me a heavier question please?" he asked. The audience laughed with empathy. It was an interesting moment because so much of their discourse seemed structured around the assumption that everyone in the audience was a bonafied kvetcher, a Hebrew school drop out, a shayna punim. After all, it was the upper west side. But apparently that wasn't the case, and the man who asked the question seemed bewildered by everything that was so nonchalantly being said about Jewish existence that evening. The room was filled with subtle references and innuendos that only a card-carrying member of the tribe had the luxury of taking for granted. But Jacobson answered the question slowly, thoughtfully, and at times, perversely. There were more sex jokes thrown around than kugel references.
After the talk, the lined formed for autographs. I picked up Jacobson's book, and once I saw others do the same, pulled out my copy of Foer's book that had been touched by the Tuscan sun.
When I reached the table, I said hello again to Foer, and handed him my book. He commented on the origin of my name, and then signed the inside cover, personalizing his signature and writing the letters of my name with a curvaceous flair. I told him to look at the back so he could see the Italia sticker marking the geographic source of its purchase. "It even has the European cover," I pointed out. I couldn't have been more excited, more filled with gratitude for this moment. It felt like it all had come full circle.
July. I remember holding the book tightly, reading it under the pink shadows of the Duomo and under the stern glares of Medusa's head in Piazza Signoria. I remember clutching it on the plane as we took off, heading back to the States, the threatening rumble of jet engines below my feet. Who would have known that 4 months later the book would be in the hands of the person who had written it, inscribing his name below the title? And then, with a twist of the pen, my own name would appear, like a final stamp of declaration that this story, my story, had really occurred.
Tonight, Jonathan Safran Foer (my favorite writer as you know, second to my other favorite writer, Nicole Kraus) was introducing/interviewing/supporting another writer named Howard Jacobson. Foer is a 30-something, Brooklyn-dwelling, shaggy haired, bespeckled writer with an incredible talent and a very rich agent. His books are personal, Jewish, pondering, painful, and hysterical. Jacobson is a much older, just as funny, just as Jewish, introspective, intelligent writer from England.
I escalated all the way up to the top floor of the bookstore to grab a hot chocolate before the talk began. I had Foer's book in my bag -- the final novel I bought in Italy during my last lonely but powerful days in Florence. I devoured this book while traveling, and embraced it like a companion.
Standing in line, waiting for my drink to arrive, I suddenly noticed Foer amongst the group of patrons, talking with a friend. I knew it was him immediately. At first my mouth broke into a huge grin, and then I quickly looked away. It was almost odd. I think the gleam of seeing one of your "favorites" becomes tarnished when you see them standing in the same consumer line you are in, simply a pedestrian waiting for coffee.
I wanted to hand him my book. I want to say something. I wanted to ignore him, or call his name, or pretend I didn't notice, or smile in his direction. But, I did nothing. The line passed by me. Because of some confusion behind the counter, people's drinks were coming out before mine and I was left standing to the side watching confused cashiers try to untangle the mess of lattes and skim milks. I was in no rush. With each drink that was handed out, Foer and his friend stepped closer to the front.
And, as fate would have it (can you call it fate?), eventually he was standing next to me, and we were reaching for our hot beverages at the same time. I seized the moment.
"Forgive me for becoming a dork," I said, with a smile, "but I am a huge fan of your work." I didn't introduce myself. I didn't acknowledge him by name. I just, spoke, before I could loose the nerve, here, in the line for coffee.
He smiled, and thanked me kindly. He looked like such a modest man. Somewhat reserved, not as rambunctious as the characters he writes about. "I just loved your book so much, it meant so much to me," I said, words bumping against one another. He told me quickly that I should come to the talk downstairs so I would meet a different writer who was really great. "I know!" I said, "That's why I'm here." And then I added, "And please, tell your wife, if you don't mind, that her book, Man Walks Into A Room, just moved me so much. I mean, I just loved it so much." He said, "I'll tell her." That was it, and I turned away.
I headed down the stairs, boasting with excitement. I took a seat with the 50 or so people who had filled the room for the talk. When it began, Foer started with an introduction of Jacobson and his new book, Kalooki Nights, which couldn't have been a more effusive, hilarious and gushing pronouncement. It was honorable praise, one I imagine an author could wait a lifetime hoping to hear. Genuine reverence is hard to come by these days.
Jacobson was a delight to listen to, and I got the sense that if I were up to date on the English Jewish writer's scene, I would be falling over myself to make his acquaintance. He read a few excerpts from his book, talked excessively and poignantly about the Jewish persona and the valour of comedy (his true religion, he said). He was even bold enough to take a question from someone who asked, "When did anti-semitism against Jews begin?" Jacobson fell back into his chair and inhaled his gasp. "Could you ask me a heavier question please?" he asked. The audience laughed with empathy. It was an interesting moment because so much of their discourse seemed structured around the assumption that everyone in the audience was a bonafied kvetcher, a Hebrew school drop out, a shayna punim. After all, it was the upper west side. But apparently that wasn't the case, and the man who asked the question seemed bewildered by everything that was so nonchalantly being said about Jewish existence that evening. The room was filled with subtle references and innuendos that only a card-carrying member of the tribe had the luxury of taking for granted. But Jacobson answered the question slowly, thoughtfully, and at times, perversely. There were more sex jokes thrown around than kugel references.
