SUMMER READING MEGAPOST

May, Annie Dillard Month, was pretty much a disaster, Project-wise. I figured I’d check out her new novel, The Maytrees, and then reread as much as I could of her old stuff—I remember particularly loving An American Childhood, The Writing Life, and Living By Fiction the first time around. Well, I didn’t like The Maytrees so much—there was some good writing there, but I couldn’t identify with any of the characters and didn’t get drawn into the story. Then I started rereading Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, which I still liked, but man, that shit is dense. Trying to cram more Annie Dillard into the month would have been like gorging on an entire pan of fudge. So, I thought I’d cleanse my palate with some lighter fare. And that is where I fell off the wagon. In the ensuing two months, I’ve read exactly three more Project-related books and nineteen non-Project ones. Summer is just not made for discipline. Yet because I am relentlessly punitive, I feel compelled to at least mention all those books here. Or, to put it a more positive way, a lot of them were good and I thought maybe you’d like to know about them and read them for yourself.

Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex, by Mary Roach: I’ve adored each of Mary Roach’s books (and am dying for a book-long collection of all the short pieces she’s published in magazines), but this one might even be better than Stiff. It’s full of astounding information and is so hilarious that I kept pestering A by cracking up over nearly every page, then insisting on reading him all the best bits aloud. If you only read one book that I mention here, READ THIS ONE.

Into the Wild, by Jon Krakauer: I feel like such a bad reader saying this, but one of the best ways to inspire me to read a book is to make it into a movie first. That’s not because I enjoy movies more, but you do have to admit they’re usually more accessible than committing oneself to a 400-page tome. I constantly have such a backlog of books on my “to be read” list that many books languish there for years. They hit the bestseller lists, I read favorable reviews, I hear good things about them from friends, and I keep meaning to get around to reading them, but they still need an extra little push to send them to the top of the list. Seeing the movie does that for me. If it’s not a great movie, I assume the book was better, and get curious about how the adaptation went wrong. If the movie made me think, I want to continue thinking about those themes. If I love the movie, I plunge eagerly into the book because I want to live in that world a little longer and more deeply. The movie is just a tantalizing taste that makes me hungry for the main course. So it was with Into the Wild, a fascinating film that immediately made me curious (somewhat morbidly) about the book, which of course had the added appeal of being a true story. I tore through it quickly (this was one of the rare occasions where it probably took no longer to read the book than to watch the movie), then got really paranoid about being stranded in the woods with bears while hiking in Sequoia National Park a few days later. As I’m always in the market for good nonfiction yarns, I resolved to read more Krakauer soon.

Atonement, by Ian McEwan: See above re: movies and books. In this case, I didn’t think the movie was quite Best Picture material (except maybe for the Dunkirk sequence), but it was enough to pique my interest in the book. This was a case where knowing the ending of the story from the film probably spoiled the emotional impact of the book for me, even though the book handles things differently than the movie. I’d heard this novel was a real weepie but I wasn’t moved to tears. Regardless, I really enjoyed it—a beautifully written page-turner. Of course, I have a soft spot for mysteries and comedies of manners set at pre-1950s British country houses…

Farthing and Ha’Penny, by Jo Walton: And that led me to Farthing, a 1940s-British-country-house-set murder mystery I’d heard compared to Dorothy Sayers and Josephine Tey, two of my faves in this genre. The kicker is that this one takes place in an alternate version of history, in which Britain made peace with Nazi Germany after Dunkirk. Society is seemingly normal, happy, and prosperous, but the shadows of fascism and anti-Semitism loom over it. It’s a great idea and fairly well executed, although the books are by no means perfect—the writing is clumsily executed in some places. The political message is didactic at times (it seems as though Walton is working to draw parallels with today’s war on terror), the coinage motif becomes an increasingly forced attempt to tie back to the titles of the books, and it seems like overkill—or at least awfully convenient for the author’s theme—that one character after another turns out to be secretly gay/bisexual (though it’s awesome that the protagonist, a Scotland Yard inspector. is not only gay, but also in a long-term committed relationship with his manservant). I was hooked enough by Farthing to continue on to the sequel, Ha’Penny, which is a London-based political thriller with few country houses in sight, but plenty of dollops of Hamlet to amuse me. I’ll definitely be reading the third book when it comes out in September, and I’d recommend the trilogy as light reading with a creative twist.

Prince Caspian, by C.S. Lewis: Speaking of books turned into movies… I was a big fan of the Narnia books as a kid, but often skipped over Prince Caspian to get to my favorite entry in the series, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader; I seem to recall Caspian boring me with all of its battle stuff. So when I saw the movie in May, I had only the faintest of memories to compare it to. I enjoyed the movie, even though it suffered from the same syndrome as its predecessor, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, in which the battle scenes were majorly pumped up in an effort to pass it off as some sort of Lord of the Rings, Jr. But when I decided to reread the book shortly afterward (and found it not as boring and battle-filled as I remembered, though still not my favorite Narnia book), I realized the movie wasn’t a true an adaptation as I’d thought. Most egregiously, the film added an entire action sequence (where the Narnians attempt to storm the Telmarine castle) that wasn’t in the book at all. Still, it got me excited for the Dawn Treader movie. Sure, Caspian looked like a male model and had a cheesy accent, but I continue to enjoy the actors playing the Pevensies and loved Eddie Izzard’s Reepicheep (although comparisons to Antonio Banderas’s Puss-in-Boots are probably inevitable).

