On Beauty (Zadie Smith)

This is my second Zadie Smith book, the first being The Autograph Man, an interesting but ultimately unsatisfying story about opposites. In much the same way, On Beauty is an interesting but ultimately unsatisfying story about physical and mental attraction and worth. Yet again, there is the multi-ethnic smoothie that Smith loves to project upon every corner of the world--a white professor married to a black non-academic with three kids, one religious, one academic and one a horrifying and annoying parody of a rich black kid imitating glorified street culture. (Man that kid bothered me!) Just to add some more drama to the mix, let's throw conservatism against liberalism and art history against deconstructionism. Just for fun, you know, to see what fireworks happen.

Like a kid in a science lab, Smith seems to be dreaming up experiments and throwing them together to see the results, which she is naturally (and obviously in some areas) making up as she goes along. The result for me was that plot points seemed incredibly artificial and staged--sure, the protagonist's main enemy moves across the ocean to take a position at that specific university. Yep, really likely. Or the mid-life crisis with the balding man lusting after some hot, young student--couldn't she have taken a slightly unique tack on that one? Or the very talented yet poor boy who is buoyed up and ultimately crushed by the system of the insecure rich and over-educated. Nope, I never heard that one before, right?

Zadie Smith is not a bad writer. Quite the opposite. She strings together words into necklaces worthy of princesses in ball gowns and her characters can be strikingly memorable at points. But this book seems like a rushed and mismatched melting pot of ideas, a half-baked plan presented as a main course. And what did I learn about beauty? Not much. However, I did discover yet one more place that it is not. I guess that is something.

The Burn Journals (Brent Runyon)

So I received a reading list in the mail from a writer's organization I used to be involved with at ASU, one that was too expensive for me to continue to be involved with, sadly. Sigh. They were putting together an online book club of sorts and, though I didn't really feel like paying any money to be a part of such a group, I have no problem using their free list for my own purposes when I can't seem to think of what I want to read next. This book was the October 2006 selection.

I guess I should have heeded the red flag in my head when I picked up the reserved book from my library and noticed a bright, green "Teen" label on the spine. Teen? I thought. Really? But I dismissed the thought because, after all, the recommendation had come from a reputable, college organization who wouldn't have me reading childish bullshit. And there are quite a few good novels that cross the border between adult and chidlren's lit. In my opinion, this did not turn out to be one of them.

The Burn Journals is the autobiographical tale of Brett Runyon, who set himself on fire when he was 15 in an attempt to commit suicide. He then survives a lengthy recovery and a change of heart about the purpose of his own life. While Brett is all grown up now, he still writes in the stilted and simplistic style of an adolescent boy, where he dismisses most emotional concerns in order to remember what then-popular program was on television. I think that Runyon is trying to explain why he would do such a thing with this book--I was wondering that too. Aside from some generic remarks about being "sad," I am still wondering. There are emotional currents beneath the surface, currents I wanted to explore but that the narrator supresses (out of vulnerability? embarassment?).

It was like a real, teenage boy was stitting there telling me this story, brushing off my questions, trying to be cool about it all. And I wanted to wring his neck and have him tell me what was really going on, even if he didn't quite know himself, even if the thoughts were incomplete and conclusionless. The book does serve a purpose within the genre so neatly stamped upon its spine: Every teen needs to know that they are not alone in having these nameless, unknowable, apocalyptic feelings and that, yes, they do pass. Things do get better, if not easier, with age because you have more control over yourself and your environment.

Runyon is doing the right thing reaching out to that group, especially the boys, who are under-represented in literature. But I have no idea why ASU would want me to read such a book or why they thought it would be worth discussing and critiquing as a group. I think the conversation would have only one basic thought and direction, something along the lines of:

"That was sad. I wish he hadn't done that to himself. But now, he can help other kids not set themselves on fire, plus he graduated college. Good for him."

To summarize, fire and depression bad. Helping others and sharing feelings good. Any questions?