After the talk, the lined formed for autographs. I picked up Jacobson's book, and once I saw others do the same, pulled out my copy of Foer's book that had been touched by the Tuscan sun.
When I reached the table, I said hello again to Foer, and handed him my book. He commented on the origin of my name, and then signed the inside cover, personalizing his signature and writing the letters of my name with a curvaceous flair. I told him to look at the back so he could see the Italia sticker marking the geographic source of its purchase. "It even has the European cover," I pointed out. I couldn't have been more excited, more filled with gratitude for this moment. It felt like it all had come full circle.
July. I remember holding the book tightly, reading it under the pink shadows of the Duomo and under the stern glares of Medusa's head in Piazza Signoria. I remember clutching it on the plane as we took off, heading back to the States, the threatening rumble of jet engines below my feet. Who would have known that 4 months later the book would be in the hands of the person who had written it, inscribing his name below the title? And then, with a twist of the pen, my own name would appear, like a final stamp of declaration that this story, my story, had really occurred.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
BOOK: Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close
This is a book you won't soon forget.I bought it for the plane coming home from Italy, but I couldn't finish reading it on the plane, because the book is about planes, and not in a good way.
It's also (mostly) about a 8-year old boy named Oskar who is the most interesting, most complex, most sensitive, most intelligent little boy you'll ever read about.
He lives on the Upper West Side in Manhattan, with his mother. His grandmother lives across the street. His father died in 9/11, and this book is about Oskar's mourning process, though he does not know it. You'll know it, from the perspective of an adult. You'll know it, silently, reading about his adventures, your heart breaking, knowing that the reason he is on this nonsensical journey, is because he is searching for what he has already lost forever.
I don't know how Foer does it. His writing is so detailed. Everything eventually connects in ways that you won't see coming. If you reach a point that makes you wonder why it's even in the book, that's probably the moment you should pay the closest attention. The book isn't just A BOOK. It's got pictures, pages and pages of photographs, as though the story could not be told with words alone. It plays with the page margins, the font kearning, the space between the lines. This is NOT a normal book and it is beautiful.
A few months ago I was lucky enough to hear Foer do a reading at a public event. At that point, I had never read any of his books, and didn't really have plans to. But he's a young, 30-something from Brooklyn, and he's an up-and-coming author (more like an up-and-already-arrived) and he is married to my favorite author ever, Nicole Kraus, whom I was secretly hoping would be there.
He did a reading of something he was working on, which no one had heard before, and which may or may not reach the public one day. It was so funny and brilliant and had the whole audience crying with laughter. That seemed to put his "voice" in my head, so when I began EXTREMELY LOUD & INCREDIBLY CLOSE I could "hear" how it was supposed to be read, and that made the melody of the book so much more enjoyable.
I finished it last night with tears in my eyes and a deep sigh. Another book that took my breath away.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Book: Man Walks Into A Room
The very last thing my sister wanted to do during her 9 days with me in Italy was.... buy the new Harry Potter book. She knew if she waited until the last minute then she wouldn't be tempted to start reading it until she got on the plane to come home. Which is exactly what she did. She finished it before the turbo jet wheels touched the ground.I was a little envious of her voracious desire to read (sorry, inside joke) and I wanted to feel that way about a BOOK too. For the last three weeks I had been devouring the sights and sounds of this tremendous country and my mind was working at a 100 mph. The last thing I was able to do was sit quietly and look at words. But here I was at the end of the trip, and I thought, maybe I can finally concentrate on something.
So I went to a bookstore and scanned the shelves for a long time. The English section was just a few shelves, but the collection was so random I could hardly call it lacking. Everything from Shakespeare to Candace Bushwell, on just a shelf or two.
I finally chose a book called MAN WALKS INTO A ROOM, by Nicole Krauss. She also wrote THE HISTORY OF LOVE, which I've already posted about with great affection. So here was her second book, which is actually her first book, but published before we knew who she was. So chances are, as it happened with me, you would discover it second. And I need to say, THIS is the book she should have gotten famous for.
It's a short book and I stretched it out as long as I could. I read it under the gazing eyes of the statues in Piazza Signoria. I read it until 3am in my studio apartment. I read it in cafes near the Duomo.
This book was.... goodness, someone give me an adjective other than AMAZING, please. Because it was AMAZING.
