You may have read over at my other blog that I'm swamped with work stuff right now, so it's an interesting coincidence that this book popped up on my radar. "Geisha: A Life" (2002) is a memoir by Mineko Iwasaki that describes her training and career as the most successful modern geisha in Japan. At one point in her life, she worked for five years straight without a single day off, and lately, I've been feeling her pain.
Just to be clear, I'm not reviewing "Memoirs of a Geisha" by Arthur Golden. In fact, Iwasaki sued Golden over his book, because he listed her as one of his primary sources after he promised to protect her identity. She wrote her book as a kind of anti-Golden account, even stating in a few places that she wants to clear up the misconceptions that outsiders have about geisha and the world of the karyukai ("flower and willow world," basically the districts in Japan that house geisha and cater to their clients).
The book itself is a quick read. I've actually read it twice since my busy time started. I found it compelling for the world it described, though the writing itself is a bit dull. As far as memoirs go, it commits the fatal sin of telling-not-showing, using the "This happened to me, and then this happened to me, and then I met this person and we did this together" method. Shirley Jackson she ain't. But Iwasaki is a fascinating person who has led such an interesting life that the dull writing almost doesn't matter. She's giving away intimate details of one of the most secret and misunderstood societies in the world. How can you look away?
I'm biased in favor of this book to begin with because modern Hawaii culture is greatly influenced by our Japanese population, and I recognized a lot of the festivals and art forms described in the book. Furthermore, I played taiko drums for many years under both Japanese and American teachers, so I recognized many of the techniques and attitudes Iwasaki's teachers used on her during her training. Of course I never got within a hundred miles of the kind of talent and mastery that a geisha has over her chosen art form, but it was all familiar enough to make me feel a bit nostalgic.
Final Grade: C. Recommended for those interested in Japanese culture, geisha, and sticking it to the imperialist white man who tramples the dignity of your profession.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Review: "Flight Behavior" by Barbara Kingsolver
I felt so confident that I would love Barbara Kingsolver's latest novel, "Flight Behavior" (2012) that I actually bought it. New. In hardcover. I had an option at the time, because I had a gift card to the fabulous Greenlight Bookstore, to purchase two of her earlier works in paperback, but went for the shiny new book instead, because I've followed her career and she tops herself with every subsequent work she publishes. Hot damn, I thought, new Kingsolver and gift card to afford the hardback. I am one lucky Big Island Rachel.
But no. Just--no.
"Flight Behavior" wasn't as big a disappointment to me as reading Monique Truong's mediocre "Bitter in the Mouth" after her superlative "The Book of Salt." That let-down was a literary tragedy for me because I just loved "The Book of Salt" so very much. I will get around to reviewing it someday, I promise.
This was merely a disappointment, considering that it came close on the heels of "The Lacuna," which literally made me clasp my chest and cry out in pain at one point. And I recommend Kingsolver's "The Poisonwood Bible" to anyone who talks with me about books for more than two minutes. (I really regret not buying those two books in paperback at Greenlight when I had the chance.)
What both of these books have in common is that they deal with sweeping historical events from the perspective of the rather insignificant individuals caught in the middle of them. The overall effect humanizes these big, almost unfathomable occurrences that shape countries and cultures. There's something so intimate and personal about her stories, something immediate, that both transcends and illuminates time and place in Kingsolver's novels. You never feel like you're reading "historical fiction."
"Flight Behavior" attempts to do the same thing, but instead of discussing Communism in the Americas ("The Lacuna") or the de-colonization of Africa ("The Poisonwood Bible"), this book is about climate change. The every-man that walks us through the issues of the day is Dellarobia, a young mother in the Appalachias who discovers a colony of monarch butterflies on her in-laws' property. The monarchs should be at their winter home in Mexico, but have instead come here, because of climate change. A media circus swirls around the butterflies appearance, a handsome scientist moves into Dellarobia's barn to study the phenom, and she realizes that she has some tough choices to make about the unhappy life she's built for herself.
This is not a bad book, by any means. I read the whole thing, after all. I really like Dellarobia and feel for her plight. She married the boy who got her pregnant in high school, and while he's a good man, she's just too quick and smart for the kind of the life he can offer her. She loves her kids, but resents the hell out of the limitations of stay-at-home mothering. And she's poor. So poor, gang.
