6 books for 2007
Happy to be beginning another book list for another new year.
Atonement by Ian McEwan. I keep hearing that this guy is supposed to be good, and my pre-1800 British writers teacher last semester talked up this book in particular (plus they're making a movie soon and people I like are in it, though honestly I can't imagine this will translate well to the screen--especially with the way it ends!). At first, this feels like one of those books that is well written, but somehow not entertaining enough. The insight into character is very true, very perceptive, but plot arrives at such a slow pace. And yet it's obviously very deliberate, very controlled writing. I enjoyed the old-fashioned character analysis and found it amusing in a subversive way that McEwan often "told" as well as "showed," pretty much breaking the cardinal "rule" of writing as I understand it. It was fascinating, yet somehow off-putting, to come across shout-outs to my literature classes. I felt almost embarrassed to be reading such a snobbish book, something so locked in academia that "average" readers would miss the literary references entirely and never know the difference. But the way he handled the growing emotional connection between Cecelia and Robbie was beautiful. And that's the thing: ultimately, I did want to keep reading (even though I started with a copy of this that was set in a weird type and gave me headaches to read even two pages of it and thus had to go find a new one in large print), despite the way that he kept driving me crazy by putting off plot description by focusing on state-of-mind. Though, again, he addressed his own writing style from within the narrative, which was just brilliantly insane. The way he made emotional catalysts equally as important as the physical to the plotline, as strange as it is that that's rare in this day when everyone's so preoccupied with emotions, is quite remarkable. I think I liked the book--it's definitely one to contemplate more in the future--and even though I don't feel like seeking out more McEwan right at the moment, I may in the future find myself craving another taste of his own very unique style.
You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again by Suzanne Hansen. I read this around the same time as The Devil Wears Prada, which seemed like a mistake at the time because they are both first-person "memoirs" about people with "glamorous" jobs who in reality work for bosses from hell. But I liked this one a lot better. Maybe because the author holds herself responsible for the choices she made that put her in the situations she got into. Maybe because the narrator was a girl from a small town, rather than a smug New Yorker who thinks people who live in Houston (Houston!) have exiled themselves to a "Third World country." (Seriously. See "The Devil Wears Prada" review below for more.) Of course, it was also fascinating when she used real celebrity names in her stories. This is a story of a Hollywood nnany, and some of her behind-the-scenes tidbits are appalling but totally believable (especially since I have a cousin who works as a nanny to rich people and has faced some of exactly the same type of treatment, only she doesn't even work in California, where you *know* they're extra strange). I think my favorite part, though, oddly, was the celeb quotes on motherhood at the top of every chapter. Heh.
Casino Royale by Ian Fleming. Wow. I had two completely opposite reactions to this book. The first was: Who knew James Bond books were so *boring*? It's not that James Bond is not a fascinating literary character, but the exposition is done appallingly badly and the scenes about gambling are really just way too detailed. The second reaction I had was: OMG, this is the best thing ever. There is something absolutely compelling about the way this is written--the careful, unembellished, dry tone of a good old-fashioned pulp thriller. The sex scenes, which fall very nearly under the category of "badly done exposition," are laughable--there was an incident with "swelling buttocks" that made me giggle. And I was vastly entertained by the way James Bond talks about women, his ingrained and truly ridiculous sexism. Example:
"This was just what he had been afraid of. These blithering women who thought they could do a man's work. Why the hell couldn't they stay at home and mind their pots and pans and stick to their frocks and gossip and leave men's work to the men. And now for this to happen to him, just when the job had come off so beautifully. For Vesper to fall for an old trick like that and get herself snatched and probably held to ransom like some bloody heroine in a strip cartoon. The silly bitch."
Hee! There is something truly awesome about the absolute, unabashed bluntness of that paragraph. No wonder James Bond gets all the girls (and keeps none)--they all want to "convince" him they're better than the rest. Perhaps I find this amusing rather than offensive because it is equally obvious that James Bond's attitude toward women is actually shaped by his fear of his own reaction to them. "Like all harsh, cold men, he was easily tipped over into sentiment."
It's not all fun and games, either. The torture was described in harsh detail, and James Bond even has a morality crisis about his work--and gets mocked for it, which is brilliant. Eventually his coworker advises him, "Surround yourself with human beings, my dear James. They are easier to fight for than principles." James Bond: more than a secret agent bimbo. Who knew?
