little black journal

I got a shiny new Kindle for Christmas and have been on a reading rampage for the past week – I blazed through The Hiding Place in just a few days and have been scouring the library’s e-Book offerings this evening, making a list of all the books I want to tackle this year (the beginning of a new year has me feeling all goal-oriented and list-crazed).  I also like the idea of taking a look back at what I’ve read over the previous year, so here’s my recap:  I read 15.1 books in 2011 (that .1 is for the 150 pages I read of Les Miserables, before deciding I love reading too much to make myself trudge through all 1450 pages of Victor Hugo’s looooooong-winded story).  There were a few definite winners in here, a few solid Sunday afternoon companions, and a couple that I just wish I hadn’t wasted my time on.

The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver

 The Friday Night Knitting Club by Kate Jacobs

Cold Sassy Tree by Olive Ann Burns

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling

Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling

The Sweet Life in Paris by David Lebowitz

The Help by Kathryn Stockett

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou

Naked by David Sedaris

Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese

The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien

The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom

Best books of 2011:  Three-way tie between Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,  The Hiding Place, and Cold Sassy Tree.  They were all dramatically different (child wizard vs. concentration camp survivor vs. mischievous boy in the early 1900′s South), so I can’t compare them – I’ll just say I loved them all for different reasons: the fantastical unraveling of an epic story, the spiritual inspiration, the witty and endearing characters…  The Poisonwood Bible and The Help were close runners-up.

Worst book of 2011:  The Friday Night Knitting Club.  Don’t read it.  Just don’t.  Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet was also sadly unimpressive.

On the docket for 2012:  The Hunger Games Trilogy (a carry-over from my 2011 to-read list), The Great Gatsby (I missed classics this year), and The Power of One (I’ve heard amazing things).  I’ve decided that despite the rainy forecast, it’s going to be a very good winter.

Almost nine months ago, I embarked on a new literary journey as I picked up Harry Potter Book One.  My original intent was to read all seven books back-to-back, but book club and general Potter fatigue prevented me from powering through – it took me much longer than I expected to jump on board and officially join ranks with the HP fan club.  The first couple of books were fun, but they wrapped up too quickly and lacked the drama I love in a good read.  Book Three picked up a little bit, with the introduction of Sirius Black (one of my favorites) and an ending that started to unravel the story of Harry’s beginnings.  Book Four was fun and exciting but dark and mysterious, with the first real twinges of tragedy.  Book Five was intense and maddening (seriously, have you ever hated a character more than Dolores Umbridge?) but so, so good.  By book Six, I was all in, ready to sign up for the Order of the Phoenix, wanting to plaster ‘Dumbledore for President’ stickers on the bumper of our Civic.  And then, 10 days ago, I picked up Book Seven.  Ohhhhhhhh, Book Seven – I can’t remember the last time I loved a book like I loved the Deathly Hallows.  I was so fully invested in Ron, Hermione, and Harry, cheering them on, fearing for them, praying that they would emerge from their journey unscathed.  Shane came home last night to find me clutching the book to my chest, gushing over how brilliantly J.K. Rowling was tying the long and arduous journey together.  This evening, I turned the very last page, and the journey came to an end.  And for complete closure, I joined my fellow Potter fans tonight for the final movie.  And now…it’s done.  Finito.  All tied up with a scarlet and gold bow.  It’s kind of sad to see it end – it’s been one heck of a ride, HP…

Winter-time always brings out the reader in me – rainy Sunday afternoons spent curled up with a good novel are total perfection.  And I just finished up a goody – The Poisonwood Bible is my book club’s January pick, and I will be giving this one a very solid rating, starting out the year on a hard-to-top high note.  If not for last quarter of the book, where the story-line seemed to move away from the family of main characters and more toward what seemed like the author’s political agenda, I would have loved it even more.  Still, underlying agenda or no, it’s a really, really good read, about a missionary family that goes to live in Congo, and must come to terms with what life looks like when the comforts and ideals of a typical American life are stripped away.  The characters are all fictional, but the political turmoil that serves as a backdrop is real, and I love when a made-up story can still give me a general understanding of real-life cultural practices and historical events.

And now that I’m ‘between books’, if only for a few hours, I’ve been spending some time going back over the list of what I read last year, making note of the books I especially loved, and the working on my list of want-to-read’s for 2011.  My top three of 2010:

Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See.  As with The Poisonwood Bible, I appreciated the chance to learn about another culture’s history and traditions through totally enthralling fictional characters.  Book-wise, that’s a win-win.

Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris.  Not at all educational, or life-changing, but still really, really fun.  Plus, this book invokes memories of the hours I spent reading it on a beach in Mexico.  Bonus.

Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen.  I loved this book, but have yet to find anyone that enjoyed it even half as much as I did – it’s become a point of contention with some of my most trusted book-recommenders.  I wish I could articulate clearly what it was about this novel that struck such a cord with me, but I can’t put my finger on it…  And I don’t have to justify or defend my solid two-thumbs-up, so I won’t – I’ll just say that this is one of those rare books that I finished with the wish that there was more of it.