The Amazing Adventures of Cavalier and Klay (Michael Chabon)

Winner of the 2001 Pulitzer Prize, this book by Michael Chabon is a sprawling story of two cousins, World War II, Judaism, the comic book industry, sexuality, masculinity and love. While the Pulitzer is always a reason to put a novel on my reading list, the fact that Chabon wrote Wonder Boys (a movie I adore though I admit *blush* I've never read the book) was an added inducement. With all of that in mind, this 650-page monster had a lot to live up to in my mind.

All-in-all, live up it did. It was a good book, one that sucked me in and kept my interest with round characters and plot twists. My eyes raced the words to see who would find out what happened first. It was the kind of book that makes me wish my lunch break were longer and makes my bath water grow cold around me, the bubbles popped and the water turning gray with soap. Yes, it was good....

And also very, how-you-say... boy. Honestly, that realization shouldn't be all that surprising when you consider that the tale is woven around the concept of the comic book. The main characters write and draw the books; debate the characters and their greater societal value; discuss the unconscious lure of the tales for American youth with their violence and clear-cut morality; and, most importantly, adopt on the aspects of the their creations in their real lives. This is very interesting and compelling in portions, especially when Chabon links artistic endeavors to action: art as a weapon in a situation when you are otherwise powerless, the ability of art to change opinions perhaps even more than action itself. I also love how the disguise of art is exposed: that artistic creation is often the mask an artist wears, revealing more of the true self on the page than in reality.

But, much like a comic book, this approach does have limitations as well. For one, the foreshadowing, which is far from subtle and feels more like a cartoon, Acme anvil falling from the sky. KA-BLAM. I instantly knew who was going to fall in love with who, who was lying, what choices and actions would be pivotal later in the story, who was going to die, etc. It says a lot that I cared for these characters enough that my heart reacted to these anvils--No! Don't say that, I would think. No! I like you too much for you to die. But most audiences don't like being treated like 8-year-old comic-loving boys--we don't like to be hit over the head with something as if we were stupid. We like to be surprised and, if the ending is going to be a happy one, I would prefer not to know that halfway through the book, reading the other half only to find out the specifics of that happiness and the route they were going to take to get there.

Very boyish. Predictable, in a way. I think Chabon does this consciously, mimicking the heightened sense of destiny, fate and morality that are the foundation of the comic universe. But it was very conscious to me as a reader as well, making me feel pandered to in some way. Plot points come around too easily, deserved success arrives, love will be thwarted at the most crusial moment, heroic actions spring from noble hearts, just desserts are served. Come and get ‘em!. By creating a comic book universe--one of such reverence, almost worship, for the art form, its creators and the golden age of its inception--Chabon made a story that couldn't exist in real life, that was fake and over-blown at its core.

Wow. That sounds like a really bad review when, in fact, I did enjoy this book immensely. I enjoyed it as a rollicking romp through a world of a boy's imagination, where obstacles crop up like icebergs but there is never any doubt about reaching port in safety. No doubts about the basic goodness of mankind, the love of friends and family, and, of course, the triumph of good over evil.

The Autograph Man (Zadie Smith)

tandem
Function: adjective
1 : consisting of things or having parts arranged one behind the other
2 : working or occurring in conjunction with each other

It is an old (and bad), academic joke that there are three types of people in this world: those who can do math and those who can't. I was always in the invisible third category, the type who gets it wrong not because they are unable to do math but because they can't muster up enough interest to care. But it is no matter. We all know that there are two types of people in the world--those who like/do/have something and those who do not. Pick a topic, any topic, no matter how inconsequential and the formula will hold true. (Those who eat cocoa puffs and those who don't, those who are Scorpios, those who have hot tubs, those who are Russian...)

The fact that the main character in The Autograph Man is named Alex-li Tandem is significant when approached in this light. After all, Alex is an expert of categories. For starters, he is writing the quintessential book on jewish versus goyish tendancies and is an amalgamation of a Chinese father and a Jewish mother. He is an unknown failure who makes a living on the signatures of the famous. His girlfriend is black to his white, his two friends are a rabbi and a Kabbala devotee. At other various points there are cats and dogs, youth and age, fame and anonymity, etc and etc. And Tandem is our eyes upon this world of co-existing opposites that (of course) are only labels in the end which obscure our basic humanity.

