J.D. Salinger’s death inspired us to pick this for our YA book club. I’d read it once before, but in college (just on my own, not for a class), too late, I felt at the time, for it to have a genuine impact on me. Knowing the book had such an iconic status made it hard for it to live up to its reputation. I remember thinking it was well-written, but I just didn’t see how so many people could love it so much—and especially, how it could inspire someone to assassinate Lennon or Reagan. I was too caught up in the idea that I was supposed to identify with Holden Caulfield, and I didn’t. How could I, really? I was a 1990s suburban Midwestern girl with no real experience of getting expelled from boarding school, drinking, smoking, sex, true alienation, or wandering New York City alone. I had a hard time even sympathizing with Holden’s refusal to get good grades.
Rereading the book in my thirties, however, I was freed from a lot of the assumptions about how it was supposed to make me feel, and I really liked it. Two decades removed from Holden, I saw him as a typical smart, sensitive, posturing teenage boy, sometimes endearing, sometimes annoying as hell, trying to come to terms with one of the central revelations of growing up: that a lot of the adult world is bullshit. A lot of people just buy into the bullshit, and others (like me) recognize it and try to live with it as best they can without letting it touch them, but some people just can’t handle it, and it hurts them. Realizing that I could understand Holden without having to always like him was the key to the book for me. Even though I don’t really like picaresque plot structures like this one, I enjoyed it as a masterful character study (and not just of Holden—Phoebe is one of the most awesome little girls in classic literature). I’ll still roll my eyes at anyone who calls Holden their hero (a la Jake Gyllenhaal in The Good Girl), but I definitely won’t be all “Ho hum, The Catcher in the Rye, so cliché” anymore, which I’d fallen into the habit of before. I might not adore it or want to carry a copy around in my back pocket, but it’s a genuinely good book.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
BETSY’S WEDDING
The last book in Maud Hart Lovelace’s Betsy-Tacy series, and the one least palatable to me as a child. It was always a comedown when my favorite characters got married (see: The First Four Years, Anne of Ingleside and its sequels, and Little Men/Jo’s Boys); they seemed to become markedly less interesting. Now that I’m older, however, adult pursuits don’t seem quite so boring, and even if the beloved characters lose a bit of their joie de vivre, I’m still fascinated by how their grown-up adventures reflect the values and customs of their historical eras.
Some parts of Betsy’s Wedding raised my modern feminist hackles; in the previous books, Betsy’s always been ambitious, but in this one the focus is largely on Joe’s career, and when offered a writing job she refuses it: “I already have a job...And it’s important, and very hard. It’s learning how to keep house” (although until she masters it, Joe does all the cooking, which is sort of rad, and when the U.S. finally joins WWI at the end of the book and Joe enlists, Betsy does finally take that job). Even worse, in the way of smug marrieds throughout history, Betsy and Tacy seem to have become so suddenly conservative that they’re aghast at independent-minded Tib’s swingin’ singlehood (“Tib will soon be earning so much money that she won’t meet many men who earn as much money as she does…And then she’ll start driving around in her car, and getting more and more independent, and she won’t marry at all, maybe! And then what will she do when she’s old?”) and hatch elaborate plans to get her safely married off as soon as possible (spoiler: she gets married).
Luckily, there’s a lot of good stuff here as well: Betsy and Joe’s relationship has realistic struggles but is sweet and equable, the descriptions of their cozy home are deeply satisfying, I loved the detailed Twin Cities references (picnics at Lake Harriet, sailing on Lake Calhoun, visits to Fort Snelling and Minnehaha Falls), the Ray family continues to be awesome (especially, surprisingly, Margaret), we find out what happened to old characters like Cab and Carney, and plenty of fun is had (I particularly enjoyed the Violent Study Club, a rather bohemian gathering of Joe’s newspaper colleagues—both male and female—“to talk writing, read aloud, argue, and drink coffee”). And the period details continue to amaze: When Betsy and Joe want to buy a house, they walk around the neighborhood until they find one for sale on the very street they want to live on, walk around the yard and decide it's perfect, walk down to the real estate agent’s office, and have the following conversation:
Some parts of Betsy’s Wedding raised my modern feminist hackles; in the previous books, Betsy’s always been ambitious, but in this one the focus is largely on Joe’s career, and when offered a writing job she refuses it: “I already have a job...And it’s important, and very hard. It’s learning how to keep house” (although until she masters it, Joe does all the cooking, which is sort of rad, and when the U.S. finally joins WWI at the end of the book and Joe enlists, Betsy does finally take that job). Even worse, in the way of smug marrieds throughout history, Betsy and Tacy seem to have become so suddenly conservative that they’re aghast at independent-minded Tib’s swingin’ singlehood (“Tib will soon be earning so much money that she won’t meet many men who earn as much money as she does…And then she’ll start driving around in her car, and getting more and more independent, and she won’t marry at all, maybe! And then what will she do when she’s old?”) and hatch elaborate plans to get her safely married off as soon as possible (spoiler: she gets married).
