The first victims of an inexplicable epidemic of blindness are confined to an abandoned insane asylum, which soon degenerates into a literary hell morThe first victims of an inexplicable epidemic of blindness are confined to an abandoned insane asylum, which soon degenerates into a literary hell more horrifying than Dante's. Saramago's claustrophobia-inducing prose � eschewing periods, quotation marks, and all proper nouns in favor of sentences that run on for pages linked only by the occasional comma � engulfs you like a whirlpool and keeps you under for hours. Finishing the book is like finally coming up for air � sputtering, reeling, and thoroughly disoriented. But in the best possible way. ...more
As unmercifully intrepid in its interrogation of shame and longing as the little black girl in its opening pages who dismembers a blue-eyed baby doll As unmercifully intrepid in its interrogation of shame and longing as the little black girl in its opening pages who dismembers a blue-eyed baby doll "to see what it was that all the world said was lovable." Falters only in its headlong zeal for purity of voice. ...more
I bought the book because Dan was a great classmate, and I finished it within hours because he's a ridiculously talented writer. The book is brave andI bought the book because Dan was a great classmate, and I finished it within hours because he's a ridiculously talented writer. The book is brave and gloriously honest. No glib prattle about "earning their respect," no sappy pseudo-inspirational horseshit. Just a frank, touching, and often funny record of what it was like to be a 22-year-old ex-film student who finds himself teaching fourth grade at an elementary school in the poorest neighborhood in America. Read it if you want to teach. Period....more
Ok, so no one can say for sure that Charles Dodgson (aka Lewis Carroll) touched little girls, or even that he wanted to. But the question of whether oOk, so no one can say for sure that Charles Dodgson (aka Lewis Carroll) touched little girls, or even that he wanted to. But the question of whether or not the author was what we now call a pedophile certainly troubled me while I read the book, especially since I read it already knowing that Nabokov, who translated Alice into Russian, referred to its author as "Lewis Carroll Carroll because he was the first Humbert Humbert."
And one can see how Nabokov could easily have found the germ of his double-named, nymphette-loving narrator in the chronic stammerer who wrote these haunting lines from the last "framing" poem of Through the Looking Glass:
Still she haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies Never seen by waking eyes.
Never mind that the poem's acrostic reads "Alice Pleasance Liddell," the full name of the "child-friend" for whose amusement Dodgson composed the stories that would eventually form the novels, and of whom he took some disquieting photos: []. And never mind that Dodgson's mysterious break with the Liddells is detailed in pages which were ripped posthumously from his diary and which have yet to resurface. And never mind that the Carrollites who most staunchly defend him against such charges do so via the dubious argument, "Sure, he was obsessed with little girls, but he also had many other interests!"
Am I fretting unduly about this? The books themselves are absolutely enthralling, and I found their playful refusal to moralize refreshing, since today's YA offerings are sometimes tiresomely didactic. Should it matter to me whether or not these feats of aesthetic genius are the product of an unspeakable obsession with young girls? I was much more comfortable pondering this question when Lolita framed it neatly within the confines of a fictional world. Now that real little girls (dead and gone though they may be) are involved, I am truly unsettled.
I'm really, really glad Sacco grew a social conscience and hightailed it to the world's war-torn regions. His incisive cultural critique needed a wortI'm really, really glad Sacco grew a social conscience and hightailed it to the world's war-torn regions. His incisive cultural critique needed a worthier target than proto-grunge bands and their nose-ringed sycophants. ...more
A horrifying and ruthlessly honest dystopian novel. Envisions an unfettered, hyperbolic America that bears an unsettling resemblance to our own. I canA horrifying and ruthlessly honest dystopian novel. Envisions an unfettered, hyperbolic America that bears an unsettling resemblance to our own. I can't wait to teach this thing....more
A bizarre, doggedly beautiful fable. So preternaturally brilliant you want to read it like you'd watch an eclipse: carefully, through a pinhole in conA bizarre, doggedly beautiful fable. So preternaturally brilliant you want to read it like you'd watch an eclipse: carefully, through a pinhole in construction paper so it doesn't do permanent damage to your senses.
A queer-tastic L.A. fairytale, complete with genies, witches, and a character named My Secret Agent Lover Man. I wouldn't teach this one, I don't thinA queer-tastic L.A. fairytale, complete with genies, witches, and a character named My Secret Agent Lover Man. I wouldn't teach this one, I don't think, but I'd shelve it in class and be sure that it would get passed around like crazy among certain students....more
Feh. The problem with cultural studies stuff like this is that the hot topics go out of style just as quickly as the ephemera they latch onto. Hence tFeh. The problem with cultural studies stuff like this is that the hot topics go out of style just as quickly as the ephemera they latch onto. Hence the tedious examinations of hackers and ravers and something called "riot gurrls," which existed, I think, for five minutes in 1997.
I did see actual ravers the other night, though. In Green Point of all places! With fairy wings and glow sticks and everything! ...more
A solid YA book. Hesse lulls you into thinking these characters are in for a moderately miserable time, but twists the knife on the story with surprisA solid YA book. Hesse lulls you into thinking these characters are in for a moderately miserable time, but twists the knife on the story with surprising brutality about 50 pages in.
As an aside, why are the covers of Hesse's books all so ungodly awful? They might as well sell them already covered with dust and marked with stickers that say "Incredibly Boring Historical Fiction: Now With More Facts! Just try not to learn from this book, you little bastards!" ...more
By "currently reading" I meant "currently forgetting about entirely and incurring huge late fees at the Barnard Library, which has a mafioso-style appBy "currently reading" I meant "currently forgetting about entirely and incurring huge late fees at the Barnard Library, which has a mafioso-style approach to lending." I liked the two chapters I read? ...more
Wow. I started reading this to entertain myself on a long subway ride home at 2 am, thinking I'd skim a bit and start reading it the next day. The nexWow. I started reading this to entertain myself on a long subway ride home at 2 am, thinking I'd skim a bit and start reading it the next day. The next time I looked at the clock it was five in the morning and I was devouring the last lines of the novel. It is dangerously, fantastically gripping, not necessarily because the plot is so amazing, but because Anderson gets Melinda's voice so very, very right. Melinda is such a thoughtfully rendered portrait of a smart, funny, terribly depressed teenager that I was hooked from her very first lines. To me, the actual story was almost extraneous—the plot itself is a bit unwieldy—but Melinda's anxiety, isolation, and desperate attempts to cope with the horrors of adolescence were so real it was spooky. ...more
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