Plum Lovin' by Janet Evanovich. The Stephanie Plum series are my comfort-reading books. Another fun romp.
Fool Moon by Jim Butcher. Second book in the Harry Dresden series. Entertaining. I'm still not a fan of the wizard theme; why does it have to be so well done that I just want to keep reading these books? *g*
Home Land by Sam Sam Lipsyte. This is actually the first novel on my school reading list. Very well written, with a great structure and nice use of language. This is all about high school in America, basically, and how you never really escape the person you were or the role you played in high school. Our narrator is one of those kids who didn't fit into any category (in so many words, yes), and it becomes immediately obvious in his descriptions of his former classmates that he is still stuck in that role--which is defined by what he is NOT, or who he doesn't fit in with. I skipped out on the whole high school drama, so while anybody who feels permanently scarred by that experience has my sympathy, I also have very little empathy for a guy who marinates in it. I hate books like this--the ones where the narrator is cynical about the whole world, respects nothing, believes in nothing, and gets away with it (according to the self-contained rights of a novel) because he is equally disrespectful toward himself, toward this very self-proclaimed ability to see through the delusional bullshit of our modern world that allows him to record all this cynically insightful narration. Maybe the narrator's lack of respect is bred into him (and others) in high school, maybe that's the point, but he's basically proud of it. This very lack of respect in himself is perhaps the one thing he *does* respect about himself, and that is paradoxical but also very true to life. But you know, I don't relate. I have a lot of respect for a lot of things, but a man--or a book--who prides itself on not showing respect? I'll happily extend the same courtesy to it.
Never gonna finish:
The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger. I'm not sure who the heck finds it funny to read about the many trials of put-upon employees of the boss from hell. I don't know, apparently my sense of humor doesn't run in that direction. Somewhere around mid-book, when Andy angrily dumped Miranda's untouched steak dinner down the garbage even though she was supposedly "dizzy" from hunger because she hadn't eaten for what felt like "decades," I realized the person I wanted to scream at, the person making me feel like throwing the book across the room, was Andy--not the evil boss. Her tone is consistantly smug and self-righteous. I set this aside twice before I was even a third of the way through it and finally decided not to force myself to finish it. The movie (which I liked a lot) is definitely better than the book.
Atonement by Ian McEwan. I keep hearing that this guy is supposed to be good, and my pre-1800 British writers teacher last semester talked up this book in particular (plus they're making a movie soon and people I like are in it, though honestly I can't imagine this will translate well to the screen--especially with the way it ends!). At first, this feels like one of those books that is well written, but somehow not entertaining enough. The insight into character is very true, very perceptive, but plot arrives at such a slow pace. And yet it's obviously very deliberate, very controlled writing. I enjoyed the old-fashioned character analysis and found it amusing in a subversive way that McEwan often "told" as well as "showed," pretty much breaking the cardinal "rule" of writing as I understand it. It was fascinating, yet somehow off-putting, to come across shout-outs to my literature classes. I felt almost embarrassed to be reading such a snobbish book, something so locked in academia that "average" readers would miss the literary references entirely and never know the difference. But the way he handled the growing emotional connection between Cecelia and Robbie was beautiful. And that's the thing: ultimately, I did want to keep reading (even though I started with a copy of this that was set in a weird type and gave me headaches to read even two pages of it and thus had to go find a new one in large print), despite the way that he kept driving me crazy by putting off plot description by focusing on state-of-mind. Though, again, he addressed his own writing style from within the narrative, which was just brilliantly insane. The way he made emotional catalysts equally as important as the physical to the plotline, as strange as it is that that's rare in this day when everyone's so preoccupied with emotions, is quite remarkable. I think I liked the book--it's definitely one to contemplate more in the future--and even though I don't feel like seeking out more McEwan right at the moment, I may in the future find myself craving another taste of his own very unique style.
You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again by Suzanne Hansen. I read this around the same time as The Devil Wears Prada, which seemed like a mistake at the time because they are both first-person "memoirs" about people with "glamorous" jobs who in reality work for bosses from hell. But I liked this one a lot better. Maybe because the author holds herself responsible for the choices she made that put her in the situations she got into. Maybe because the narrator was a girl from a small town, rather than a smug New Yorker who thinks people who live in Houston (Houston!) have exiled themselves to a "Third World country." (Seriously. See "The Devil Wears Prada" review below for more.) Of course, it was also fascinating when she used real celebrity names in her stories. This is a story of a Hollywood nnany, and some of her behind-the-scenes tidbits are appalling but totally believable (especially since I have a cousin who works as a nanny to rich people and has faced some of exactly the same type of treatment, only she doesn't even work in California, where you *know* they're extra strange). I think my favorite part, though, oddly, was the celeb quotes on motherhood at the top of every chapter. Heh.
