Bibliophilia

Today is one of my favorite shopping days of the years: the Acton Memorial Library book sale. What I love about these book sales is that they're a bit like surfing the Internet. You never know what you're going to find -- and specifically trying to look for something is a futile goal -- but the messy, wayward search is the fun of it. Amidst the crowds of people and stacks of books is a hidden book waiting to catch your fancy. And best of all, everything is cheap enough that you can indulge every fantasy.

I only ended up getting 4 books. (Haha, I haven't even read anything I bought last time...) All of them are a little worn, but that gives me license to read, use, and abuse these books to make them my own. I'm always intimidated by brand new books because I hate marring something perfect. So I got an anthology of modern short fiction, Crime and Punishment (I have to read it someday), Waiting by Ha Jin (whose short story When Cowboy Chicken Came to Town still haunts me), and a giant tome called Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. I'll be tackling them sometime this summer.

Since high school started, my reading as degenerated and devolved, mostly transposed to blogs and forums online. Academic fatigue is also a factor, making me blithe and blase to the written word. I was trolling around the Internet today, aimlessly clicking links, until I got to a Wikipedia list of Newberry Medal winners. As I clicked through the list, I realized that from 1990 to 1999, I had read every single Newberry Medal winner with the exception of one. I was quite voracious reader in elementary school. All of these books were some of my favorite as a kid, and I own many of them. (But everything after 2000 I haven't even heard of.)

1999	Louis Sachar	Holes
1998	Karen Hesse	Out of the Dust
1997	E. L. Konigsburg	The View from Saturday
1996	Karen Cushman	The Midwife's Apprentice
1995	Sharon Creech	Walk Two Moons
1994	Lois Lowry	The Giver
1993	Cynthia Rylant	Missing May
1992	Phyllis Reynolds Naylor	Shiloh
1991	Jerry Spinelli	Maniac Magee
1990	Lois Lowry	Number the Stars

Missing May is the only one I haven't read, but I love love love all of the other books on this list. (Walk Two Moons and Shiloh and lower on the love list, but still overall positive impressions.)

This list prompted me to dig The View from Saturday out of my bookshelf. Why?

"It documents the story of four 6th grade children, Noah, Nadia Diamondstein, Ethan Potter, and Julian Singh, along with their paraplegicteacher, Mrs. Olinski, as they form a group they call "The Souls" and make their way to the New York State Academic Bowl Championship."

Oh man, these sixth graders are so much cooler than us. Seriously. It's not even funny.

The Bluest Eye

"Then she stopped staring at the green chairs, at the delivery truck; she went to the movies instead. There in the dark her memory was refreshed, and she succumbed to her earlier dreams. Along with the idea of romantic love, she was introduced to another--physical beauty. Probably the most destructive ideas in the history of human thought. Both originated in envy, thrived in insecurity, and ended in disillusion. In equating physical beauty with virtue, she stripped her mind, bound it, and collected self-contempt by the heap. She forgot lust and simple caring for. She regarded love as a possessive mating, and romance as the goal of the spirit. It would be for her a well-spring from which she would draw the most destructive emotions, deceiving the lover and seeking to imprison the beloved, curtailing freedom in every way.
She was never able, after her education in the movies, to look at a face and not assess in it some category in the scale of absolute beauty, and the scales one she absorbed in full from the silver screen. There at last were the darkened woods, the long roads, the river banks, the gentle knowing eyes. There the flawed became whole, the blind sighted, and the lame and halt threw away their crutches. There death was dead, and people made every gesture in a cloud of music. There the black-and white images came together, making a magnificent whole--all projected through the ray of light from above and beyond."

Silly girl, this does not happen to you, does it? My dad actually accused be of this a while ago, telling me I was lost in a fantasy world. Seeing that this accusation came from my dad, I immediately leapt into a defense without thinking about the possible truth in his words. I still don't think it's true, but maybe I should at least consider the possibility. As much as I revel in the depressing and the abstract , I've realized that many films I love are unrealistic. Amelie? Pure whimsy. Wes Anderson? Encased in his little hermetic world. But then there is a strain of the bleak and oppressive: Brazil, Dr. Strangelove, A Clockwork Orange, Fat Girl. Perhaps the opposite is true of my father's words: cinema has aged and jaded me to the world.

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As for The Bluest Eye the novel, I think I've encounter one of the formative books of my reading. Yes, that's a little hyperbolic, especially considering I hated and promptly wiped it from my memory when I read it 2 years ago. Silly sophomore then. It's funny how I so wholly repudiate my past selves, always establishing my present person as the most superior. I also think I sound like a douchebag right now. It wasn't until Dan and Katie remarked on the stilted vocabulary that I realized how pretentiously I write. Ack.