Okay, so it's a good concept, a good gimmick if you will. Yin and Yang duality and the ethinic and religious smoothie (now with non-fat yogurt!) that is the modern world. Though this book was interesting and I don't regret reading it, that was all this theme was when the pages shuffled to the end and the cover shut--a gimmick. Cute and inspired in a blog post or SNL skit sort of way, but hardly the stuff of insightful literary fiction. Let me give you an example: the International Gesture. This is a phrase Smith uses in the book to describe characters' movements, as in "he made the International Gesture for the Jewish shrug" or "a lewd International Gesture" or "the International Gesture for lunacy (temple, tapping finger)." It was cute and funny the first time she used it. It got old and clumsy as it continued to be repeated, exposed for the hollow device it was.

Alex himself is also unfulfilling as a character. He is shallow, short-sighted, constantly drunk and immature. He has his redeeming qualities but most of them are his friends, who seemed much more genuine and "of this earth" tangible than Alex. In the end, I began to wonder why this assorted supporting cast continued to support and associate with Alex. They suffer his mistakes, clean up his vomit, forgive him his lies and say they love him. I kept saying, why? And where on earth does all of this schmuck's money come from, money for a trip from London to America, for a fancy hotel, for the empty hotel mini-bar? So much just falls from the sky unexplained in order to fill in the gaps in plot and characterization.

Zadie Smith is a very talented writer and her first novel--White Teeth--was all the rage when it was released. A hard act to follow. This sophmore effort turned out to be sophomoric as a result. Not bad, not unreadable but clumsy and with delusions of grandeur, cobbled together with bubble gum and celebrity. In the end, as in all things, there will be those that like Smith's The Autograph Man and those who won't. Or maybe there will be a large group of those that, like me, are capable of appreciating it but can't muster up enough interest to really care either way. Smith tried to lecture me about 1 divided by 2 equals 1/2 and 1/2 plus 1/2 equals the world. I doodled in my notebook and combatted drowsiness. Math is not my thing.

Cloud Atlas (David Mitchell)

Let me start by saying that I loved this book. Let me end by saying I don’t know if I fully understand this book. Now that I have sandwiched both ends of my thoughts about Cloud Atlas, I suppose I need to add the peanut butter and jelly.

Similar to my PB&J filling, David Mitchell crafts a story that is both rich and substantial as well as light but sticky. It is the second book I have read of late (the other being Specimen Days) that has experimented with segmenting a story over the lives of several unrelated people in distant time periods. We begin in the journal of an estate agent in 1850 traveling through the South Pacific back to his gold-rushing home of San Francisco. Then, jump to the letters of an open-minded (read: bisexual) young composer in the 1930s--> a cub reporter in the 1970s who stumbles upon a nuclear power conspiracy that endangers her life--> a mediocre, modern English publisher imprisoned in with age--> an interview with a human simulant from the Korea of the future--> and then finally travels to a primitive Hawaiian culture that struggles to retain civilization after "the fall." Each story jolts into one another, sometimes even in mid-page, often in the exact moment where you decide as a reader that you like this character more than the last.

Now here comes the great part. After the Hawaiian adventure, we travel the same road in reverse. Back through time to our American agent on a sea voyage. There! See? There! There is the exact moment where it is no longer possible to put down this unique and convoluted (yet becoming more and more unified) book. Clear the calendar and cancel all appointments. You are in for the long haul.

There's the peanut butter, Ladies and Gentlemen. And here's the jelly, aye, here's the rub. Again, I loved it. Mitchell paints every character with humanity and depth. He interweaves the tales without being heavy-handed, leaving bread crumbs and hints in tiny details. (Except the comet--you'll see--which was a bit too obvious) At the end, I could see Mitchell's message about human nature: the stronger preying on weaker, our hunger for power building and then tearing down our families/cultures/environment, about other sorts of hunger--for goods, wealth, fame, love, freedom--and slavery, both forced and voluntary.