Casino Royale by Ian Fleming. Wow. I had two completely opposite reactions to this book. The first was: Who knew James Bond books were so *boring*? It's not that James Bond is not a fascinating literary character, but the exposition is done appallingly badly and the scenes about gambling are really just way too detailed. The second reaction I had was: OMG, this is the best thing ever. There is something absolutely compelling about the way this is written--the careful, unembellished, dry tone of a good old-fashioned pulp thriller. The sex scenes, which fall very nearly under the category of "badly done exposition," are laughable--there was an incident with "swelling buttocks" that made me giggle. And I was vastly entertained by the way James Bond talks about women, his ingrained and truly ridiculous sexism. Example:
"This was just what he had been afraid of. These blithering women who thought they could do a man's work. Why the hell couldn't they stay at home and mind their pots and pans and stick to their frocks and gossip and leave men's work to the men. And now for this to happen to him, just when the job had come off so beautifully. For Vesper to fall for an old trick like that and get herself snatched and probably held to ransom like some bloody heroine in a strip cartoon. The silly bitch."
Hee! There is something truly awesome about the absolute, unabashed bluntness of that paragraph. No wonder James Bond gets all the girls (and keeps none)--they all want to "convince" him they're better than the rest. Perhaps I find this amusing rather than offensive because it is equally obvious that James Bond's attitude toward women is actually shaped by his fear of his own reaction to them. "Like all harsh, cold men, he was easily tipped over into sentiment."
It's not all fun and games, either. The torture was described in harsh detail, and James Bond even has a morality crisis about his work--and gets mocked for it, which is brilliant. Eventually his coworker advises him, "Surround yourself with human beings, my dear James. They are easier to fight for than principles." James Bond: more than a secret agent bimbo. Who knew?
Plum Lovin' by Janet Evanovich. The Stephanie Plum series are my comfort-reading books. Another fun romp.
Fool Moon by Jim Butcher. Second book in the Harry Dresden series. Entertaining. I'm still not a fan of the wizard theme; why does it have to be so well done that I just want to keep reading these books? *g*
Home Land by Sam Sam Lipsyte. This is actually the first novel on my school reading list. Very well written, with a great structure and nice use of language. This is all about high school in America, basically, and how you never really escape the person you were or the role you played in high school. Our narrator is one of those kids who didn't fit into any category (in so many words, yes), and it becomes immediately obvious in his descriptions of his former classmates that he is still stuck in that role--which is defined by what he is NOT, or who he doesn't fit in with. I skipped out on the whole high school drama, so while anybody who feels permanently scarred by that experience has my sympathy, I also have very little empathy for a guy who marinates in it. I hate books like this--the ones where the narrator is cynical about the whole world, respects nothing, believes in nothing, and gets away with it (according to the self-contained rights of a novel) because he is equally disrespectful toward himself, toward this very self-proclaimed ability to see through the delusional bullshit of our modern world that allows him to record all this cynically insightful narration. Maybe the narrator's lack of respect is bred into him (and others) in high school, maybe that's the point, but he's basically proud of it. This very lack of respect in himself is perhaps the one thing he *does* respect about himself, and that is paradoxical but also very true to life. But you know, I don't relate. I have a lot of respect for a lot of things, but a man--or a book--who prides itself on not showing respect? I'll happily extend the same courtesy to it.
Never gonna finish:
The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger. I'm not sure who the heck finds it funny to read about the many trials of put-upon employees of the boss from hell. I don't know, apparently my sense of humor doesn't run in that direction. Somewhere around mid-book, when Andy angrily dumped Miranda's untouched steak dinner down the garbage even though she was supposedly "dizzy" from hunger because she hadn't eaten for what felt like "decades," I realized the person I wanted to scream at, the person making me feel like throwing the book across the room, was Andy--not the evil boss. Her tone is consistantly smug and self-righteous. I set this aside twice before I was even a third of the way through it and finally decided not to force myself to finish it. The movie (which I liked a lot) is definitely better than the book.