Poverty in modern America is a big theme in this book, and I sort of wish it had been the sole focus, because Kingsolver describes it so well. I loved the scene where Dellarobia and her husband have a fight in the dollar store as they attempt to put together a "real Christmas" for their children on a $50 budget. The book lingers over details like their truck on its third engine, the lack of protein in their diets, the shoddy stitching on their cheap clothes, and the free lunch forms Dellarobia gives to her son to take to school.
Much like Edith Wharton does in "Ethan Frome," Kingsolver illuminates the dark reality of the American dream, where all pathways to salvation and happiness require an amount of money that is simply impossible for the protagonists to acquire without an act of evil, wanton destruction. A lot of the tension in "Flight Behavior" comes from Dellarobia's father-in-law, who wants to sell the timber rights of the butterflies' mountain to a logging company to pay off his debts so he doesn't lose his land outright. If the mountain is logged, it will effectively mean the extinction of the species, because so much of the North American population is wintering on the mountain. And worse, it will only pay the debt for a month or so, leaving the family right back where it started. It's a short term act that will have permanent repercussions.
Anyone else hear the whistling of the symbolism sledgehammer as it swings down toward your head?
Here's where the book falls apart for me. It's about climate change, and when I say that, I don't mean that climate change is the larger issue in which these characters' stories play out; I mean it's about climate change. There's long passages where scientists explain how climate change works, what greenhouse gases are, and why every argument that states climate change isn't happening is wrong. There's protesters and activists camping out on the butterflies' mountain. There's media personalities describing how they'll put the spin on the story to make it seem like climate change is a matter of controversy in the scientific community. And at some point, all of this tips the balance, and the book stops transcending its theme. It becomes polemic, its agenda too transparent, and I feel like I'm being preached at.
It's such a shame, because I feel like certain aspects of this book really do keep that balance. The preacher of the community makes some great arguments about God wanting humans to be responsible stewards of the planet, showing that the issue of climate change isn't as clear-cut as rational, science-minded people on one side and stupid religious people on the other. The scenes about poverty show that planet-destroying habits don't come from a place of selfishness or evil, but from need and lack of affordable alternative options. Dellarobia's whole situation is symbolic of climate change: she just sort of went along with everything and made the best decisions she could, until she looked up one day and realized that she was fucked.
But all of that deftness and subtlety is thrown out the window whenever people sit around a table and talk about climate change. It feels so clumsy and forced, like that part in George Orwell's "1984" that is just a passage from another book analyzing how totalitarianism works. Did he think his readers wouldn't understand it without the scholarly essay? We have just spend a hundred-odd pages with characters living in that society, I think we know what's going on.
I don't love all of Kingsolver's books. I didn't even finish "Animal Dreams," one of her earlier works. But the talent and skill she's accumulated over the course of her career made me expect a little more from "Flight Behavior" than was actually delivered. It's an okay book. It's just not great.
Final grade: C+. Recommended for those who like family dramas, stories about the American frontier, environmental issues, and butterflies.
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| Luxury goods! |
"Flight Behavior" wasn't as big a disappointment to me as reading Monique Truong's mediocre "Bitter in the Mouth" after her superlative "The Book of Salt." That let-down was a literary tragedy for me because I just loved "The Book of Salt" so very much. I will get around to reviewing it someday, I promise.
This was merely a disappointment, considering that it came close on the heels of "The Lacuna," which literally made me clasp my chest and cry out in pain at one point. And I recommend Kingsolver's "The Poisonwood Bible" to anyone who talks with me about books for more than two minutes. (I really regret not buying those two books in paperback at Greenlight when I had the chance.)
What both of these books have in common is that they deal with sweeping historical events from the perspective of the rather insignificant individuals caught in the middle of them. The overall effect humanizes these big, almost unfathomable occurrences that shape countries and cultures. There's something so intimate and personal about her stories, something immediate, that both transcends and illuminates time and place in Kingsolver's novels. You never feel like you're reading "historical fiction."
"Flight Behavior" attempts to do the same thing, but instead of discussing Communism in the Americas ("The Lacuna") or the de-colonization of Africa ("The Poisonwood Bible"), this book is about climate change. The every-man that walks us through the issues of the day is Dellarobia, a young mother in the Appalachias who discovers a colony of monarch butterflies on her in-laws' property. The monarchs should be at their winter home in Mexico, but have instead come here, because of climate change. A media circus swirls around the butterflies appearance, a handsome scientist moves into Dellarobia's barn to study the phenom, and she realizes that she has some tough choices to make about the unhappy life she's built for herself.
