I really wanted to like this book – the fantastical story of a group of kids that travels through alternate worlds in a mission to for the sake of saving summer (and all of humanity). I figured Summerland would be the perfect summer read. But, yawn. I had a hard time getting through this one. It was slow, the writing seemed disjointed and inconsistent, and I didn’t feel connected to any of the characters. And I knew I wasn’t into this book by page 30. Yet I insisted on persevering all the way through to page 500. I have this compulsion about finishing a book once I start it, even if I’m not the least bit taken with what I’m reading. I used to think this was a positive trait, but I’m realizing now how much time I actually end up spending/wasting on this stuff that I don’t even enjoy. Is there any shame in putting a book away after only a couple of chapters? Maybe not. Especially when I think about how many other fantastic pieces of literature I could be discovering in the meantime. And so I’m going to have to rethink my stance on “finish what you start” when it comes to novels. Sometimes the perseverance just isn’t worth it.
Archive for the ‘reading’ Category
I’m not usually a big fan of short stories, since I really like to become attached to the characters in the books I read, but I really ended up getting into this book of stories by Lorrie Moore. I was looking for a light, fun read, since I’d just finished wading through all the relatively boring material for my last architectural test, and this fit the bill. It was not particularly challenging or complex, but each of the stories was clever and well-written, with characters that I really started to “get to know” in the space of just 10 or 20 pages.  Moore’s wit and sarcasm showed through in passages like this (from “You’re Ugly, Too”):
“She had to learn not to be afraid of a man, the way, in your childhood, you learned not to be afraid of an earthworm or a bug. Often, when she spoke to men at parties, she rushed things in her mind. As the man politely blathered on, she would fall in love, marry, then find herself in a bitter custody battle with him for the kids and hoping for reconciliation, so that despite all his betrayals she might no longer despise him, and in the few minute remaining, learn, perhaps, what his last name was and what he did for a living, though probably there was already too much history between them.”
Her characters are human and screwed up (my favorite kind of characters). Don’t expect literary genius, but expect a thoroughly enjoyable collection of stories.
This book tells the true story of Chris McCandless, a young man that gives away all of his money and possessions, cuts his ties with his family, and heads into the Alaskan bush to deeply commune with nature. McCandless was never heard from again – his starved remains were discovered in the wild several months after his Alaskan trek began. This was a fascinating read for me, so far removed from anything I’ve experienced or even dreamed of. Admittedly, I am a materialistic person, far more attached to my comfortable lifestyle than I’d like to be. “Roughing it”, in my terms, is driving to a campsite, setting up our tent, inflating our queen-size air mattress, cooking a well-rounded meal over our gas campstove, and brushing my teeth at the nearby bathroom facilities. The thought of heading into unknown territory for an indefinite amount of time with nothing more than what I could carry on my back seems impossible. This glimpse into what “living off the land” really means is intriguing. Could I make it in the wild? Probably (and by probably, I mean definitely) not. Looks like I’ll continue to satisfy my nature-cravings with Sunday strolls in the park…
Brave New World was another stab at reading something from the Modern Library’s List of the 100 Greatest English-Language Novels of the 20th Century, and though it was more enjoyable than James Joyce, I was still a little relieved to wrap this one up and be able to move on to something else. Huxley’s take on the future is certainly intriguing (babies conceived in jars rather than wombs, the dissolution of the family structure as we know it, emotional engineering through the use of drugs and subliminal messaging), but I’m the kind of reader than needs even the tiniest glimmer of optimism in a novel, and he just wasn’t giving it. I’m sure I could appreciate his perspective if I better understood the political climate he lived in when he wrote Brave New World, but as I feared, much of his underlying social/political commentary was lost on me. This is one of those books that I’m happy to have read, but probably won’t ever feel compelled to read again.
And now, here comes the fun part: choosing what I will read next. I love to stand in front of my shelves full of read and unread books (the product of numerous gifts and my brother’s employee discount from the days when he used to work at Powell’s), feeling a sense of accomplishment over the books I’ve read and a sense of anticipation for the ones I have yet to read. I’ve narrowed the selection for my next undertaking down to Into the Wild, Summerland, or The Glass Castle (I’m now in the mood for a quick, fun read).
I had pretty high hopes for this novel, as it came highly recommended to me by more than one person. I wouldn’t say I was disappointed, but I certainly wasn’t overly impressed, either. The Feast of Love tells the stories of several different intertwined characters and their experiences with falling in and out of love. It was cleverly written, but I never really felt involved in this book – I found myself not particularly caring about who ended up with who. A lack of connection. But that said, it was a quick, fun read. I’m ready for a challenge now and have started Brave New World. Hopefully the socio-political commentary won’t be too far over my head.