Luckily, there’s a lot of good stuff here as well: Betsy and Joe’s relationship has realistic struggles but is sweet and equable, the descriptions of their cozy home are deeply satisfying, I loved the detailed Twin Cities references (picnics at Lake Harriet, sailing on Lake Calhoun, visits to Fort Snelling and Minnehaha Falls), the Ray family continues to be awesome (especially, surprisingly, Margaret), we find out what happened to old characters like Cab and Carney, and plenty of fun is had (I particularly enjoyed the Violent Study Club, a rather bohemian gathering of Joe’s newspaper colleagues—both male and female—“to talk writing, read aloud, argue, and drink coffee”). And the period details continue to amaze: When Betsy and Joe want to buy a house, they walk around the neighborhood until they find one for sale on the very street they want to live on, walk around the yard and decide it's perfect, walk down to the real estate agent’s office, and have the following conversation:
“Yes, young folks, that’s a good little house.”And…that’s it. That’s apparently all you had to do to buy a nice three-bedroom house in 1915. Sigh.
“What does it sell for?” Joe asked.
“Four thousand, five hundred.”
“We could stand good monthly payments,” Joe said. “And we’re responsible people. I’m on the Courier. But we can’t pay much down.”
“Just three hundred dollars,” Betsy put in.
“I don’t believe…that the size of the down payment matters much in this case. The owners are old people, well fixed; going to California. I think it could be arranged.”
Joe looked at Betsy…“Did you bring the check book, honey?”
“Yes, dear.” She drew it out of her bag.
“Whoa!” said Mr. Munson. “I can’t show you that house today. I can’t get a key until tomorrow.”
“We looked in the windows,” Betsy explained politely.
“They might as well have our three hundred dollars, sir,” said Joe, taking out his pen.
“I won’t cash that check,” said Mr. Munson, “until you can look through the house. Of course, it’s all right. It really is. A good hot water furnace. Hardwood floors.”
THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE THUNDERBOLT KID
Like most really good memoirs, Bill Bryson’s engaging and funny portrait of his childhood in 1950s Iowa is not a straightforward “this happened to me and then this happened” narrative, but rather an homage to a particular place and time, suffused with personal anecdotes. Its blend of charming nostalgia and broad comic exaggeration reminded me vaguely of Calvin Trillin and kept me happy during a series of grinding commutes. I particularly liked the audiobook because it was read by the author—not always a great idea, but it works well for memoirs, and Bryson is an entertaining reader with an intriguing mid-Atlantic accent (he’s lived in England for so long that he sounds perfectly British sometimes, but then at other times you can hear the Des Moines boy underneath).
Thursday, April 15, 2010
CLEAVING
In general, I’m Team Julie Powell. I loved The Julie/Julia Project (the first food blog I ever read!) and its subsequent book and film adaptations (Meryl Streep was TOTALLY ROBBED of her deserved Oscar, by the way). When I started seeing scathing reviews of her second book, I chalked it up to (a) the Powell-hating backlash that seemed to sweep the Internet in the wake of her fame; and (b) the fact that those who knew Powell only from her portrayal by miscast sweetheart Amy Adams were having trouble reconciling their cute Hollywood image of her with the gritty reality of the book’s subject matter—Powell’s extramarital affair and her apprenticeship in butchery (when informed of Powell’s real-life infidelity in an interview, Adams famously rejoined, “Well, my Julie would never do that”). I was fully prepared not to like Cleaving: A Story of Meat, Marriage, and Obsession as much as its predecessor, but I still wanted to read it—and, frankly, all the accusations of juicy oversharing lobbed its way only made me more curious, so I was pleased when my friend M gave me a copy for Christmas.