After roaming through the streets of Florence for a month, I told my sister that my new greatest wish was to have the ability to time travel. You just get this sense of history in this city like no other place I've ever seen. You can feel the ghosts of a million yesterdays walking through the streets even though the city hustles and grooves with the sounds of tourists and mopeds. And yet all around, time is frozen in the soft smiles of saints and angels holding their posts on top of towering podiums and church facades. I thought about time travel constantly. It's also the theme of my other favorite book, which I've also written about.
This book is not about time travel. But close. It's about memory loss. A man looses his memory at the age of 36, and all he can recall is his life until the age of 12. This greatly affects his wife, his employer, his friends. The story follows him as he tries to unravel everything he's supposed to remember, love, and identify with, simply because everyone tells him he once did. It's riveting, powerful.
It was the perfect book to read during a trip while far, far away from home. When you travel, all your habits are left behind. It's interesting to see how quickly we aspire to find new ones, or which ones managed to slip themselves into our suitcases for the trip across the sea. It's interesting to realize there are habits you didn't even know you had, but you suddenly miss. Like, the first ten things you do when you get up in the morning. Or the path you take through your house right before you go to bed. Suddenly all those things are gone, just like the faces of family members you tearfully said goodbye to before you got on the plane. Just like the clothes you left in your closet, and the music that didn't fit on your mp3 player, and the way your neighbor slams the front door downstairs.
This book made me think about all those things, about saying goodbye and hello to things that mattered or not. About relearning your steps into bed, and finding a new pattern for yourself in the morning.
How many things do we do each day that give us comfort in their repitition? Who would you be if you suddenly forgot who you are? And if everyone around you knew what your life was like for the past 15 years, except for you, what memories would you ask them to retell you? And would questions would you decide not to ask? How much of your life would you chose to reshape based on what you were told you did, and how willing would you be to reclaim nothing at all? And would the things that would not be reclaimed, or could not be remembered, be missed?
One night we were at a party in Florence. It was wonderful, and fun and the room was filled with artists and wine. The night weather was perfect and blew through our dresses and our glasses were never empty. And then I realized, that where I was, was exactly where I would have chosen to be had I known what I was choosing. I was at this party due to a series of choices I had made regarding people I wanted to get to know, activities I took part in, places I visited. All choices, unknowingly, led to this night. As the entire life I lived before this night swept away behind me, here I was again. Surrounded by smiles I seemed to have known all my life, but could not recognize.
"That's just it!" shouted Ray. "How to be alone, to remain free, but not feel longing, not to feel imprisoned in oneself. That is what interests me."
Monday, April 09, 2007
Book: The History of Love
It's ever so slightly embarrassing to be sitting across from someone (say, on a date or something) and when they ask if you've read anything good lately, you have no choice by to say, "Yes, I'm reading The History of Love." Oh, that's not exactly a loaded statement for a second date now, is it?
But this book is not like that. Not what you're thinking it's about anyhow, considering the title. Yes, it's about love. But more, the search for it, over time, over lands, over generations. It's not a love story like you'd imagine it to be. It's not a jilted affair, or a Romeo/Juliet type showdown.
The story revolves around many people, including a 14-year old girl who is trying to find the story of her name, and an old man who is trying to reconnect with his son, who may or may not know he exists. Everyone is searching for love. Everyone is working against a current that is paralleled to someone else's current, which in the end, enables them to all flow in with the tide at the exact same time. Excuse the metaphor, but it's true.
I began this book with hesitation, because the style of writing is so distinct, it's almost forced. It feels formulaic at the beginning, such "signature writing" that you can't help but wonder if the writer is more concerned that you remember her style than you do the characters.
But, like always, I kept with it. And, like always, a transition happened, and suddenly I realized I was holding in my hands more than a book; it was a true gem. It was magical. The style loosened, the voice developed, the characters became passionate, dedicated, loyal beings with a push and pull I couldn't help but immerse myself in.
It's a magical book.
But this book is not like that. Not what you're thinking it's about anyhow, considering the title. Yes, it's about love. But more, the search for it, over time, over lands, over generations. It's not a love story like you'd imagine it to be. It's not a jilted affair, or a Romeo/Juliet type showdown.
The story revolves around many people, including a 14-year old girl who is trying to find the story of her name, and an old man who is trying to reconnect with his son, who may or may not know he exists. Everyone is searching for love. Everyone is working against a current that is paralleled to someone else's current, which in the end, enables them to all flow in with the tide at the exact same time. Excuse the metaphor, but it's true.
I began this book with hesitation, because the style of writing is so distinct, it's almost forced. It feels formulaic at the beginning, such "signature writing" that you can't help but wonder if the writer is more concerned that you remember her style than you do the characters.
But, like always, I kept with it. And, like always, a transition happened, and suddenly I realized I was holding in my hands more than a book; it was a true gem. It was magical. The style loosened, the voice developed, the characters became passionate, dedicated, loyal beings with a push and pull I couldn't help but immerse myself in.
