I recently took a moment to acquaint myself with goodreads' rating system and discovered that three stars (my favored default) means that you liked a I recently took a moment to acquaint myself with goodreads' rating system and discovered that three stars (my favored default) means that you liked a book, one means that you didn't, and two stars mean that it was okay. This leaves me in a bit of a dilemma with respect to accurately rating this book. I could give it one star, since I didn't like it, but for something this well-written, that seems unfair. Three isn't accurate either, because that would mean I liked it, which I didn't. So I suppose the happy medium is two, which is still not satisfactory because this book is better than okay, and the rating is a reflection of my own predilections rather than its quality.
I guess that's why we're not professionals here, eh?
At any rate: this lady rivals Mary Gaitskill for telling an excellently crafted story that will make you want to drink the bleach. Dark? Bring it! Depressing? Not so much. This story is the dim, dingy, drab sort of depressing that conjures winter sunlight filtering weakly through a dirty window on a late Sunday afternoon. I can't deal.
While The Lovely Bones also possessed this quality, its poignancy propelled me through the book, which still haunts me. It's been awhile since I read Lucky, but something in that book saw me through to the end as well.
Maybe my pain tolerance is diminishing in my old age, but in this case, I had to call it a day by the time I reached Chapter Five.
What I wouldn't give for a Princess Routine sequel right now.
Memoir, while at its best a captivating genre, always poses the question of why the reader should care.
In this case it's because Bechdel presents a beMemoir, while at its best a captivating genre, always poses the question of why the reader should care.
In this case it's because Bechdel presents a beautifully written, engaging narrative of an unusual family.
The book doesn't completely evade the inherent pitfalls of memoir. The central relationship--that between Bechdel and her closeted gay father, whom she loses shortly after coming out as a lesbian--is interesting. And there are certainly aspects of her childhood that are out-of-the-ordinary and intriguing, namely assisting her father with the family business--he's the funeral director the Fun Home of the title. But ultimately this is yet another tale of an imperfect childhood and at times I did find myself wondering what made this particular example worthy of a book. And while Bechdel steers fairly clear of one of memoir's other chief pitfalls: competing in the Suffering Olympics, there were parts where childhood woes did begin to seem a bit like literary currency. Then again, why shouldn't they be?
Also, while her constant allusion to literary works as metaphor for her family drama is a skillfully executed technique to illustrate our need for myth as a way to understand our lives, and the way we construct personal mythologies in order to understand ourselves and our experiences, it can at times feel heavy-handed and distracting. Not to mention that if you haven't read the works in question, despite her explanations, these metaphors could be somewhat lost in translation. And if your lesbian feminism is a little rusty, you might also struggle a bit in parts. And let's face it--while it may be human nature to assume otherwise about our own lives, not many stand up to a treatment of themselves as literary/mythological archetypes. Frankly this one doesn't.
All of this notwithstanding, the writing is a treat, and this book succeeds as a well-told, sincere, intensely personal account of complicated family relationships and the ways that they can shape us....more
For whatever reason, my second foray into this book wasn't as pleasurable as the first, but it still felt like s'moors (sorry, I had to do it) for theFor whatever reason, my second foray into this book wasn't as pleasurable as the first, but it still felt like s'moors (sorry, I had to do it) for the mind: dark, molten, and messy. Heathcliff is the chocolate (which is really the whole point of dessert), Catherine is the marshmallow (unpalatable but necessary for textural contrast), and the foreboding wilderness in which the assorted catastrophes transpire is the graham cracker binding everything together.
What is perhaps most fascinating about this ostensible love story is that--happy ending notwithstanding--its portrayals of (and the motivations for) human cruelty and wickedness are much more convincing (to my half-empty glass anyway) than the "love" part. ...more
As no description is provided by goodreads, I will take the liberty of transcribing the one on the back of the book:
"Perfectly petite, blond, blue-eyeAs no description is provided by goodreads, I will take the liberty of transcribing the one on the back of the book:
"Perfectly petite, blond, blue-eyed Chelsea Ann Hyatt is a self-proclaimed cream puff. Her motto: never walk when you can ride and never sit when you can recline. She'd rather die than go five whole days without her blow dryer while rafting down the Colorado River. But her brother 'Ranger' Rick is taking the trip, and her best friend Sandy is hopelessly in love with him. If Chelsea's really a true blue friend, she'll go. Right? Talk about sacrifices! Whatever is she going to do in the middle of a wilderness and a raging river without her makeup kit, hair spray and breath mints? So here she is surrounded by Boy Scouts and a rugged outdoorsy leader of the pack named Jess...and what does Chelsea do? Why, fall in love of course!"