Unfortunately, while the book wasn’t quite the train wreck many reviewers made it out to be, I thoroughly disliked it. Some reviewers wrote as though the situation (Powell has passionate on-again-off-again affair with emotionally unavailable but sexually exciting man, yet wants to remain married; her husband knows, sees other women, but ultimately stays) were inherently revolting, but I thought it might have made an interesting and worthwhile memoir—if tackled, say, twenty years after the fact. As written, however, it completely lacks perspective, resulting in a tone-deaf narrative voice that vacillates between naked pleas for the reader’s sympathy (which I had a hard time mustering, not least because the lover Powell is so obsessed with seems like a pretentious asshole) and brutal self-flagellation. I kept feeling that Powell wants to simultaneously defend and punish herself—she offers the reader a stark portrait of her misery as though it’s supposed to stand in for the regret and repentance she claims to feel, but at the same time she’s obviously wallowing in her own sense of degradation (not coincidentally, she’s a self-described masochist). She confuses frankness and bravado with honesty. It’s not that her confessions are so raw or embarrassing, although at times they are; it’s that they seem painfully disingenuous, making the whole book feel both tedious and pointless. I could go on, but NPR’s Linda Holmes nails my feelings in her much more articulate review. Let me just say that we both agree on our least favorite moment of the book.
I had figured that at least I’d enjoy the food themes, but the butchery topic felt wedged in, mainly serving as an extended (and ultimately tiresome) metaphor for Powell’s own emotional state (bloody, earthy, sensuous, violent, etc.). And unfortunately, although Powell does her best to sexy them up with purple prose, it turns out that play-by-play descriptions of creating various cuts of meat are…rather tedious, in an “insert tab A into slot B” way.
I certainly wouldn’t recommend Cleaving, but it hasn’t necessarily put me off Powell for good. I was sad to see how quickly critics dogpiled on it, gleefully labeling it a disgusting, humiliating fiasco (Booklist went with “graphic, even gross,” which I think is unfairly over the top)—and by the way, I didn’t find the book as shockingly explicit as some salacious accounts suggested; awkward, yes, but hardly X-rated. For me, the off-puttingness was emotional, not physical, and my overwhelming reaction was frustration, not hatred or anger. I do hope that Powell is able to come back from this and find a topic she can write about more successfully. And I still think that Cleaving, with its double, opposed meanings, is a brilliant book title.
Unfortunately, while the book wasn’t quite the train wreck many reviewers made it out to be, I thoroughly disliked it. Some reviewers wrote as though the situation (Powell has passionate on-again-off-again affair with emotionally unavailable but sexually exciting man, yet wants to remain married; her husband knows, sees other women, but ultimately stays) were inherently revolting, but I thought it might have made an interesting and worthwhile memoir—if tackled, say, twenty years after the fact. As written, however, it completely lacks perspective, resulting in a tone-deaf narrative voice that vacillates between naked pleas for the reader’s sympathy (which I had a hard time mustering, not least because the lover Powell is so obsessed with seems like a pretentious asshole) and brutal self-flagellation. I kept feeling that Powell wants to simultaneously defend and punish herself—she offers the reader a stark portrait of her misery as though it’s supposed to stand in for the regret and repentance she claims to feel, but at the same time she’s obviously wallowing in her own sense of degradation (not coincidentally, she’s a self-described masochist). She confuses frankness and bravado with honesty. It’s not that her confessions are so raw or embarrassing, although at times they are; it’s that they seem painfully disingenuous, making the whole book feel both tedious and pointless. I could go on, but NPR’s Linda Holmes nails my feelings in her much more articulate review. Let me just say that we both agree on our least favorite moment of the book.
I had figured that at least I’d enjoy the food themes, but the butchery topic felt wedged in, mainly serving as an extended (and ultimately tiresome) metaphor for Powell’s own emotional state (bloody, earthy, sensuous, violent, etc.). And unfortunately, although Powell does her best to sexy them up with purple prose, it turns out that play-by-play descriptions of creating various cuts of meat are…rather tedious, in an “insert tab A into slot B” way.
I certainly wouldn’t recommend Cleaving, but it hasn’t necessarily put me off Powell for good. I was sad to see how quickly critics dogpiled on it, gleefully labeling it a disgusting, humiliating fiasco (Booklist went with “graphic, even gross,” which I think is unfairly over the top)—and by the way, I didn’t find the book as shockingly explicit as some salacious accounts suggested; awkward, yes, but hardly X-rated. For me, the off-puttingness was emotional, not physical, and my overwhelming reaction was frustration, not hatred or anger. I do hope that Powell is able to come back from this and find a topic she can write about more successfully. And I still think that Cleaving, with its double, opposed meanings, is a brilliant book title.
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