It's a magical book.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Book: Eat, Pray, Love
I can't stop reading. As cliche as this sounds, it's truly become the easiest way for me to escape from things. But in a good way. When I'm reading, my mind is quiet, and I'm absorbing new words faster than I can worry about old words.
I also believe that books can come into your life at certain points in a most appropriate way. It's not like it's a psychic thing, or fortuitous premonitions. But often, quite often in fact, I'm reading a book and thinking, how in the world did this book find me at this exact moment?
As I read, Eat Pray Love, I was thinking that thought the whole time. But I'll be honest. It wasn't love at first sight. Well, I loved the cover at first sight. But the author, not so much. I was equally irritated and intrigued in the first few chapters. I was transfixed by the story line, by the things she was writing about, by the events surrounding her. But she, the actual woman living this life, was not someone I was dreaming of meeting.
I read it at the yoga retreat I was on, and there is probably no place better to read this book than on a yoga retreat. It looked as though they were handing this out at the door, because there were quite a number of women walking around with this book in one hand, and their yoga mat in the other. We should have started a book club right there and then.
I told a few people my frustrations with it. I said, "She's irritating me. She's trying to be funny when it's not necessary. She's writing whimsically about things I wish she'd be more serious about. She's making excuses for things that I don't think she should have to excuse." The women smiled and said, "Keep reading." They said, "Yeah, she has a tendency to do that. But keep reading."
They'd ask me as we passed each other in the hall, "What are you up to?"
I'd say, "We just finished Italy. And now we're flying to India."
They'd say, "Good, keep reading."
It struck me around that time, how I kept saying, "we". And I began to realize, that it felt like I was on this journey with this woman. The way she wrote about it all, made me feel like I was already traveling with her. That she and I, we, were eating pasta in Italy. We were planning our voyage to the ashram. We, were about to mediate together.
That's when I started to accept the book, and let go. And I forgave her for her shortcomings (now, what author is really perfect anyway?) and appreciated the story for what it was.
And then strange things began to happen. It was like paragraphs in the book were being written for me. To me. Names of characters and everything were identically paralleled to things happening, or things that had happened, in my life.
I read this straight for 4 days. I did nothing but read this book. The other day I was sitting at the coffee house, reading the book, and I laughed out loud. Right there. Heartily. A man walked by me a few minutes later and said, "Enjoying that book?" I smiled back, "It's amazing!" I said. "Have you read it?" He just smiled and shook his head. And I realized, he didn't even know what book I was reading. But he must have seen me laugh out loud.
I can see why some people would be agitated with this book. After I finished it (at 4am last night) I made a point to read the negative reviews first. And I get what they are saying. I really do.
But at the end of the day, who cares. This book is so full of so many things, that if there is only one thing you want to take from it, it's there. If it finds it's way into your hands, chances are, there's something in it for you. And I hope, by the end, you've found what you were looking for.
I also believe that books can come into your life at certain points in a most appropriate way. It's not like it's a psychic thing, or fortuitous premonitions. But often, quite often in fact, I'm reading a book and thinking, how in the world did this book find me at this exact moment?
As I read, Eat Pray Love, I was thinking that thought the whole time. But I'll be honest. It wasn't love at first sight. Well, I loved the cover at first sight. But the author, not so much. I was equally irritated and intrigued in the first few chapters. I was transfixed by the story line, by the things she was writing about, by the events surrounding her. But she, the actual woman living this life, was not someone I was dreaming of meeting.
I read it at the yoga retreat I was on, and there is probably no place better to read this book than on a yoga retreat. It looked as though they were handing this out at the door, because there were quite a number of women walking around with this book in one hand, and their yoga mat in the other. We should have started a book club right there and then.
I told a few people my frustrations with it. I said, "She's irritating me. She's trying to be funny when it's not necessary. She's writing whimsically about things I wish she'd be more serious about. She's making excuses for things that I don't think she should have to excuse." The women smiled and said, "Keep reading." They said, "Yeah, she has a tendency to do that. But keep reading."
They'd ask me as we passed each other in the hall, "What are you up to?"
I'd say, "We just finished Italy. And now we're flying to India."
They'd say, "Good, keep reading."
It struck me around that time, how I kept saying, "we". And I began to realize, that it felt like I was on this journey with this woman. The way she wrote about it all, made me feel like I was already traveling with her. That she and I, we, were eating pasta in Italy. We were planning our voyage to the ashram. We, were about to mediate together.
That's when I started to accept the book, and let go. And I forgave her for her shortcomings (now, what author is really perfect anyway?) and appreciated the story for what it was.
And then strange things began to happen. It was like paragraphs in the book were being written for me. To me. Names of characters and everything were identically paralleled to things happening, or things that had happened, in my life.