So for more disjointed thoughts (or stream of consciousness as more literary types would call it), the irony of Crick lecturing us on black "funkiness" and "vitality" is rather. . . disconcerting. New England high school valedictorian, Harvard grad wants to teach us the black american experience of poverty? What? I have to say though, he's a very competent English teacher even if discourses on "funkiness" seem pretty hokey coming from Crick.

It is the pursuit of the goal, not the realization. Right?

This is patently ridiculous. I'm in the middle of reading all the following books:

• The Bluest Eye
• Blink
• The Good Earth
• Lolita
• I Capture the Castle
• Atonement
• One Hundred Years of Solitude

Even throw in a few textbooks for extra measure. How many will I actually finish? All. Someday, someday. In the same land where Gmail inboxes fill up. Randomly starting and never finishing books is a very, very bad habit. I have to kick it.

Summer Reading Part 4: It's All About Politics

Fourth in a series to give the impression I did something intellectual this summer. Starred titles indicate books I particularly enjoyed.

Peter the Great
Robert Massie

The juggernaut. The behemoth. I have 15 pages in MS word to describe this book. I’m not touching it until September 10.

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*Absurdistan*
Gary Shteyngart

I have no idea what motivated me to pick up this book. The cover art is blandly abstract, the subject matter is not to my taste, and the main character is a filthy rich, obese, foul-mouthed, horny Russian Jew—totally someone I would identity with. It must be the title: Absurdistan, no other title could evoke so much political outrage, silliness, and pathos in one measly word.

Absurdistan is absurd—absurdly funny, bleakly funny—the type of hilarity that makes you laugh until your stomach hurts and then it punches you in the guts when you realize the situations are not funny at all, but very real and appalling. Shteyngart pulls off this audacious satire, ripping into everything from trophy wives to terrorism to obesity with a touch that turns the horrible into the hilarious. He even manages to satirize himself with his doppelganger Jerry Shteynfarb, who wrote The Russian Arriviste’s Hand Job, as opposed to Shteyngart’s first novel, The Russian Debutante’s Handbook. Where Absurdistan strikes the hardest is American ignorance and greed. A reader will immediately draw parallels between Absurdistan and today’s current events, but Absurdistan cuts off on September 10, 2001. An ominous ending that portends maybe nothing has changed after all.

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*Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress*
Dai Sijie

Whenever I start complaining about school, my parents always launch into a rueful tirade on their education in then hands of the Cultural Revolution. And I can’t compare: however aimless English class may seem, it can never be as aimless as reciting Mao’s quotations for the 437th time. (Random: Did you know blogspot is still banned in China?) After reading this book, I had a nice conversation with my dad (not about college for once!), but about how people would wait hours in line to buy Balzac’s books after the Revolution.

Since the Cultural Revolution is one of the most universally reviled policies, a book critical of it can be nothing new (except in China’s official bookstores.) Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress, translated from the French since Balzac was a French dude after all, reads like a fable rather than a social critique. Ma and Luo are sent to the countryside to be re-educated where they discover a chestful of the forbidden Western cannon and as the title promises, they also meet the Little Seamstress. There are grotesque images, but the pastoral setting brings to mind a hermetic alter-world. It’s a slim and tightly written novel, made more powerful by its compact construction. The finishing touch is an ironic, oblique criticism of the Cultural Revolution that almost twists the themes around. Makes me want to get off my butt (or maybe on, since I tend to sit while reading) and read Balzac.

I’m also really curious about the film adaptation of this book because it’s directed by Dai Sijie from his own novel. How often does that happen?

Summer Reading Part 3: Salinger Binge

Franny and Zooey & Nine Stories
J.D. Salinger

I love me some Salinger. I really do. Despite all the backlash, Salinger was a good writer before he became an emo icon. His morose literary progeny are people I would bitchslap in real life, but he renders them palatable and even sympathetic by giving them an air of tragedy. His unique New York (now say that three times fast) exists only in his works, and by extension, The Royal Tenenbaums. There is a lot of criticism on Salinger’s supposed immaturity and manipulative antics because his characters are never quite real; they’re always so precocious, so smarmy, not understanding the gift of their genius or good fortune. But they are also humanistic because Salinger strikes at a common chord: vanity. He and his characters never shied from a certain seflishness we can all relate to, whether willingly or not. Salinger does not illuminate humanity in its best light, but it is a real one.

Favorite Stories:
Franny
The Laughing Man
Teddy

Summer Reading Part 2: I Only Read This Book Because It’s Being Made Into a Movie

Second in a series of remarks to prove I did something intellectual this summer. Starred titles indicate books I particularly enjoyed.