This is a thoroughly enjoyable, well-crafted little book. Sure it's a formula but what isn't? As recipes go this is essentially macaroni and cheese, which means comfort food that stealthily cloaks actual nutrients like calcium and iron. It would have been fun if more of the story transpired in our heroine's natural cream puff habitat but, oops, there goes the plot if that happened right? Also, this book manages to lightheartedly battle sexism and classicism while being strangely poetic, with my favorite example of this being the reference to the red satin bodies of insects....more
The author's fixation on flowers and fluffy critters, coupled with her intense depressive streak, results in a journal that often reads like Mary EngeThe author's fixation on flowers and fluffy critters, coupled with her intense depressive streak, results in a journal that often reads like Mary Engelbreit having a bad day. A really bad day. Never having been much for nature poetry--nature's pretty, nature's nice, I've just never felt the urge to rhapsodize it and I can't get behind poets who do--I found it difficult to relate. This was disappointing, as I do identify with much of what she talks about here: the love/hate relationship with solitude ("For a long time now, every meeting with another human being has been a collision. I feel too much, sense too much, am exhausted by the reverberations after even the simplest conversation. But the deep collision is and has been with my unregenerate, tormenting, and tormented self," she writes and man, do I hear her on that), her struggles with rage, and her need to question and examine her experiences. Overall, though, it hit something of a flat note for me, again possibly because the setting and motifs she chooses for her thematic preoccupations aren't really my bag. But the woman gets mad props for being in her late fifties at the time she wrote this and announcing that she still doesn't have it figured out, still finds peace and calm elusive. With the main goal of adult life seeming to be that of being okay, or at least preserving this appearance at all costs, I have a lot of respect for her refusal to do this. Sarton writes brave, honest prose laced with beautiful, tender moments with people and animals, including sheeps! While I didn't have the deep soul connection with this book that I wanted and expected to have, it's an inspiring study in one intensely sensitive person's efforts to brave worlds outer and inner and chronicle her experiences. ...more
Any time you derive so much enjoyment from an author's output, you owe that author your gratitude. So, thank you, S.M.
That said--the (possible--it leaAny time you derive so much enjoyment from an author's output, you owe that author your gratitude. So, thank you, S.M.
That said--the (possible--it leaves plenty of room for a sequel) conclusion of the Twilight train wreck is, in a word, UNACCEPTABLE.
I don't want to give anything away, and frankly, I'm thoroughly sick of this book, having slogged through it for weeks and only to punish myself for paying expedited shipping fees to my current residence in the Netherlands when I was in the throes of my Twilight fascination. While I deliberately prolonged my reading of the other (progressively lackluster) Twilight books, so as to luxuriate in the delicious purple prosiness of it all, I prolonged my reading of this one because it was a chore to finish.
Suffice it to say that the bloom doesn't fall off this rose--it leaps. There are glimmers of what made Books the First through the Third such cringe-inducing guilty pleasures; this only makes one long for the Halcyon (I can't pronounce that word, but I can spell it!) days of (the more sloppily written, and infinitely more enjoyable) Book the First.
A few things I can say without spoiling anything:
Suspending the inclination to assign any fixed qualities to any of the characters you've followed through Books 1-3 will make this book much easier to get through. One thing that does remain somewhat consistent is that, for someone who's supposed to be "self-effacing," Bella is awfully aware of every nuance of everyone's perception of her at all times.
Speaking of characters, about thirty or so irrelevant and completely peripheral ones will be introduced very late in the game. Unless there is a sequel (dear God, please no) coming, this is a complete waste of space.
Be prepared for the book's descent into a heavy-handed Anne Riceian attempt at a Novel of Ideas.
If you're an obsessive sicko like me and you've come this far, of course you have to finish Book the Fourth. All I can say is that I don't envy you. ...more
A recent partial re-reading confirmed that, for me, this book belongs to a time of life that has come and gone (sort of like Bukowski). But I can stilA recent partial re-reading confirmed that, for me, this book belongs to a time of life that has come and gone (sort of like Bukowski). But I can still count on one hand with fingers to spare the number of books that have gotten under my skin the way that this one has. Visceral, chilling, horrifying, devastating, and hilarious. If the illustrations (and the text) don't give you nightmares, you're less of a weenie than I am.
This is a brave, honest book. It will make you sick in the best possible way. I wish that I had written it. ...more
To be fair, Cruddy is more or less my gold standard for literature, and it's what I hold Barry's other works to. Alas, there's only one Cruddy, which To be fair, Cruddy is more or less my gold standard for literature, and it's what I hold Barry's other works to. Alas, there's only one Cruddy, which is probably as it should be.