I read this straight for 4 days. I did nothing but read this book. The other day I was sitting at the coffee house, reading the book, and I laughed out loud. Right there. Heartily. A man walked by me a few minutes later and said, "Enjoying that book?" I smiled back, "It's amazing!" I said. "Have you read it?" He just smiled and shook his head. And I realized, he didn't even know what book I was reading. But he must have seen me laugh out loud.
I can see why some people would be agitated with this book. After I finished it (at 4am last night) I made a point to read the negative reviews first. And I get what they are saying. I really do.
But at the end of the day, who cares. This book is so full of so many things, that if there is only one thing you want to take from it, it's there. If it finds it's way into your hands, chances are, there's something in it for you. And I hope, by the end, you've found what you were looking for.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Book: In Exchange For A Homeland
It's interesting, to read a book of poetry. It's such a different experience than a regular book of fiction. The path that you'll take as a reader is more unpredictable. The path that the author takes, less presumable. The whole thing could make it or break it for you in one stanza.This book was beautiful. It's poem after poem, each one weaving together a fabulous life story. A collection of musical notes composing a song about a girl looking for her home. A home between two countries, between lovers, between parents, between her own inward voices.
It read like the fluid motion of a sigh. Breathe in, breathe out.
She is a writer who knows her words, knows where to find them, knows how to share them back with her readers. She puts them together on the page like a puzzle. First the sky, then the ground.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Book: The Dive From Clausen's Pier
This was a really intense book. I think I liked it. I'm not sure. It took a while to get through, but I was thoroughly intrigued by the story line and wanted to know what would happen next.
The thing was, the main character was, hmm, not entirely likable. I guess that's why I'm not sure if I can rate this book as "good" or "bad". It was, uncomfortable. Her life, during this book, was complicated. The problems she faced were unimaginable, and I'm pretty certain you could not judge her actions unless you were in her situation. As unique as it was.
But the thing is, I'm not sure what she would have done different had this specific trauma (not giving it away) hadn't happen to her. And that's the thing. It didn't really happen to her. It happened to her boyfriend. And normally, when a book tells the story of an accident that turns someone into a paraplegic, the story follows that particular person. But in this case, it didn't. It followed the person on the peripheral. It followed the one that watched it happen.
It's an interesting scenario. Imagine a relationship that is going sour, that is maybe "not meant to be". Imagine you are coming to that realization, slowly, and you are watching things crumble through your fingers. But, it's hard to face. It's hard to acknowledge. So you take your time.
And then, something bad happens. Something really bad. Something that would serve as a benchmark for any relationship. You'd see things in terms of, before "it" happened, and after "it" happened. And everyone then looks to you, to see how you'll handle this bad thing that has happened. But the truth is, things were bad before it happened. Things were already dying. But now you have to step up to the plate. Now you have to be the support system, for someone whom you really have no business supporting anymore. Because before the trauma happened, you had already left. You just hadn't said so out loud yet.
I couldn't sleep last night so I stayed up till 3 am reading, finishing this book. And I'm not entirely sure how it ended. And however it ended, I'm certain I didn't see it coming. It left me slightly bewildered.
I think I understand now why Kilroy wouldn't reveal himself to Carrie. Through out the story, you feel her frustration. You see him as potential trouble. But then it started to dawn on me, he probably knew the whole time she would leave. He probably had a sense. He probably knew that it would happen any day, at any moment.
That's the thing about this book. You never really see anything from anyone else's perspective. It's entirely Carrie's. Which makes it feel a bit selfish at times. I understand it was about her struggle, the whole way through, but I just wish she had thought about how she was impacting other people a little bit more.
I guess if a book makes you think this much, it's a good thing.
The thing was, the main character was, hmm, not entirely likable. I guess that's why I'm not sure if I can rate this book as "good" or "bad". It was, uncomfortable. Her life, during this book, was complicated. The problems she faced were unimaginable, and I'm pretty certain you could not judge her actions unless you were in her situation. As unique as it was.
But the thing is, I'm not sure what she would have done different had this specific trauma (not giving it away) hadn't happen to her. And that's the thing. It didn't really happen to her. It happened to her boyfriend. And normally, when a book tells the story of an accident that turns someone into a paraplegic, the story follows that particular person. But in this case, it didn't. It followed the person on the peripheral. It followed the one that watched it happen.
It's an interesting scenario. Imagine a relationship that is going sour, that is maybe "not meant to be". Imagine you are coming to that realization, slowly, and you are watching things crumble through your fingers. But, it's hard to face. It's hard to acknowledge. So you take your time.
And then, something bad happens. Something really bad. Something that would serve as a benchmark for any relationship. You'd see things in terms of, before "it" happened, and after "it" happened. And everyone then looks to you, to see how you'll handle this bad thing that has happened. But the truth is, things were bad before it happened. Things were already dying. But now you have to step up to the plate. Now you have to be the support system, for someone whom you really have no business supporting anymore. Because before the trauma happened, you had already left. You just hadn't said so out loud yet.
