Every Inch of Her (Peter Sheridan)

In my last post, I described Aimee Bender's work as a delicious cheesecake that I rationed out in order to make the pleasure of the reading last. Since I am all keen on the food analogies, then, I feel that Every Inch of Her would be more like a bag of potato chips or of movie popcorn. Also tasty, quick and easy to consumer but also high in fat and leaving you with a feeling you need something a bit more substantial in your gullet for supper.

This book is the tale of a large, loud Irish woman named Philo (short for Philomena instead of the pastry dough, though I am sure the author thought of the latter too). Everything is a mess in the beginning of the novel and it is the main character's mission to set all to rights in a bumbling, almost accidental and humorous way. Plus, I am sure you can guess, you get to meet all the colorful characters that populate Philo's Dublin neighborhood--in a third-person omniscient style that floats back and forth between characters, a weak device if you ask me to show what is happening without any effort or skill.

On the plus side, the ending had a few surprises and the main character was likeable and unique. I suppose I would classify the book as Chick Lit, worth reading on an airplane or at the gym, where the skipping of a line or two of text in the bouncing of the eliptical machine wouldn't be by any means tragic. Plus, the constant references to obesity may keep you motivate to exercise just a few minutes more.

Willful Creatures (Aimee Bender)

Aimee Bender's work is excellent, unique and very hard to categorize. I suppose I would think of her stories as I do my own dreams--random, wacky and horrific while simultaneous humorous--which I then wake up from to see how symbolic and telling those sleeping visions really are. They are simple yet sharp, leaving me wondering why no one (meaning me) could have pinned down that idea before or how someone (meaning me) could take inspiration from the story to create another something just as meaningful.

I simply love this woman's writing with the same passion as I did when first introduced to it through The Girl in the Flammable Skirt. Though I love and idolize it, I think it may be impossible to ever recreate. If anything, the inspiration a writer can glean from Bender is to treat all their ideas with the utmost seriousness, to never leave a small inspiriation by the wayside. Want to write a story about a woman with potatoes for children? Do it, it could be poignant and touching. Want to tell the story of a husband and wife who kill each other solely for their preference in food spice? Go for it, that tale could symbolize the contradictory nature of love, as in opposites attract and also drive each other bonkers.

In order to give you an idea of what this Incredible Ms. Bender is all about, let me quote you the first paragraph of the collection of stories, from a tale called Death Watch:

"Ten men go to ten doctors. All the doctors tell all the men that they only have two weeks left to live. Five men cry. Three men rage. One man smiles. The last man is silent, meditative. Okay, he says. He has no reaction. The raging men, upon meeting in the lobby, don't know what to do with the man of no reaction. They fall upon him and kill him with their bare hands. The doctor comes out of his office and apologizes, to the dead man.

Dang it, he says sheepishly, to his collegues. Looks like I got the day wrong again.

One can't account for murder or accidents, says another doctor in his bright white coat."

I looked at this book the same way I would a tasty dessert--a cheesecake, a box of sorbet or anything chocolate. The moment I had opened it, I wanted to devour it completely and yet I forced myself to pace it, unwilling to let the experience end too quickly. The moment I closed the cover, I mourned that there are not more Aimee Bender books I could lay my hands on ASAP. In the end, I am thankful for the sweet experience and also that books aren't high in calories or fat. It's just that the truly delicious ones often appear to be few and far between.

While I Was Gone (Sue Miller)

While I Was Gone was apparently an Oprah Book Club selection. When I see that tradmark insignia, the book usually grows a ten-foot pole to keep me away. However, this book was being sold at a library fund raiser to the tune of a whole, whopping $0.75 and so I said okay. I would give it a try. Do I regret it? No. Do I relish it? Also no.

This is the story of a woman who thought she had everything she wanted--or was supposed to want--a husband in medical school, a entry-level teaching job--when the 1960s caught up with her. She found herself a waitress, leaving her husband, fleeing the city and rooming in a communal house in Boston. So, I love that part of the story. I too graduated college and felt a thrill at "slumming" (author's words, not mine) as a waitress or in other non-career-oriented professions. A way of finding yourself and exploring the world outside of the supposed to's.

My liking tapered off from there. After that point, it is the reflections of a grown-up narrator, now a vetrinarian and married to a minister, of her commune friend's death and the old friend she runs into that sheds new truth upon the old (but not quite healed) issue. A mystery, a thriller evolves from there. Okay, it was interesting and it turned the pages. What I turned the pages towards (meaning the ending) left something to be desired. If you are going to be a thriller, have a thrilling ending. If you plan on being a drama, lose the thriller tone and plotline.

Overall rating: a vacation read at best, a book club selection at worst. Bookshelf worthy? No, I think this bargain book will return to the library from whence it came to be sold again for another $0.75. After all, our struggling libraries have to pay the bills.