The visuals are interesting, as was learning more about Barry's childhood, but she lost me at the magic cephalopod. I made it about half, three quarters of the way through, and haven't been able to pick it up for months.
The approach to the creative process is just a little bit facile for my taste: Have memories! Overcome your doubts! Etc.
Not his best. I should point out that I've only read The Sun Also Rises and A Moveable Feast. I should also point out that I didn't read this for the Not his best. I should point out that I've only read The Sun Also Rises and A Moveable Feast. I should also point out that I didn't read this for the bullfighting, which I have zero interest in, but for his ruminations on Spain, writing, and life. Seeing as how the bullfighting was the point--but it's supposed to serve as a metaphor for the latter, right?--this probably hampered my enjoyment. I should also, also point out that I only skimmed this book. So you'd probably be right to take my response with a shaker's worth of salt.
Hemingway is not an apologist for bullfighting and he doesn't attempt to downplay its cruelty. Yes, it's a cruel sport, he says, and so is life. Men go to war, they eat animals, they die of unseemly diseases, et al. He merely sets forth to describe the fascination and emotional appeal of the sport as honestly as possible. The hardest part about writing, he says, is trying to figure out how you really feel about things rather than how you've been taught that you're supposed to feel. Amen to that. And there are some well-crafted sage reflections on wine, travel, writing, art, food, and Spain. But again, not his best. For one, this book has more posturing than a back brace (we get it, Hem! You're macho!). For another, for a decent chunk of it, it superimposes heavy-handed (pomo?) conversations between the author and a fictitious elderly woman at random points--this comes off as smug and doesn't add much. And, for whatever reason, he just doesn't have "it" in this book--"it" being that certain something that I can't quite put my finger on that gives his best writing such taut power and resonance. Obviously, that's subjective, and so are reviews! ...more
Can't get enough of Edward's hissy, snarly, growly velvet honey voice? Bella's "selflessness"? The thirst, the infernal burning thirst? Multi/one-dimeCan't get enough of Edward's hissy, snarly, growly velvet honey voice? Bella's "selflessness"? The thirst, the infernal burning thirst? Multi/one-dimensional characterizations (Esme's tenderness, Rosalie's vanity, and even dear old Edward--who graduates in this draft from paper to origami but still retains his (delightfully) tiresome diet-Byron shtick)? Wonder what that waitress was really thinking when she delivered those mushroom raviolis?
At this tale's beginning, our hero, surveying himself from a distance of some years, warns us of his past self, "I doubt that you will like hiOh, man.
At this tale's beginning, our hero, surveying himself from a distance of some years, warns us of his past self, "I doubt that you will like him very much: that is of no consequence, I do not like him very much myself. He is--well, you will see what he is."
What he is is an insufferable (rabidly heterosexual) Oscar Wilde wannabe. These opening lines lead me to believe that our hero's character will probably follow an arc, and after experiencing Life, Love, and Distant Lands, he will acquire great reserves of Depth and Complexity.
But in the meantime, are we really supposed to sit through such epigrams as "It is a curious thing with whores that one pays a premium for inexperience and lack of ability--surely the only profession in which this is the case. But I digress."
But he digresses?!? Capital idea, old sport. I digressed after page 45. ...more
What to say about Book 2 that I didn't say about Book the First?
The writing improves.
The plot thickens.
Bella's self-esteem nosedives (except for when What to say about Book 2 that I didn't say about Book the First?
The writing improves.
The plot thickens.
Bella's self-esteem nosedives (except for when contending with the non-vampire population of Forks, where her unbearable superiority complex continues to rage).
The Romeo and Juliet conceit is as subtle as a fork in the garbage disposal.
I'm overseas right now and can't find Books 3 and 4 anywhere; I am pathetically obsessed enough that I've resigned myself to ordering from Amazon and paying outrageous (expedited!) shipping fees. After all, Midnight Sun won't tide me over indefinitely.
Imagine that Nora Roberts and Anne Rice gave birth to a precocious twelve-year-old who ditches English class to sit under a cypress tree and read JaneImagine that Nora Roberts and Anne Rice gave birth to a precocious twelve-year-old who ditches English class to sit under a cypress tree and read Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters. A series is born!
Really, this tale of chaste vegetarian vampire love deserves a one for being a stylistic disaster (i.e. no one ever "said" anything, they "opined," "murmured," "squealed with trepidation," et al., et al.), and a five for being a spectacularly enjoyable ramble through the moors of melodramatic teenage obsession with a supernatural (albeit done-to-death, or, har, un-death)twist.
I won't even get into the feeble stab at feminism via the Superman/Lois Lane metaphor that presents itself in one of the book's many passages of tortured dialogue. Although, actually, I think that a feminist reading of this book would be a fascinating undertaking in that one could convincingly argue the issue in either direction.