In short, it made me think. A lot of thoughts. A lot of thoughts I can't quite synthesize as yet but can't get rid of, like a child's sticky fingers after lunch. I see that the book is a sort of Hegel-ian model of dialectic history--forgive me, I was a History major as well as English. Hegel thought that each idea/movement/governmental system/thesis brought into existence its opposite or antithesis. These combined will disappear. Like a + and a -, they become a 0, negate each other, mean nothing, annihilate both. Therefore, they will come into conflict and something else--a fusion of sorts, not necessarily an even one--will emerge.

And that is just the tip of the iceberg in terms of my sticky fingers, sticky thoughts. Excellent thoughts as well. An excellent novel is one that will stick to your ribs (okay, okay, no more food analogies). Though I highly recommend this book, I will also recommend that you read it with a friend or in a book club. From my own experience, you will want someone to speak to about this. I feel I have a lot of ideas I need to test on another reader's ears or that I may have missed some important piece they picked up.

Here we go. Here's a solution---> Read it. Love it. Write me. Help me.

The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling (Henry Fielding)

"Hell-oooo, Tom!" she says with a wolf whistle. How do you still look so dashing after, let's see... 257 years? What? How long? you may ask but I speak the truth. The character is just as dashing, humorous and entertaining as he was when this novel was first published in 1749. Sex! Sex in a novel from 1749?! Ah yes, 'tis true and oh-my-dear so funny.

Young, foolish, lustful, rougish, golden-hearted, loyal (sometimes) and handsome--Tom's is a typical foundling's tale. He is the product of sin, abandoned and raised by a benevolent man who grows up to have wild adventures, be disinherited by the benevolent man unjustly and be "unsuited" (meaning of low-birth and no money) for the woman he loves. But as with so many classic plotlines that have become trite with time, every obstacle thrown in the path will eventually be tidied up, all threads tied with the reader's amused smile.

I say, "Classic plotlines, typical tales." This is both yet neither. In fact, Fielding is often credited as being the inventor of the genre of the novel. Theater and poetry were the forms of the day, the ones those that were rich enough to read did read. Fielding instead decided to tell an entirely fictional tale (and admit it the fiction, which was shocking). To me, Fielding is truly a gifted author to have gotten the ball of fiction rolling (thank you from all readers, Henry!) and also due to his style. His tone and diction, though antiquated, are relatively easy to get used to as compared to Dickens and Co. Plus, I love the way he addresses the reader directly, a metafictional technique done centuries before we modern writers coined the term.

A great read, especially for those with a knack for such old style. For those who don't want to tackle the complex language, there is always the movie, which is also fantastic.

Kiss of the Spider Woman (Manuel Puig)

Another library bargain bin book, one I picked up before the move to tide me over until I got my new library card (always step one behind gas and electric). It is an Argentinian book translated from the Spanish and written all in dialogue, which I found quite fun. Pure speech and no description can wind up sounding vapid and fluffy but Puig pulls it off quite well.

Kiss of the Spider Woman is the story of two men in prison--one a political prisoner of the socialist persuasion and the other a homosexual in for "corrupting a minor." They have a great chemistry to see on the page and much of the book centers on the gay man's retelling of different movies. A great discussion of the known formulas and effect of the cinema, in a way.

What killed me was the footnotes. Okay, I know it is an older edition but the publisher thought illustrating a gay character was so controversial that they footnoted the hell out of his dialog. And, the comments weren't even related to what the character said but were instead a scholarly essay on homosexuality--was it innate or environmental, how do all the major psychiatrists weigh in, what do recent studies suggest? I swear there was at least 20 pages of these footnotes in 9 pt font.

What the hell? I just wanted to hear him talk some more about films and see the tension between the two prisoners. Oh, and the sex scene was pretty fascinating as well. Gay sex, told all through dialogue. I'm sure you can imagine the one syllable exchanges taking place there. Very Brokeback. I think that one scene is probably why they thought they needed all the explanation about homosexuality. But, come on! I'm not going to hate the character just because he's gay! Then again, I live in today's world and an American world--not Puig's. Perhaps not the publisher's.