Pricksongs and Descants (Robert Coover)

Robert Coover is a significant figure in the history of writing as the father of metafiction. Everyone who studies modern American literature will--or should--have studied his work, especially his quintessential story, The Babysitter, which is included in this anthology. How to explain Coover... hmmm.

Well, there are second-person narrated game show scenes where the object of the game is to avoid death. There is a magician who pulls more than rabbits out of his hat and, tragically, fails to pull out a sexy, protruding ass from the black brim. There is a magic poker, a little red riding hood remake and much much more. Be prepared for anything and for short paragraphs with alternating points of view, realities and voices. Confusion is the beauty, don't you see? No? Well, you will when you get the hang of it.

Read, live, love. Coover--my hero--was essential in the development of the curriculum at Brown, where I would attend school if sheer will were the only necessary component.

Walden (Henry David Thoreau)

Ah yes. Our infamous friend Mr. Henry David. All of us have heard the name and perhaps a well-known quote or two ("suck the marrow" and all that) but few of us have actually read his tome to rural simplicity and individual development. Outside the classroom, that is. Herein was my problem. I have read such thick and meaningful books in a school setting. Something about the deadlines and mandatory discussions makes the pages flip regularly if not speedily. On my own, however.... Sigh.

I am still on page 172 out of 303. And it has been almost three weeks. No, no. It has been three weeks. If you take a look at the speed I normally read, you will see how arduous this has become. I finished all of the other books I had out on loan from the library in an effort to focus on my Thoreau. I figured I should apply some of the author's principles--I would take away all distractions in order to expand my mind and improve myself. I would forego the easy pleasure of modern life (i.e. entertaining novels) and seclude myself with something that would possibly change my life. Didn't work. Instead of turning to Walden when I needed a reading fix (usually two or three times a day), I glanced at it, sighed, and turned on the television.

Being a lover of literature and a aspiring author, I feel it is my duty to read such classics. Who am I to hope to add to literary history if I cannot appreciate those who came before. My effort will karmically be rewarded when, 150 years from now, some future reader will laboriously try to read my books, struggling over my antiquated slang and phrases. I agree that:

"A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips; -not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but carved out of hte breath of life itself."


Is the book that bad that I couldn't finish it? you ask. I never said it was bad. It was very, very good in ways. Deep, touching and meaningful. A few pages of deep, touching and meaningful without a story, however, is an excellent generic form of Ambien. I must say that Mr. Henry was a very interesting fellow. He walked away from the urban life he knew (partially because the tax man was on his ass). He "squatted" on piece of unclaimed land--as if that is anywhere near possible anymore--and built a little house for exactly $28.12 1/2 (he includes an itemized table). The book goes on as an isolated man's journal, divided into sections based upon the theme of the musings i.e. the ponds, the village, the bean fields, winter animals, etc.

Being a bit of an introvert myself, I love Thoreau's escapists spirit:

"Society is commonly too cheap. We meet at very short intervals, not having had time to acquire any new value for each other. We meet at meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of that old musty cheese that we are. We have to agree on a certain set of rules, called etiquette and politeness, to make this frequent meeting tolerable, and that we need not come to open war. We meet at the post-office, and at the sociable, and about the fireside every night; we live thick and are in each other's way, and stumble over one another, and I think that we thus lose some respect for one another. Certainly less frequency would suffice for all important and hearty communications... The value of a man is not in his skin, that we should touch him."

I was drawn towards the journey of solitude and contemplation, where only the amount of time necessary to remain living is devoted to work and the rest to contemplation, reading and writing. Lord, what a life! Though Mr. Henry delivers this, he also added a spin I didn't expect, this upbeat and positive attitude of "Yay humanity!" where I was expecting "Hey humanity! See you later, sucker!" He says he appreciates his fellow men more at a suitable remove yet also claims that his journey is not an "ode to dejection" but instead an attempt to wake up those around him, enlightening them to his point of view. To me, this is the same as finding the perfect isolated and undiscovered beach and then going home to tell all your friends about it, inviting them to come on down next time around. Screw that. Okay, that's a bit bitchy. I guess I would say to my friends, "Having a beach is great but, then again, some prefer the mountains. Either way, find your own specific chunk of nirvana and hike away from my Walden, okay?"

I want to finish this book. I will finish this book. I want to use this book as background in a character sketch for a story I have been working on. Therefore, the library will just have to wait to get it back until I find the isolated days, weeks and months I will need to finish it. They will have to deal with a few dogeared pages.

As for isolating it with no other books on my plate, well, that ain't going to work for me. I have already started the joyous ride of Pricksongs and Descants by Robert Coover. Stay tuned for that discussion next episode. Same time. Same station.