But that's not the point. The point is that this is just good plain cringe-inducing fun.
Note to Bella: There's a book called Women Who Love Too Much. Get it. ...more
I ended up liking this much more than I expected to. Yes, it is at times heavy-handed, as you might expect of a play comprised entirely of a debate abI ended up liking this much more than I expected to. Yes, it is at times heavy-handed, as you might expect of a play comprised entirely of a debate about faith versus disbelief, with a healthy smattering of The Meaning of Life. I respect that he didn't slap a happy ending on it (was there any danger with this author?). The ending had me thinking about people's responsibility toward one another in a way that surprised me. Mainly, if you have the power to bring someone down, or to cast doubt over the faith that sustains that person, should you in the name of what you understand to be the truth? What are the consequences of that kind of success? What does it accomplish? The sort of reverse evangelism that arguably triumphs here is haunting and deeply sad. It served as an affirmation for me of why I always take those stupid pamphlets that religious folk hand out in front of the grocery store.
Even if the contents do nothing for you, the style is superlative. ...more
Reading Jelinek is intoxicatingly corrosive, like drinking the bleach and discovering that it tastes like your favorite microbrew. I wasn't able to maReading Jelinek is intoxicatingly corrosive, like drinking the bleach and discovering that it tastes like your favorite microbrew. I wasn't able to make it through The Piano Teacher or Wonderful, Wonderful Times. It turns out that this was the book for me. Whereas the previous two were like dense slabs of wasp-studded fruitcake, this was more like a sprightly chiffon cake laced with strychnine. I have a soft spot for books that are deeply sad, yet manage to be funny in a horrible, inappropriate way (think babies as maggots!).
In an attempt to give this review some constructive value, I'll note that the book--a withering, feminist treatment of marriage and baby-making--was originally published in 1975. It may or may not read as dated. Really, are things so different now? In a lot of ways, yes, they are. But that also depends on where and how you grew up. Also, independent of the feminist angle, Women as Lovers is a scathing indictment of class injustice and constricting, soul-destroying social paradigms.
A fun piece of costume jewelry, even though the narrative voice (our heroine seems to fancy herself one of the eponymous jewels tossed before the swinA fun piece of costume jewelry, even though the narrative voice (our heroine seems to fancy herself one of the eponymous jewels tossed before the swine--to carry the conceit further, she marries a butcher, how perfect is that?) at times wears thin. Hypoallergenic entertainment! ...more
Delectable, as both a memoir and as top notch food writing (recipes included). One of the few books I need to (and do) own a copy of. Whether recountiDelectable, as both a memoir and as top notch food writing (recipes included). One of the few books I need to (and do) own a copy of. Whether recounting her eccentric family life as a girl, her bohemian young adulthood, or her various travels and culinary explorations, Reichl is funny, warm, poignant, and brings an infectious appetite to the table and to life.*
(*If you gagged at this, I don't blame you.)...more
This book was my introduction to the delightful Ruth Reichl. While I didn't like it as much as Tender at the Bone, or Comfort Me with Apples, it's a tThis book was my introduction to the delightful Ruth Reichl. While I didn't like it as much as Tender at the Bone, or Comfort Me with Apples, it's a thoroughly enjoyable adventure in the world of New York dining--fine and otherwise. The personae Reichl assumes in order to remain incognito on the job as the New York Times restaurant critic (apparently no mean feat, what with her likeness being plastered on the kitchen walls of restaurants all over town) are fascinating. I especially loved the way she skewered the elitist double-standard of Le Cirque (I think this was the restaurant in question--it's been a while since I've read the book) by writing one review of her experience there as an average joe and another of her VIP treatment when she was recognized. Reichl is always a treat to read.
04/20/2019: Having just reread this, I must say that this time around, I found her contempt for spinsters (Betty, Emily) rather alarming, But then, I'm a spinster (Allison).
7/2/2023: Having re, re-read this (unusual for me!), I must say: yep, the spinster contempt (Betty, Emily) is still dismaying (Allison, still a spinster). And, man, this book is mean. And also so obviously a work of fiction, as Reichl more or less confesses in the acknowledgements. Which, if it had been marketed as autofiction, would be fine. But I found myself getting annoyed at its "memoir" misnomer this time around (Allison, older and crankier). Nevertheless! This book remains an absolute pleasure to read, a testimony to the bewitching powers of food and words, a reminder of just what a lucky thing it is to have a healthy body and a ready appetite....more
![Midnight Sun [2008 Draft]](https://s.gr-assets.com/assets/nophoto/book/50x75-a91bf249278a81aabab721ef782c4a74.png)
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