Wow, talk about a book that took me out of my element. Drop City is the story of a hippie commune that gets pushed out of their ranch in California and so heads north to Alaska to escape “the man” and freely live off the land. The first few chapters of this book paint a somewhat glamorous picture of hippie-dom. Free love, an eternal buzz, the beauty of brother and sister-hood… But as things progress, and as the Alaskan days grow darker and colder, the drug-induced bliss is peeled back to reveal people’s tendencies toward jealousy, greed, and selfishness. And things get messy. Train-wreck messy. Staying-up-way-past-my-bedtime-to-finish-just-one-more-chapter-messy. This was an enthralling story. My only complaint is that all the mayhem was a little too quickly and neatly resolved in the final few pages – I wouldn’t have minded a few loose ends.
This is one of those books that I could sit down with for several hours at a time, if only working and sleeping would just quit getting in the way of my reading time. Eat Pray Love is written from such a personal point of view - funny sometimes, sad sometimes (I appreciate her transparency), and chock-full of interesting insights into what life can be like in Italy, India, and Indonesia. And, though I don’t want to get all “self-help” preachy about this book, it’s true that each section had a lesson to offer me:  The author’s time in Italy (“Eat”) reminded me that the pursuit of pleasure (to a certain extent, of course) is actually a very worthy endeavor. Savor and appreciate life’s pleasures – don’t guilt yourself over them. Her time in an ashram in India (“Pray”) wasn’t quite so fun to read about as Italy, but the hours upon and hours and days upon days that she spent in deep, focused meditation did beg this question from me: when is the last time I sat down in a quiet room, silenced my mind, and did nothing but revel in God’s presence? Another worthy endeavor… And finally, the chapters on Indonesia (“Love”) were about relationships, and Lord knows, I do love reading about/talking about/watching movies about relationships, so this section was right up my alley. The strength of the friendships she formed in just a few short months was a reminder to me that I must let my guard down a little if I want to experience closeness.
Two thumbs up.
After spending the past couple weeks reading about architectural contracts in preparation for my first licensing exam, I was eager to take a break and spend a few days digging into some good old take-me-away fiction. I love the idea behind Girl with A Pearl Earring – the author created a fictional storyline based on the real paintings of Johannes Vermeer. She carefully studied the minute details of much of his work to inspire a story filled with love, jealousy, torment, and all that stuff that makes for a good girly read. I just wish it had been a little more believable. The dialogue sounded so contemporary for something set in the 15th century, and the main character (Griet – the “girl with a pearl earring”) often acted in a way that seemed pretty unlikely (her extreme concern for propriety didn’t quite align with her “promiscuity”). Would I recommend this book? Sure. Will you walk away from it feeling enlightened? Probably not, but it’s the perfect choice for a lazy afternoon when you just want to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea and indulge in some easy reading.
It had been awhile since I’ve read any poetry, and I’ve had this book sitting on my bookshelf for years, looking very forlorn and neglected, so I decided to give The Colossus a try. And I’m glad I did. While you shouldn’t count on Sylvia Plath to raise your spirits when you’re feeling down (one of her poems is about a body that was buried with a live rat in the coffin and the damage that ensued…), at least she is fully able to transport you to a different time and place (usually a place where white-capped waves crash under gray skies and withered leaves slowly drop from trees). Dark and brooding, but beautiful.
I love these lines from “The Ghost’s Leavetaking”, speaking of that nebulous time when night turns to dawn:
“So these posed sheets, before they thin to nothing,
Speak in a sign language of a lost otherworld,
A world we lose merely by waking up.”
In an effort to read a more well-rounded body of literature, I decided a few months ago that one out of every four or five books I read will come from the Modern Library’s List of the 100 Greatest English-Language Novels of the 20th Century. Thus, I decided earlier this month that it was time to tackle some James Joyce. Yikes. A Portrait of the Artist as A Young Man was a difficult read. Even painful, at times. It started off alright, but I got lost somewhere in the midst of one of his 8-page philosophical stream-of-consciousness tangents and never regained my footing again. I had to read some sentences 20 times. Seriously. So I must ask myself the question: am I reading primarily for pleasure, or primarily for literary well-roundedness? Is it possible to do both? Probably. One thing is for sure: the next book I pick of the list will not be Ulysses.
Difficulty aside, I appreciate the simple premise of the novel: it is the story of a boy becoming a man, learning to think for himself, to form his own opinions on religion and nationality and art. I just wish this simple premise had been expressed in slightly simpler terms…