I couldn't sleep last night so I stayed up till 3 am reading, finishing this book. And I'm not entirely sure how it ended. And however it ended, I'm certain I didn't see it coming. It left me slightly bewildered.
I think I understand now why Kilroy wouldn't reveal himself to Carrie. Through out the story, you feel her frustration. You see him as potential trouble. But then it started to dawn on me, he probably knew the whole time she would leave. He probably had a sense. He probably knew that it would happen any day, at any moment.
That's the thing about this book. You never really see anything from anyone else's perspective. It's entirely Carrie's. Which makes it feel a bit selfish at times. I understand it was about her struggle, the whole way through, but I just wish she had thought about how she was impacting other people a little bit more.
I guess if a book makes you think this much, it's a good thing.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Book: Behind Everyman
What a wonderful book!
This is one of those little gems that you'll come across by word-of-mouth only. If you saw it on the shelf in the bookstore, it's very likely you'd pass right by it. Someone needs to have a word with that publisher about the cover design they chose. Not. Cool.
The book has a distinct voice, layered characters, humor humor humor, and a really moving story all wrapped in one. I think the basic idea behind the author's inspiration was, why are so many relationship-type books out there just for women? Men have feelings, too, you know! (Well, maybe that's not exactly what his internal monologue sounded like). But he went ahead, followed his gut, and wrote the thinking-man's guide to love, life, and career.
What you'll discover right away as you open to chapter one, is that the book has a unique twist to it: It's written in the tone of a "How to..." manual, like some sort of fix-'er-upper-do-it-yourself'er. And yet at the same time, as you're learning "how to get your screenplay published", or how to "succeed in online dating," a beautiful story is unraveling before you between this hapless guy and this charming woman, and the whole thing just flows from there.
I read it over 2 days or so. For the final stretch I was sitting on this amazingly soft puffy couch facing a beautiful winter's day. I couldn't have been more "into this" at the time, and often found myself laughing at loud. Always a good sign.
I have to tell you, this book touches your heart, tears you up a bit, and makes you a look a little harder for snowflakes. (Inside joke. You'd get what I meant if you read the book.)
And it's got "make me into a movie" written all over it.
This is one of those little gems that you'll come across by word-of-mouth only. If you saw it on the shelf in the bookstore, it's very likely you'd pass right by it. Someone needs to have a word with that publisher about the cover design they chose. Not. Cool.
The book has a distinct voice, layered characters, humor humor humor, and a really moving story all wrapped in one. I think the basic idea behind the author's inspiration was, why are so many relationship-type books out there just for women? Men have feelings, too, you know! (Well, maybe that's not exactly what his internal monologue sounded like). But he went ahead, followed his gut, and wrote the thinking-man's guide to love, life, and career.
What you'll discover right away as you open to chapter one, is that the book has a unique twist to it: It's written in the tone of a "How to..." manual, like some sort of fix-'er-upper-do-it-yourself'er. And yet at the same time, as you're learning "how to get your screenplay published", or how to "succeed in online dating," a beautiful story is unraveling before you between this hapless guy and this charming woman, and the whole thing just flows from there.
I read it over 2 days or so. For the final stretch I was sitting on this amazingly soft puffy couch facing a beautiful winter's day. I couldn't have been more "into this" at the time, and often found myself laughing at loud. Always a good sign.
I have to tell you, this book touches your heart, tears you up a bit, and makes you a look a little harder for snowflakes. (Inside joke. You'd get what I meant if you read the book.)
And it's got "make me into a movie" written all over it.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Book: Committed: Men Tell Stories of Love, Commitment, and Marriage
What a funny idea for a book. And what a great idea for a book cover. However...
Reading "Committed" takes a bit of a commitment in itself, because the stories don't always live up to the cute concept of the collection. But I was curious, so I kept reading, hoping for some revealing truths regarding the male psyche. Hmm, I don't know if I learned anything that I didn't already know. (Men like beauty, stunning beauty. Men like the chase. Men like chasing stunning beauty.)
OK, so maybe I'm oversimplifying things. There are some good writers in here. Some boring ones. Some clever ones. One famous one (David Sedaris). I'm sure everyone who was asked to submit was very happy to do so. I stretched it out and read it in about a week, but found myself skipping a few stories here and there.
I have to tell you, if you like short stories, around a common theme, and have once or twice in your life wondered about the analogy between "men" and "commitment", then perhaps, this one's for you.
Reading "Committed" takes a bit of a commitment in itself, because the stories don't always live up to the cute concept of the collection. But I was curious, so I kept reading, hoping for some revealing truths regarding the male psyche. Hmm, I don't know if I learned anything that I didn't already know. (Men like beauty, stunning beauty. Men like the chase. Men like chasing stunning beauty.)