This is not a bad book, by any means. I read the whole thing, after all. I really like Dellarobia and feel for her plight. She married the boy who got her pregnant in high school, and while he's a good man, she's just too quick and smart for the kind of the life he can offer her. She loves her kids, but resents the hell out of the limitations of stay-at-home mothering. And she's poor. So poor, gang.
Poverty in modern America is a big theme in this book, and I sort of wish it had been the sole focus, because Kingsolver describes it so well. I loved the scene where Dellarobia and her husband have a fight in the dollar store as they attempt to put together a "real Christmas" for their children on a $50 budget. The book lingers over details like their truck on its third engine, the lack of protein in their diets, the shoddy stitching on their cheap clothes, and the free lunch forms Dellarobia gives to her son to take to school.
Much like Edith Wharton does in "Ethan Frome," Kingsolver illuminates the dark reality of the American dream, where all pathways to salvation and happiness require an amount of money that is simply impossible for the protagonists to acquire without an act of evil, wanton destruction. A lot of the tension in "Flight Behavior" comes from Dellarobia's father-in-law, who wants to sell the timber rights of the butterflies' mountain to a logging company to pay off his debts so he doesn't lose his land outright. If the mountain is logged, it will effectively mean the extinction of the species, because so much of the North American population is wintering on the mountain. And worse, it will only pay the debt for a month or so, leaving the family right back where it started. It's a short term act that will have permanent repercussions.
Anyone else hear the whistling of the symbolism sledgehammer as it swings down toward your head?
Here's where the book falls apart for me. It's about climate change, and when I say that, I don't mean that climate change is the larger issue in which these characters' stories play out; I mean it's about climate change. There's long passages where scientists explain how climate change works, what greenhouse gases are, and why every argument that states climate change isn't happening is wrong. There's protesters and activists camping out on the butterflies' mountain. There's media personalities describing how they'll put the spin on the story to make it seem like climate change is a matter of controversy in the scientific community. And at some point, all of this tips the balance, and the book stops transcending its theme. It becomes polemic, its agenda too transparent, and I feel like I'm being preached at.
It's such a shame, because I feel like certain aspects of this book really do keep that balance. The preacher of the community makes some great arguments about God wanting humans to be responsible stewards of the planet, showing that the issue of climate change isn't as clear-cut as rational, science-minded people on one side and stupid religious people on the other. The scenes about poverty show that planet-destroying habits don't come from a place of selfishness or evil, but from need and lack of affordable alternative options. Dellarobia's whole situation is symbolic of climate change: she just sort of went along with everything and made the best decisions she could, until she looked up one day and realized that she was fucked.
But all of that deftness and subtlety is thrown out the window whenever people sit around a table and talk about climate change. It feels so clumsy and forced, like that part in George Orwell's "1984" that is just a passage from another book analyzing how totalitarianism works. Did he think his readers wouldn't understand it without the scholarly essay? We have just spend a hundred-odd pages with characters living in that society, I think we know what's going on.
I don't love all of Kingsolver's books. I didn't even finish "Animal Dreams," one of her earlier works. But the talent and skill she's accumulated over the course of her career made me expect a little more from "Flight Behavior" than was actually delivered. It's an okay book. It's just not great.
Final grade: C+. Recommended for those who like family dramas, stories about the American frontier, environmental issues, and butterflies.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Review: "The Haunting of Hill House" by Shirley Jackson
Shirley Jackson is one of those secret-famous authors. Say her name and you're likely to get back a lot of blank stares, but say the title of her work or an adaptation of her work and watch their eyes light up. "That's who wrote it? What was her name again?"
Most schoolchildren in America are familiar with her short story, "The Lottery," about a small town that ritualistically murders an individual every year to ensure good harvest and good fortune. It's such a classic that you might know it by heart without remembering the first time you read it or saw it referenced in other TV shows and movies. "The Simpsons" referenced it in their golden years ("Dog of Death," season 3, episode 19), and even "South Park" took a stab at it, no pun intended because the townsfolk use rocks ("Britney's New Look," season 12, episode 2).
The subject of today's post, Jackson's 1959 novella "The Haunting of Hill House," has twice been adapted as a movie called "The Haunting." The first movie from 1963 is supposed to be pretty good, a classic of horror cinema, which is why I haven't watched it. I'm a pansy. I saw the 1999 remake on TV one night, but only because it's too shitty to be scary, even for me. I don't recommend it, though I do recommend this Nostalgia Critic video review that compares the two versions.