And a few books on my to-read list for 2011:

Books 4, 5, 6, and 7 of Harry Potter.  I powered through the first three toward the end of last year, then got distracted with something else. Admittedly, I don’t love them quite as much as I’d hoped, but I still look forward to reading the rest of the series.  It will be nice to not have to silence people whenever they start to talk about Harry Potter, since I’ve made it this far without knowing what happens at the end.

Les Miserables by Victor Hugo.  I bought this book several years ago, and all 1,400 pages of it taunt me every time I peruse my bookshelf for something new to read.  Yes, the size of it is daunting, but I’m ready.  And hoping it will make my next visit to Place des Vosges (one of my favorite squares in Paris, bordered in one corner by Victor Hugo’s lovely old mansion) that much more special.

The Hunger Games Trilogy by Suzanne Collins.  ’Cause I heard these books are fantastic and impossible to put down, and I might need a page-turner by the time I make it though Les Mis…

It’s extremely rare that I read the same book twice – I instead tend to focus my efforts on my constantly-growing shelf of unread books, which is the curse (or blessing) of being a person with a book-buying addiction.  But when my book club decided on Traveling Mercies as our latest pick, I felt like I was due for a little time with ol’ Annie Lamott – it had been 3 or 4 years since I’d picked up anything of hers.  And good, good Lord, this is good, good stuff.  Like, speaks-to-my-soul kind of stuff.  Like, makes-me-laugh-out-loud-then-want-to-cry kind of stuff.  Like, ‘Amen, Sister!’ kind of stuff.  She talks about her faith in a way that allows you to understand that it’s entirely possible to be deeply connected to God, but still deeply flawed, whether with anger, bitterness, self-centeredness, or vanity.  Being a Christian and being a person with a closet full of skeletons are not mutually exclusive.  And Anne’s closet certainly has skeletons.  But her life is incredibly rich with moments of finding and being found by God.  He hunts her down in the midst of her drug and alcohol addiction; she accepts His embrace through the death of her best friend; she even takes a moment to talk with God in the midst of the most frustrating circumstances, like her car breaking down while she’s on her way to visit an old friend that’s dying of cancer:

“‘It would be hard to capture how I felt at that moment.  It was a nightmare: Bad Mind kicked in.  Bad Mind can’t wait for this kind of opportunity:  ’I told you so,’ Bad Mind says.  It whispers to me that I am doomed because I am such a loser…  ’Will you pray with me?’ I asked Sam…  We said a prayer together that we find a solution, that we feel calmer.  I don’t believe in God as an old man in the clouds – ‘bespectacled old Yahweh’, as the late great John Gardner put it, ‘scratching his chin through his mountains of beard.’  But I do believe that God is with us even when we’re at our craziest and that this goodness guides, provides, protects, even in traffic.”

Amen, sister.

I’ve been in a bit of reading slump for the past couple of months – it’s been awhile since I’ve had something in my hands that I couldn’t put down.  A Gesture Life by Chang-rae Lee was beautifully written, but I found it hard to truly invest in any of its characters.  Little Bee by Chris Cleave was intriguing, but its ending left me feeling frustrated and unsatisfied.   And so, after years and years of somehow missing the boat, I am embarking on a new literary journey – all seven Harry Potter books, read start to finish, back-to-back.  My dear friend (and book club confidante) Nancy has lent me her well-loved set and has assured me that I will not be disappointed.  I have just started digging into book one and am already reveling in the vision of rainy Sunday afternoons spent curled up on the couch with Harry and Hermione, being whisked off to faraway lands full of wizards and witches, where reality is temporarily forgotten and my imagination runs wild and free.  Yes, I suspect this may be just what I’m looking for…

Despite frequent hopeful gazes out our living room window, I was unable to track down even a hint of blue sky today – seems that we have moved into a season (or seasons, plural, as is the case in Seattle) of gray skies and rainy afternoons.  Summer felt so fleeting this year.  I’m not sure if it’s because we’ve spent so much of the past several weeks on the go, or because this Summer was cooler than typical, but I’m having a hard time accepting that this season is really over.  Do I really have to bid farewell to Saturdays spent working in the garden, evenings spent spent drinking wine on the back porch? The forecast (rain for six of the next seven days) seems to be telling me a definitive ‘yes’.  At least this overcast weather was perfect for curling up on the couch and finishing up the book I’ve been reading, which turned out to be one of the best novels I’ve picked up in a long time.  Set in the midst of a traveling circus in the 1930′s, Water for Elephants was full of drama, action, romance, and suspense, carried out by characters you love dearly and hate passionately.  It’s was fun to be so absorbed in a book that I couldn’t put it down – especially during a weekend like this one, when I didn’t have big plans or sunny weather vying for my attention.  This will be a tough novel to top, but as I pull together the stack of books I’d like to finish before the end of the year, I will remain optimistic – here’s to hoping that Chang-rae Lee, Chris Cleave, and George Orwell do not disappoint.