OK, so maybe I'm oversimplifying things. There are some good writers in here. Some boring ones. Some clever ones. One famous one (David Sedaris). I'm sure everyone who was asked to submit was very happy to do so. I stretched it out and read it in about a week, but found myself skipping a few stories here and there.
I have to tell you, if you like short stories, around a common theme, and have once or twice in your life wondered about the analogy between "men" and "commitment", then perhaps, this one's for you.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Book: The Time Traveler's Wife
My sister is mad at me.
About a year ago she lent me a book called, The Time Traveler's Wife. She told me I would probably like it. It was the summer time and I had an hour or so to myself each day while my campers took their swimming lessons. I packed the book in my bag and found a spot in the bleachers overlooking the pool where my 8 year-olds were learning to kick and dive without holding their nose.
The book began slowly. I would have given up on it, but watching someone learn the crawl stroke is tedious enough. So from my perch, I kept at it. And finally, a few chapters in, I was hooked. I was more than hooked. I was cemented, hot-glued, welded, latched, and bonded to that book.
I have to tell you, this book is the new epic love story you've been looking for. Like true love, it's thick, complicated, and confusing. It fills your heart, and makes you believe in the ever after. I have only been writing in this blog about books I'm currently reading, but it's one year later and I still can't stop thinking about this book.
I'm usually a fast reader. If I'm into a book, I can finish it in a day or two. But this one I stretched out as long as I could. I sat on a blanket in the park. I curled up in a chair at Starbucks. I crawled under the covers. I would force myself to shut the pages at a climactic moment, just as a way to ensure I'd still be able to dive into the story tomorrow. It took me 3 months to finish this book. Because I made sure that it did.
So my sister is mad at me. Because she lent me this book a year ago, and I refuse to give it back. "Not yet," I tell her. "Just a little while longer." I like seeing it on my shelf, knowing it's still there.
Ever feel that way about a book before?
About a year ago she lent me a book called, The Time Traveler's Wife. She told me I would probably like it. It was the summer time and I had an hour or so to myself each day while my campers took their swimming lessons. I packed the book in my bag and found a spot in the bleachers overlooking the pool where my 8 year-olds were learning to kick and dive without holding their nose.
The book began slowly. I would have given up on it, but watching someone learn the crawl stroke is tedious enough. So from my perch, I kept at it. And finally, a few chapters in, I was hooked. I was more than hooked. I was cemented, hot-glued, welded, latched, and bonded to that book.
I have to tell you, this book is the new epic love story you've been looking for. Like true love, it's thick, complicated, and confusing. It fills your heart, and makes you believe in the ever after. I have only been writing in this blog about books I'm currently reading, but it's one year later and I still can't stop thinking about this book.
I'm usually a fast reader. If I'm into a book, I can finish it in a day or two. But this one I stretched out as long as I could. I sat on a blanket in the park. I curled up in a chair at Starbucks. I crawled under the covers. I would force myself to shut the pages at a climactic moment, just as a way to ensure I'd still be able to dive into the story tomorrow. It took me 3 months to finish this book. Because I made sure that it did.
So my sister is mad at me. Because she lent me this book a year ago, and I refuse to give it back. "Not yet," I tell her. "Just a little while longer." I like seeing it on my shelf, knowing it's still there.
Ever feel that way about a book before?
Friday, December 22, 2006
Book: The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green
Reading this book, or rather, the experience of finishing this book, has induced in me a quasi-manic quest to tell as many people as possible to read it as well. That's how good it was.
My one complaint, and I reserve the right to be judgemental about these sorts of things, is that the cover design is terrible. I have no idea what its relevance to the story is, and frankly, I think it will deter readers. It looks like a teen novel. The title sounds like a teen novel. But it's most certainly not teen material. At least, not the typical kind. Read it as an adult, and you'll experience the character development much differently than you would if you were 13. You won't identify with Jacob's angst in the now, but you'll remember how it was way back when.
I have to tell you, I loved this book. In a sentence, brief as it is, I loved it. I began it on a Tuesday (let's just say) and didn't stop reading until Wednesday night. I brought it to Starbucks. I brought it to work. I brought it to bed. I carried it around with me in my pocketbook and pulled it out during lunch and showed it to everyone as they ate their tunafish sandwiches. "You must read this book," I said. And when they looked at the cover with disdain, I said, "Trust me."
It's about a young boy, and he's Jewish, and he lives in New Jersey, and he has a learning disability, and he hates his father, and he can't stand Hebrew school, and he can't keep his brother by his side, and he's in love with his nanny, and he hates writing thank you cards. Those are just the facts. The real story is in between all of that; the way you root for him, worry for him, scream for him. A few times I had to put the book down because my tears kept me from reading any more.