As I mentioned, I'm a pansy when it comes to horror. I actually read "The Haunting of Hill House" in the day time because I was too afraid to read it at night. Was my fear justified? Yes, but maybe not in the way Jackson intended. Horror and ghost stories depend a great deal on atmosphere, and Jackson certainly knows how to create that brooding sense of danger and fear. But for me, the book was a bit defeated by her own premise, which is that the characters are gathering in the big scary haunted house specifically to study and observe the phenom of a haunting. Some of my fear immediately goes out the window when the characters know that they're being haunted and talk openly about their impressions and observations of the ghosts' activity.
I think Jackson was trying to show how the power of ghosts and fear can hold up even under scientific scrutiny, and while it's an original premise that raises a lot of interesting questions about the concepts and conceits of the ghost story genre, it doesn't necessarily make this ghost story any scarier. The scariest parts of this book are the bits that veer away from the scientific and dive right in to the cliche: the whispers of the townsfolk and caretakers, the knockings and voices in the night, the disorienting dimensions of the house itself.
Where "The Haunting of Hill House" really shines is the character development. Jackson is great at creating dialog that feels both natural and revealing, if a bit archaic to modern readers, given the time it was written. She's a master of the "show-don't-tell" technique (which is why teachers love her work so much), and she gives these stock characters depth and dimension, making them fully realized individuals instead of just archetypes. Two characters that bumble in toward the end of the book--the pushy psychic and the Teddy Roosevelt-esque headmaster--are referred to in the narration only by their names, but their dialog is so wonderfully descriptive and personalized that I knew as much about them after three pages than I knew about the other four characters after spending an entire book with them. All writers aspire to that level of skill, but few will ever reach the heights that Jackson did.
Maybe that's why more ordinary readers don't know Jackson by name. She's a great example of a writer's writer, known to those who write and those who study and teach writing, to the point that you might read something of hers and think it feels every familiar, because so many bigger, more famous authors are inspired by her *coughStephenKing*. I consider her one of the Great American Writers and highly encourage you to check out her oeuvre, which is widely available at your local library and online for free in my cases.
Final Grade: B+. It gets a few points deducted because it scared me. Recommended for those who like horror or ghost stories, meta works that skew the genre, and writers who could learn a thing or two from a hidden gem of American literature.
Most schoolchildren in America are familiar with her short story, "The Lottery," about a small town that ritualistically murders an individual every year to ensure good harvest and good fortune. It's such a classic that you might know it by heart without remembering the first time you read it or saw it referenced in other TV shows and movies. "The Simpsons" referenced it in their golden years ("Dog of Death," season 3, episode 19), and even "South Park" took a stab at it, no pun intended because the townsfolk use rocks ("Britney's New Look," season 12, episode 2).
The subject of today's post, Jackson's 1959 novella "The Haunting of Hill House," has twice been adapted as a movie called "The Haunting." The first movie from 1963 is supposed to be pretty good, a classic of horror cinema, which is why I haven't watched it. I'm a pansy. I saw the 1999 remake on TV one night, but only because it's too shitty to be scary, even for me. I don't recommend it, though I do recommend this Nostalgia Critic video review that compares the two versions.
As I mentioned, I'm a pansy when it comes to horror. I actually read "The Haunting of Hill House" in the day time because I was too afraid to read it at night. Was my fear justified? Yes, but maybe not in the way Jackson intended. Horror and ghost stories depend a great deal on atmosphere, and Jackson certainly knows how to create that brooding sense of danger and fear. But for me, the book was a bit defeated by her own premise, which is that the characters are gathering in the big scary haunted house specifically to study and observe the phenom of a haunting. Some of my fear immediately goes out the window when the characters know that they're being haunted and talk openly about their impressions and observations of the ghosts' activity.I think Jackson was trying to show how the power of ghosts and fear can hold up even under scientific scrutiny, and while it's an original premise that raises a lot of interesting questions about the concepts and conceits of the ghost story genre, it doesn't necessarily make this ghost story any scarier. The scariest parts of this book are the bits that veer away from the scientific and dive right in to the cliche: the whispers of the townsfolk and caretakers, the knockings and voices in the night, the disorienting dimensions of the house itself.