All in all, an entertaining read, intructive for the somewhat successful use of use dialogue and the--whoo hoo--hot sex. I liked kissing the Spider Woman. I don't know if we can ever be more than friends. I just don't like her that way. You know, that way. But she's a fun date.

Specimen Days (Michael Cunningham)

Michael Cunningham is an odd duck. I don't mean that in a bad way. In fact, I quite admire his work. Like every other literate person on earth, I adored The Hours. A Home at the End of the World, well, no so much (see here). I say odd then because it has been more than two weeks since I finished the book as I sit to write the review and I still don't know quite what to think of it.

Did I like it? Yes. Post-modern stylings with timeless style. That's Cunningham. Much like in The Hours, he interweaves time and space. And literary characters. In the former, it was Virginia Woolf. In this work, it is Walt Whitman. The book is divided into three parts, all taking place in New York City.

1. 19th Century during the Industrial Revolution, Whitman's own age
2. Close to the present day, post-911 and alert for terror
3. The future, when androids are possible and the world is going to hell in a handbasket (Well, faster than it is now)

In each tale there are three characters: a man, a woman and Walt Whitman. They change roles and experience vastly different plotlines, all centered upon the lust for life and disdain for the mechanization of man in Whitman's work. Oh, and the freeing nature of death. Very interesting. Very different. Very successful? Maybe not.

I absolutely loved the first tale, narrated by a young boy with limited mental faculties who must begin work in a typical (dangerous) foundry. It was mystic, melancholy and foggy. The characters touched me and the events surprised me. I was thinking, "This is The Hours all the way."

Then, the second book hit with a thud for me. This one had a female narrator who was a sort of terrorist negotiator. There were parts that were excellent, including a revelation regarding the boy at the end. Yet it felt too aciton-adventure-like. Like, if it were a movie, Angelia Jolie would play the lead and Haley Joel Osment the little boy. Canned, you know? Like he didn't quite pull it off. The third book was also interesting, narrated from an androids perspective. But again, this one felt as if a Pulitzer Prize winning author was trying his hand at Sci-Fi.

I have nothing against genre fiction. Honestly. I just don't know if this book elevated itself to the realm of literary fiction. Sometime I think yes because scenes and themes from the book have been returning to my thoughts, a sure sign of a book that touched me. Yet, I also was looking forward to starting my next book before this one was done, a sure sign that something is amiss.

I don't know about this one. He took a risk and I applaud that. The literary world is a better, richer place because he took that risk. I just don't know if Evil Knevil actually cleared all of those barrels or if he missed and is seriously injured. It is as if I am a member of the crowd, waiting for the smoke to clear to see if he is still standing.

Will Specimen Days stand the test of time? I think I will have to wait for the smoke to clear.

Middlesex (Jeffrey Eugenides)

Insest, sex, gender, love, sexuality, abnormality, belonging, sex.... Oh, I said sex already? Sorry.

The novel by Jeffrey Eugenides (author of the Virgin Suicides) is the enthralling epic of a Greek family come to America and the tracing of their genetic blunders down to the third generation when--oops--a little something strange appeared. We are all a product of the past, a concoction of the events and characteristics of the people who came before. The narrator of this book just gets to consciously tag along, watching over grandparents' shoulders like a disembodied, time-travelling fairy. From the old world to the new, from World War I to the 1970s, this narrator reveals rich, compelling characters that you love despite their faults, that your heart pangs for when you realize (before they do) what is truly going on.

Sit down, hold on, clear your schedule and make way for Middlesex: a book that won the Pulitzer Prize for damn good reason by an author who has never failed to disappoint me. Eugenides takes the family epic, a plotline usually reserved for light historical fiction or sweeping romances, and elevates it to the highest level of literary fiction. Jeffrey, if you are out there somewhere, will you adopt me/teach me/trade places with me? I promise to call you a genius everyday, bring coffee into your office and feed paper sheet by sheet into the back of your typewriter if you promise to pound out another book to entertain, fascinate and move me.