The Prestige
Christopher Priest

Following movies as obsessively as I do, I’ve noticed an uptick in magic-themed movies of late, including The Illusionist, Scoop, War Magician, and some movies about a certain bespectacled teen with the initials of HP. The Prestige, is yet another entry. Because Christopher Nolan (given my eternal admiration for Memento) is directing and Christian Bale and Hugh Jackman are taking up the leads (can you say yummy), I decided to check out this book.

The cover of The Prestige looked like the schlock sci-fi fantasy stuff dominating YA shelves—not a good sign. The paperback cover, shown here, is a huge improvement. Cover art judging aside (of course it’s a reasonable criterion, you absolutely must judge books by their cover), The Prestige is a decent book. The author cleverly makes use of shifting POVs to conceal his plot twist, but his framing device dragged the story before it even started. The Prestige is not driven by good writing or even good plotting, but by the one quality that makes stage magic so interesting: the “How the hell did he do that?” reaction. I sped through the pages trying to figure out how the tricks were performed, and I must say the results are a bit disappointing. It looks to be an entertaining movie, but the best I can do is damning it with some faint praise as a book.

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* Stardust *

Neil Gaiman

I’ve heard the name Neil Gaiman being tossed around forever, but I’ve never read anything by him until now. Turns out, I’ve been missing A LOT. Stardust is an enchanting and adventurous tale that seems at once familiar and utterly new. The story is cut in the classical medieval mold—indeed, it revels in archetypes and clichés—but it is also infused with a wondrous innocence. It’s told with an almost childish marvel; in Faerieland, nursery rhymes reign and childhood fantasies become real. But all this innocence, and our hero Tristran’s naïveté, only cloak the darker themes at play because in the idyllic land of Faerie, murder and death is the still of the currency of villains—and there sure are a lot of them. It saddens me to hear that Gaiman’s other writings are radically different from Stardust, but count my butt in for this movie.

Summer Reading Part 1: Are You There God?

First in a series of remarks to give the impression I did something intellectual this summer. Starred titles indicate books I particularly enjoyed.

* Life of Pi *
Yann Martel

Life of Pi is one of those rare cases where critical interpretation allowed me greater appreciation. An appreciation that has since grown into unabridled love and admiration. Magical! Miraculous! I want to leap up and down shouting every positive phrase to describe this book. Complete with an exclamation mark!

The author approaches religion from such a fresh angle that even I, an avowed atheist, could not help but agree. Perhaps it is because Life of Pi does not preach a story, but tells one. Pi’s journey at sea is characterized not by feverishly renewed faith, but a raw survival instinct—an instinct that speaks to every one one of us, regardless of our belief in a god or the lack thereof.

At sea for months sharing a lifeboat with a tiger, Pi survives against outrageous odds. As Pi’s journey spirals more and more into the outlandish, Yann Martel manages to hold our believability by the thinnest of threads. It is really a testament to his exquisite prose that we want to believe Pi’s story against all odds, even when it becomes wholly fantasy. But nothing quite prepares you for the stroke at the end, where all plot and thematic points are pulled together with the fluidity and grace of a master storyteller. And the symbolism, subtle but clear, is the kind that adds another layer to the story, rather than shows off the author’s metaphorical thought.

In the book’s framing device, a writer is told to seek Pi, now an old man, who will relate a story that will make him believe in God. The writer asks if it’s the tale of Jesus or Muhammad, but is told that it is neither; it is the story of Pi Patel. A dozen viewings of The Passion of the Christ and Bible classes will not make me believe in God; Life of Pi has at least made me want to believe. A miracle on this wizened old cynic heart.

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Brideshead Revisited
Evelyn Waugh

Err….umm…uhh…I really don’t remember this book. It was dead and done with some time around the 4th of July, and it has not stuck. I bought this book even longer ago at a library book sale because I feel in love with the cover, which was a loopy and cartoonish rendition of two bodies without heads. (There we go again, judging books by their cover.) This book was not nearly as funny as its cover would lead you to believe. Yes, it was amusing to read about Charles Ryder and Sebastian Flyte drunkenly carousing with whores and the Oxford version of frat boys, but it was amusing in the way watching little kids pick their noses is amusing. The second half of the book shifts radically from free-wheeling college to high-society and Sebastian Flyte suddenly drops out of the plot. Catholicism also plays a major role, and I gathered the novel somehow came out pro-Catholic…but I didn’t understand any of it. Maybe I need some Socratic seminars with Anthony? No thanks, I’d rather have my talking tigers with Pi Patel. This is why I do not read classical literature—I never like it and come out feeling like a dumbass.