Where "The Haunting of Hill House" really shines is the character development. Jackson is great at creating dialog that feels both natural and revealing, if a bit archaic to modern readers, given the time it was written. She's a master of the "show-don't-tell" technique (which is why teachers love her work so much), and she gives these stock characters depth and dimension, making them fully realized individuals instead of just archetypes. Two characters that bumble in toward the end of the book--the pushy psychic and the Teddy Roosevelt-esque headmaster--are referred to in the narration only by their names, but their dialog is so wonderfully descriptive and personalized that I knew as much about them after three pages than I knew about the other four characters after spending an entire book with them. All writers aspire to that level of skill, but few will ever reach the heights that Jackson did.
Maybe that's why more ordinary readers don't know Jackson by name. She's a great example of a writer's writer, known to those who write and those who study and teach writing, to the point that you might read something of hers and think it feels every familiar, because so many bigger, more famous authors are inspired by her *coughStephenKing*. I consider her one of the Great American Writers and highly encourage you to check out her oeuvre, which is widely available at your local library and online for free in my cases.
Final Grade: B+. It gets a few points deducted because it scared me. Recommended for those who like horror or ghost stories, meta works that skew the genre, and writers who could learn a thing or two from a hidden gem of American literature.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Review: "Sweet Tooth" by Ian McEwan
Wow, another 2012 book, and a popular one at that! I'd almost call my media empire mainstream if I didn't just publish a 2000-word rant on what I thought was wrong with movie "The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey" over on my personal blog.
Ian McEwan's "Sweet Tooth" is about spies. Specifically Serene Frome (rhymes with "plum"), a young up-and-coming agent in Britain's MI5 of James Bond fame. Serena rescued from her dull routine of paper-pushing and endless filing when an old crush within the agency approaches with project Sweet Tooth, which seeks to secretly fund writers with a distinctly pro-capitalist and pro-Britain sensibility. The hope is that these writers will produce popular and well-regarded works that will sway public opinion away from communism and toward the status quo. Basically, Serena's superiors hope that her target will be the new George Orwell and write another "1984."
Of course, she sleeps with her target the second time they meet and begins a long affair with him; and of course, he doesn't end up writing "1984" at all, but a popular and well-regarded anti-capitalist dystopia. Oh dear, what will become of Serena and Sweet Tooth now?
There's a twist at the end of this novel that I'm not going to give away here. But if, like me, you're slightly bothered by Serena's narrative and think her a bit of a twit or lacking in some ill-defined way, you're in for quite a surprise.
I breezed through this one in a couple of days. It's a fine novel, the twist is a memorable one, and I was interested to learn about Britain in the late sixties and early seventies, especially in regard to the way it's government handled various energy and political crises both at home and abroad. I suspect that readers who are interested in the politics of the Cold War, or politics in general, will notice and appreciate many things that went over my head. But it's not a book I need to own or read again.
Final grade: B. Recommended for Anglophiles, those interested in the Cold War, and fans of all things spy-related.
Ian McEwan's "Sweet Tooth" is about spies. Specifically Serene Frome (rhymes with "plum"), a young up-and-coming agent in Britain's MI5 of James Bond fame. Serena rescued from her dull routine of paper-pushing and endless filing when an old crush within the agency approaches with project Sweet Tooth, which seeks to secretly fund writers with a distinctly pro-capitalist and pro-Britain sensibility. The hope is that these writers will produce popular and well-regarded works that will sway public opinion away from communism and toward the status quo. Basically, Serena's superiors hope that her target will be the new George Orwell and write another "1984."Of course, she sleeps with her target the second time they meet and begins a long affair with him; and of course, he doesn't end up writing "1984" at all, but a popular and well-regarded anti-capitalist dystopia. Oh dear, what will become of Serena and Sweet Tooth now?
There's a twist at the end of this novel that I'm not going to give away here. But if, like me, you're slightly bothered by Serena's narrative and think her a bit of a twit or lacking in some ill-defined way, you're in for quite a surprise.
I breezed through this one in a couple of days. It's a fine novel, the twist is a memorable one, and I was interested to learn about Britain in the late sixties and early seventies, especially in regard to the way it's government handled various energy and political crises both at home and abroad. I suspect that readers who are interested in the politics of the Cold War, or politics in general, will notice and appreciate many things that went over my head. But it's not a book I need to own or read again.