Yes, it’s been awhile since I’ve posted about a book.  Fact is, I took a bit of a ‘literary detour’ and spent the first part of this summer wrapped up in the Twilight series.  And I won’t apologize for it – I was in the mood for something quick, easy, and just a little bit trashy, and that vampire saga fit the bill perfectly.  But once I got my fill of teenage romance, I was ready to flex my reading muscles and so picked up Till We Have Faces, my book club’s August pick.  This is C.S. Lewis’ interpretation of the classical myth of Cupid and Psyche, set in the far-off pagan land of Glome.  I’m not going to lie – this wasn’t a ‘fun’ read, but it stretched me, and encouraged me further explore deeper themes of selfish love, self-awareness, and frustration over a seemingly distant God.  And I like when a book stumps me, keeps the wheels in my head turning after I’ve put it down, forces me flip back through it in hopes of catching something new.  After doing some Googling and reading a couple of book reviews sent to me by my fellow stumped book-clubbies, I’m just scratching the surface of what Lewis may (or may not) have been getting at.  I’ll leave you with this passage, that seems to grow more powerful each time I reread it:

” ‘Child, to say the very thing you really mean, the whole of it, nothing more or less or other than what you really mean; that’s the whole art and joy of words.’  A glib saying.  When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the center of your soul for years, which you have, all that time, idiot-like, been saying over and over, you’ll not talk about joy of words.  I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer.  Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean?  How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?”

I haven’t been posting about all of my reading endeavors lately, because I felt like I ran out of ways to say, “I liked it”, or “It was too long”, but Jane Eyre consumed enough hours of my life to warrant a blog post.  I started this book two months ago, put it down for a week for a quick fling with David Sedaris, then (grudgingly) picked it back up again, determined to finish what I started.  Man, I wanted to love a classic like this, but this book really felt like a struggle.  The lengthy descriptions of the English landscape were too wordy, and the conversation felt incredibly stiff and overly formal.  I was frustrated by the fact that I had a such hard time placing myself in the middle of the story.  Then I realized that this book was published 163 years ago, and I was suddenly amazed at how much the English language has remained relatively unchanged over the past century-and-a-half.  Granted, Jane never used the word ‘dude’ or referred to Mr. Rochester as ‘smokin’ hot’, but the fact that I was able to understand 99.9% of this book’s contents seems surprising.  And I will admit, the last quarter of the book did really capture my attention, as I read on to see which fate Jane would choose.  So I’m glad I finished it; I’m glad my ‘literary horizons’ have been broadened.  Plus, it looks darn pretty sitting on my bookshelf…

There could not exist a more perfect book to read while on vacation.  Funny and light, hard to put down, full of witty little passages that I enjoyed reading aloud to Shane.  I have fond memories of the day I spent camped out on the beach with David Sedaris in one hand and a margarita in the other.  Seriously, though, this is funny stuff.  From the tales his rural upbringing in North Carolina to his days spent theater-hopping in Paris, he is able to infuse his life experiences with a humor that is one part sarcasm, one part cynicism, and two parts total light-heartedness.  I especially loved the stories that dealt with his struggle to learn the French language and could relate to several of his experiences.  This passage is classic:

“There are, I have noticed, two basic types of French spoken by Americans vacationing in Paris; the Hard Kind and the Easy Kind.  The Hard Kind involves the conjugation of wily verbs and the science of placing them alongside various other words in order to form such sentences as “I go him say good afternoon” and “No, not to him I no go it him say now.”  The second, less complicated form of French amounts to screaming English at the top of your lungs, much the same way you’d shout at a deaf person or the dog you thought you could train to say off the sofa.”

I’m looking forward to picking up more of his stuff – the true test will come when I find out whether he is just as funny on a rainy day in Seattle as he is on a sunny beach in Mexico…  I’ll let you know.

This book was one of those ‘should-reads’ I’ve had sitting on my shelf for a few years – a significant, widely-known piece of literature that I somehow missed in the course of all my high school and college English classes.  And so I set aside Anne of Green Gables (yes, I picked these old classics up during a nostalgic impulse), assumed my most literary attitude, and gave 1984 a go.  The fact that I was reading out of some kind of self-imposed obligation, rather than desire, made me fear that I might not enjoy the book all that much.  But it was actually quite fascinating.  A little slow at times, and certainly darker than what I usually read, but I found the characters and the underlying commentary on socialism/communism/totalitarianism and the role of government really, really interesting.  The book, which was published in 1949, takes place in the then-future year of 1984, a time when the government (the ‘Party’) knows all and rules all, via constant surveillance of all its members, incessant broadcasting of Party propaganda, and relentless fear mongering used to justify never-ending wars.  People are constantly warned that ‘Big Brother is Watching You.’  Creepy.  But – wait…  Fast-forward to 2010, and do we not now live in a nation where a large percentage of the population carries GPS-linked phones and laptops?  Add to that the constant onslaught of advertising and filtered news that we face every day in the form of radio, TV, the Internet, and poster-plastered buses, and the premise of 1984 is not so unimaginable.  I’m certainly not leading a revolution, and I’m thankful for the freedoms that I often take for granted, but the parallels here between the fiction and reality are certainly interesting.  Food for thought…