And I'll throw in a side note here. It's written by Joshua Braff, who happens to be the brother of Zach Braff, who is the one who brought this book to my attention in the first place, on his blog. I mention that because maybe it will give you an idea of his sensibility and the compassionate way he tells the story. And in the same way you wondered after Garden State, you'll wonder again, who the heck raised these kids?
But like his brother's movies, it's not based on fact. It's not a true story. It's fiction. He's a writer. And it feels so real because, well, he's damn good at what he does.
My one complaint, and I reserve the right to be judgemental about these sorts of things, is that the cover design is terrible. I have no idea what its relevance to the story is, and frankly, I think it will deter readers. It looks like a teen novel. The title sounds like a teen novel. But it's most certainly not teen material. At least, not the typical kind. Read it as an adult, and you'll experience the character development much differently than you would if you were 13. You won't identify with Jacob's angst in the now, but you'll remember how it was way back when.
I have to tell you, I loved this book. In a sentence, brief as it is, I loved it. I began it on a Tuesday (let's just say) and didn't stop reading until Wednesday night. I brought it to Starbucks. I brought it to work. I brought it to bed. I carried it around with me in my pocketbook and pulled it out during lunch and showed it to everyone as they ate their tunafish sandwiches. "You must read this book," I said. And when they looked at the cover with disdain, I said, "Trust me."
It's about a young boy, and he's Jewish, and he lives in New Jersey, and he has a learning disability, and he hates his father, and he can't stand Hebrew school, and he can't keep his brother by his side, and he's in love with his nanny, and he hates writing thank you cards. Those are just the facts. The real story is in between all of that; the way you root for him, worry for him, scream for him. A few times I had to put the book down because my tears kept me from reading any more.
And I'll throw in a side note here. It's written by Joshua Braff, who happens to be the brother of Zach Braff, who is the one who brought this book to my attention in the first place, on his blog. I mention that because maybe it will give you an idea of his sensibility and the compassionate way he tells the story. And in the same way you wondered after Garden State, you'll wonder again, who the heck raised these kids?
But like his brother's movies, it's not based on fact. It's not a true story. It's fiction. He's a writer. And it feels so real because, well, he's damn good at what he does.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Book: Educating Esme
I came across this book while in the library, and I used my shiny new library card to "rent it" for a month.It's by Esme Raji Codell, and it's a diary of a teacher's first year. If you haven't connected the dots yet, yes, it's autobiographical. Actually, considering the reputation of that genre lately (thanks, Frey), let's just assume it's autobiographical.
For the first half of the book I was a bit irritated. Mostly I was reading it to learn "how to write a first-person account of a daily activity", and secondly, because the subject matter appealed to me. But I was irritated because I couldn't imagine a first-year teacher behaving so flippant and patronizing to authority. How did she always have such a perfect, sarcastic retort to everything? And why did she want to? It's quite different from what you'd imagine a first-year-teacher memoir to be: First, she succeeds quite often. Second, she's not intimidated by anything. Or at least that's the tone she establishes right from the start.
But during the second half of the book, I started to really enjoy it. I accepted her dry wit as literary liberty, and felt inspired as she delved more into her newly realized philosophies of teaching. She began illustrating more meaningful interactions with her students, and wrote a bit more universally regarding the plight of the teacher.
However, at no time did I feel like she was a babe-in-the-woods in this new career. And it seems, through her telling, that the administration was frustrated by that as well.
So, I do think this was a good book. I am glad I read it. But I did have some reservations about the "literary personality" she built for herself. I would like to have seen her soften up a bit, sooner rather than later. But then again, maybe there are too many floundering first-year teachers writing memoirs. Maybe it's time we got a tougher one on the shelves. Enter Esme.
And finally, here is a quote from the book, which is actually something a more seasoned teacher said to her, not something she said herself. And, I have to tell you, it really moved me:
The difference between a beginning teacher and an experienced one is that the beginning teacher asks, "How am I doing?" and the experienced teacher asks, "How are the children doing?"
Friday, August 11, 2006
Book: The Secret Life of Bees
I sat in Starbucks this evening and read this book for nearly an hour. I'm not even done with it yet but I have to tell you about it. It follows a young girl, Lily, and her search for her mother.There were plenty of moments through out the book that made me gasp. How often does a book take your breath away in a single sentence? I was reading quietly, absorbed in the story, and then suddenly... *GASP*. Kidd, the author, took me by surprise with a few simple words.
There's one particular line in the book that is repeated over and over. I'm not giving anything away when I share this, yet it moved me particularly:
Lily Melissa Owens, your jar is open.
I keep thinking about that, and wondering how many times in our lives we've heard that whisper. Like a firefly kept behind glass, suddenly feeling a dash of wind above its wings, coming from somewhere bigger than the nail hole poked open for air. The jar is open.
I'm not even done with the book yet.
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Aug.13 EDIT: I finished the book tonight. I text-messaged my mom (who gave it to me) and wrote: This is one of the best books I have ever read.
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