Final grade: B. Recommended for Anglophiles, those interested in the Cold War, and fans of all things spy-related.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Review: "This Is How You Lose Her" by Junot Diaz
Diaz won the Pulitzer back in 2007 for "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao," which I also read and thoroughly enjoyed. I learned a great deal about the history of the Dominican Republic, specifically about the reign of the dictator Rafael Trujillo, who ruled the island nation with blood and terror from 1930 to 1961. And I especially liked "Oscar Wao" because Diaz relied heavily on fantasy and science fiction analogies to explain the complex politics and history of Trujillo's Santo Domingo.
"Lose Her" is a much more intimate novel. Written as a series of interconnected short stories, the book centers around the narrator Yunior, who can't stop screwing around on his girlfriend Magda. She leaves him and he just can't seem to get over it, even though he was the one who kept a truly shocking number of sucias on the side.
"Sucia" and the masculine "sucio," as near as I can tell, means "slut." With Google Translate, it would be extremely easy for me to look up the exact meanings behind all of the Spanish words and phrases scattered throughout Diaz's prose--in fact, others who've read Diaz tell me they get frustrated because they keep stopping to look up definitions--but I don't bother. One, because context usually provides clues to meaning, and two, because I know the teensiest bit of Spanish and can figure most phrases out if I give it a moment's thought. I don't often try, though. Diaz hits that sweet spot of just enough Spanish words, but not too many of them, making prose that is both readable and slightly mysterious. We can peek through the windows into these characters' world, but can't just walk in through the front door whenever we please.
Another thing I like about the Spanish-English prose is that it really gives the impression of Diaz writing for an audience of Dominican Americans. I'm always slightly bothered by authors who go to foreign countries and write about the people in those countries, because those authors aren't writing for those people; they're writing for other (white) people at home to better understand the "foreigners." That's why Isabella Bird's "The Hawaiian Archipelago" didn't get an A on my rating system and why Leslie Marmon Silko's "Ceremony" did.
Ah, hell, I didn't review "The Hawaiian Archipelago" yet? I so clearly remember building that post in my mind. Is it possible I just thought about it so hard that I completely forgot to actually write it? This is my real problem with having a book blog: I read too much. Every time Saturday rolls around, I've got about three books I've finished that week that I can review, so I pick one and tell myself I'll review the others the next time around--by which time I've finished three more books! I'm going to have to write more reviews. Or read less books, I guess.
Where was I? Right, Junot Diaz's "This Is How You Lose Her" reads like a book written by and for an audience of Dominican Americans, and I very much enjoy that kind of writing. There's a whole sub-genre of Pidgin literature in Hawaii that seeks to legitimize the language and culture of local residents descended from the East Asian and Pacific Rim immigrants of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. I took a class on Pidgin Lit in college and learned a lot about how language shapes cultural and individual identity.
For example, if Diaz had used the English word "slut" instead of "sucio" or "sucia," the true meaning of the term would have been lost. "Slut" has all sorts of cultural and moral baggage attached to it, but it's the baggage of the English-speaking society from which it originates. "Sucio" has an entirely different meaning and significance for the Spanish-speaking society that uses it. Swapping "sucio" for "slut" doesn't work because each society has different attitudes toward sex and morality. For one thing, "slut" applies only to women and has no male equivalent, whereas "sucio/sucia" is both masculine and feminine depending on the suffix and can apply to either gender. That right there says a lot about the different ways sexuality is expressed and viewed in the English- and Spanish-speaking cultures that Diaz explores in his work.
This brings us back to the plot of the book. Yunior is muy sucio, as was his father, his brother, and all of his friends. They all have clandestine sex and sometimes even children outside of their primary relationships, and they measure the strength of their masculinity by the number of women they fuck. How the women feel about this behavior doesn't matter to them, because they figure they can always find another woman if one leaves them in disgust. Yunior finds the flaw in this logic when the woman who leaves him is the one woman he desperately wants to keep, and no girlfriend he finds afterwards can replace her.
I see some similarities between Yunior and Madame Bovary, who also slept around on her partner out of ill-defined boredom and a desire to make her life fit the pattern of some archetypal romantic heroine. However, Madame Bovary models her sexual life on the trashy romance novels she reads. Yunior models his behavior on his real-life family and peers, which makes his situation almost more hopeless than hers because he has the tacit encouragement and approval of everyone around him to keep acting like a cheating piece of shit, even when it costs him everything.
"This Is How You Lose Her" isn't a very happy book, but it is a realistic one that thoroughly explores the damaged psyche of a man who lost a good woman because of his society's poisonous attitudes toward sex and relationships. We can file this one away under the "sexism hurts men, too" umbrella. Patriarchy--it's a bitch.
Final Grade: B. Recommended for those who like a tragic love story, seeing a cheater get what's coming to him, or exploring the dark side of sexism from the perspective of someone who benefits from it.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Review: "The Round House" by Louise Erdrich
It's not often I'm so timely with my book reviews. Louise Erdich's "The Round House" was this 2012's National Book Award winner for fiction, which for me is basically a breaking story. Normally I read books I find on doorsteps, so they're old and possibly swarming with parasites, but my feminist websites have been all abuzz about "The Round House" because it's the first book by a Native American woman to win the prize, and I needed to see what the fuss was about. I had to wait in the hold queue for several weeks to get my library's copy, so all of the professional reviewers have already taken a crack at this book, but let's dive in anyway. We all know that my crack is the best.I'm going to show up in some disturbing Google searches for that sentence.
This is the third book of Erdrich's that I've read, after "The Master Butchers Singing Club" and "Love Medicine." I own a copy of "Love Medicine," which was pretty good and I may review it someday. But I have to confess that even though I tried a couple of times, I couldn't get through "The Master Butchers Singing Club." Both books are these sweeping family sagas that play out over several generations. "The Round House" is not, and I think it's a better book than the other two because of it. The family sagas have sprawling casts of characters and various historical events to get through, so everything is more general and broadly drawn. We don't get a really in depth picture of one character or situation because there are so many. But with a book like "The Round House," Erdrich zeroes in on one person, at one point in time, dealing with one event, and this gives the story room to breathe and really explore its various dimensions.
"The Round House" takes place over a single summer in 1988 on a North Dakota Ojibwe reservation, where the narrator Joe has just turned thirteen. The book opens with the brutal attack and rape of his mother, and the rest of the story is about the fallout of this attack, both within Joe's immediate family and within their community. Joe's father is a judge on the reservation, so we get a close, inside look at the legal challenges faced by Native American tribes when they go looking for justice within a justice system that has not, historically, protected their interests or rights. Joe's mother knows and can identify the culprit, but the man attacked her on an intersection between reservation, state, and federal land, which are all represented by different courts. It's impossible for anyone to determine what legal entity has jurisdiction over the crime, so the man gets away free.
Or does he?
"The Round House" is an interesting mix of a legal thriller and a coming-of-age story. Joe is full of energy and zest for life; he runs around, makes mischief, ogles women and sneaks booze and drugs with his friends, because he's thirteen and his life is just beginning. But he's also the recipient of several hundred years of very sad and bloody history that comes crashing into his own house and family when his mother is attacked. He struggles to integrate his natural teenage selfishness and irresponsibility with this huge burden of justice that has suddenly descended on his shoulders. There's a lot of humor in his journey, but also a lot of sadness as he trades his innocence for a lifelong sense of terrible purpose, and realizes that things will never return to their former shapes.
Final Grade for "The Round House": B+/A-. Once you start, you can't put it down, but the subject matter is harsh and I'm not sure I want to re-read it anytime soon. Not recommended for the faint of heart. Recommended for those who like coming-of-age stories, legal thrillers, and books about the contemporary Native American experience.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Review: "Slaughterhouse-five" by Kurt Vonnegut
I could have sworn it was "Slaughterhouse-5," with a digit, but the Internet informs me that it's "Slaughterhouse-five," with the word.
So memory is a funny thing, as we see in Kurt Vonnegut's semi-autobiographical anti-war novel. Vonnegut, if you don't know, was a prisoner of war in Dresden, Germany in the waning days of World War II. He survived the Allied firebombing of that city and swore that he would one day write his "famous Dresden book" about the attack, which he considered the most important thing that had ever happened to him, after being born, getting married and having children.
Ordinarily, this is the sort of book that I would review during Banned Books Week, since it was one of the most frequently challenged books of the 1990s. But Delacorte Press recently published a volume of Vonnegut's letters and essays, edited by Dan Wakefield, and selections from the book have been making the rounds on the Internet, putting me in the mood for Vonnegut's wit and humanity. If you've never read any Vonnegut, "Slaughterhouse-five" (or "Cat's Cradle" if you prefer more traditional storytelling) is a good place to start. It combines Vonnegut's trademark deadpan humor with the surprisingly tender grasp of human frailty that made him one of America's greatest writers.
The firebombing of Dresden is the moral centerpiece of 1969's "Slaughterhouse-Five; or, The Children’s Crusade: A Duty-Dance with Death." The book, arguable Vonnegut's most famous and influential work, was nominated for a National Book Award, though as you can read for yourself in this 1969 New York Times book review, it's always struggled to claw its way out of the science fiction ghetto into its very deserved place in the ranks of serious literary satire.
The protagonist, Billy Pilgrim, is "unstuck in time." He never knows what part of his life he is going to experience next, and he lives in a perpetual state of anxiety, never knowing if he is going to walk through a door into the firebombing of Dresden or wake up naked in a zoo on the alien planet Tralfalmadore, where he is the main exhibit. The non-linear style of writing is one of the greatest strengths of the book, because we get to see scenes of absolute lunacy and utter weirdness juxtaposed with horrific scenes of war and human suffering. You've never realized how stupid and senseless war is until it's all jumbled up with flying saucers and aliens shaped like toilet plungers.
Vonnegut had a rare talent for taking huge, almost unfathomable ideas and breaking them down to the hard and simple nuggets of truth at their core. I think one of the comforting things about war is that it's so big and confusing that we can sometimes hide from its reality by convincing ourselves it's much for our puny human brains to comprehend. "Slaughterhouse-five" strips away all of that comforting confusion and forces us to understand and grapple with the worst aspects of humanity. There is nowhere to hide from this blazing torch of a novel.
Final grade is A. Recommended for first-time Vonnegut readers, and fans of satire, science fiction, politics, and peace. Not recommended for people who can't stand gore and bodily functions. There's no shame in that, I'm just warning you that there's a lot of diarrhea in this book.
So memory is a funny thing, as we see in Kurt Vonnegut's semi-autobiographical anti-war novel. Vonnegut, if you don't know, was a prisoner of war in Dresden, Germany in the waning days of World War II. He survived the Allied firebombing of that city and swore that he would one day write his "famous Dresden book" about the attack, which he considered the most important thing that had ever happened to him, after being born, getting married and having children.Ordinarily, this is the sort of book that I would review during Banned Books Week, since it was one of the most frequently challenged books of the 1990s. But Delacorte Press recently published a volume of Vonnegut's letters and essays, edited by Dan Wakefield, and selections from the book have been making the rounds on the Internet, putting me in the mood for Vonnegut's wit and humanity. If you've never read any Vonnegut, "Slaughterhouse-five" (or "Cat's Cradle" if you prefer more traditional storytelling) is a good place to start. It combines Vonnegut's trademark deadpan humor with the surprisingly tender grasp of human frailty that made him one of America's greatest writers.
The firebombing of Dresden is the moral centerpiece of 1969's "Slaughterhouse-Five; or, The Children’s Crusade: A Duty-Dance with Death." The book, arguable Vonnegut's most famous and influential work, was nominated for a National Book Award, though as you can read for yourself in this 1969 New York Times book review, it's always struggled to claw its way out of the science fiction ghetto into its very deserved place in the ranks of serious literary satire.
The protagonist, Billy Pilgrim, is "unstuck in time." He never knows what part of his life he is going to experience next, and he lives in a perpetual state of anxiety, never knowing if he is going to walk through a door into the firebombing of Dresden or wake up naked in a zoo on the alien planet Tralfalmadore, where he is the main exhibit. The non-linear style of writing is one of the greatest strengths of the book, because we get to see scenes of absolute lunacy and utter weirdness juxtaposed with horrific scenes of war and human suffering. You've never realized how stupid and senseless war is until it's all jumbled up with flying saucers and aliens shaped like toilet plungers.
Vonnegut had a rare talent for taking huge, almost unfathomable ideas and breaking them down to the hard and simple nuggets of truth at their core. I think one of the comforting things about war is that it's so big and confusing that we can sometimes hide from its reality by convincing ourselves it's much for our puny human brains to comprehend. "Slaughterhouse-five" strips away all of that comforting confusion and forces us to understand and grapple with the worst aspects of humanity. There is nowhere to hide from this blazing torch of a novel.
Final grade is A. Recommended for first-time Vonnegut readers, and fans of satire, science fiction, politics, and peace. Not recommended for people who can't stand gore and bodily functions. There's no shame in that, I'm just warning you that there's a lot of diarrhea in this book.
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