Henry Huggins and Ramona Quimby, Age 8, by Beverly Cleary: Reread at the end of June, in honor of my impending trip to Portland, where Cleary’s books are set. (It turned out that there wasn’t enough time during our quick visit to fulfill my goal of actually visiting the real-life Klickitat Street in the neighborhood where Cleary lived and the books take place, but I at least got the cheap thrill of seeing the street sign from the window of a moving bus.) I had all kinds of interesting thoughts upon rereading these books, but they’re all gone from my head now. I do remember being struck by a fact I hadn’t noticed as a child, which is that the books were written over an incredibly long timespan, with the Henry Huggins and early Ramona books being products of the 1950s (with all kinds of quaint period details, like Henry buying horse meat at the pet store to feed to Ribsy), while the rest of the Ramona series (including Age 8) was written much later, mostly in the 70s and 80s. This is the kind of thing that slipped right past me as a kid (as well it should—all the books are equally good and timeless), but now I find the contrast interesting. I picked up some more Cleary books at Powell’s, so maybe I’ll revisit them in the near future.

D.A., by Connie Willis: I try to avoid reading books that involve spaceships, but I’ve already read all the major non-spaceship stuff by Connie Willis and was starting to go into withdrawal, so I picked up this slender little young-adult novella. It was cute enough, but too predictable and too short. With its large font and ample white space on each page, I felt as though it was really a short story stretched to book length, and like many short stories, I found it unsatisfying—just when I was starting to get attached to the characters, it was over. Still, it’s better than no Connie Willis.

Into Thin Air, by Jon Krakauer: Riveting. Afterwards, somewhat obsessed, I watched the IMAX documentary, Everest, that was being filmed when the events of the book occurred. The movie was just OK (IMAX movies are rather slow and ridiculous on a 20-inch TV screen), but the “making of” special feature gave me all the behind-the-scenes glimpses of the disaster I’d desired.

Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov: Finally, a Project book! This was the sole book I managed for Nabokov Month, but it was a doozy—a squirmy, clever, wistful tragicomedy. I almost wish I hadn’t chosen to read the annotated version, though; usually I like some helpful footnotes, but this was a bit much. For every French phrase that it translated or Quilty appearance it pointed out, I think it deadened some of the joy of discovery.

Strangers on a Train, by Patricia Highsmith: First book for Patricia Highsmith Month—my first non-Ripley Highsmith book and her first novel ever. Again, a movie tie-in: I’d seen the Hitchcock movie and was curious how much the book differed. As it turns out, quite a lot—in the film, Guy doesn’t go through with the reciprocal murder, and in the book, he does. This makes the book much more hardcore, but I did tire of chapter after chapter of Guy’s remorse and indecision. The book wasn’t as action-packed as I’d imagined, and I was surprised that (given the persistent gay undertones of the Ripley books and the fact that Highsmith was herself a lesbian) it wasn’t much more homoerotic than the movie. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, considering Hitchcock’s gift for sly innuendo.

The Best American Magazine Writing 2008: I love to read these “Best American” anthologies while traveling. They’re the perfect cure for airplane restlessness; if you get tired of the topic, it will change after a few pages. This kept me happily amused on the plane to Spokane and back from Portland, the best part being Janet Reitman’s enthralling Scientology expose from Rolling Stone.

Change Your Underwear Twice a Week: Lessons From the Golden Age of Classroom Filmstrips, by Danny Gregory: A few weeks ago, as part of the Pasadena Film Festival, P, A, and I attended a late-night showing of an assortment of vintage mental hygiene films on the rooftop of one of the Old Town parking garages. It was a unique location, the audience was small but appreciative, and the films—covering everything from how to be popular to the dangers of drugs—were hilarious (I recognized a few, like “A Date With Your Family,” as MST3K shorts, but most were new to me). I’m fascinated by the hyper-propagandistic tone of 1950s media, as everyone rushed to get society back in order and reinforce desirable behaviors after the chaos and relative freedom of World War II, particularly where women and teenagers were concerned. Watching the films immediately made we want to reread the definitive book on the subject, Ken Smith’s Mental Hygiene, but instead I lent it to P after she batted her eyelashes at me. Next to Mental Hygiene on my bookshelf, I noticed a book I’d bought during the height of my classroom-film obsession but had never read, Change Your Underwear Twice a Week. So I read it. This book is actually about filmstrips, something I hadn’t thought about in years (though I wasn’t alive during their heyday, I’m still old enough to remember being subjected to that series of still pictures with accompanying tape-recorded narration, complete with the beep that told the teacher to advance to the next frame). It wasn’t as in-depth or funny as Mental Hygiene (there’s actually very little text—mostly just introductory paragraphs followed by a series of frames from each featured filmstrip), but it was a breezy, amusing read and a nice tribute to a forgotten medium.

The Amazing Mackerel Pudding Plan, by Wendy McClure: The book version of an online feature I have loved ever since I first started working in a cubicle, McClure’s hilarious commentary on her collection of disgusting-looking 1970s Weight Watchers recipe cards. I’m a sucker for vintage kitsch, particularly when it comes to hideous food (see James Lileks’ Gallery of Regrettable Food and the book of the same name—which now has a sequel called Gastroanomalies that I just stumbled across at the library yesterday!). After years of looking in vain for this book at my library, I found it for half price at Powell’s in Portland. (We visited two different Powell’s locations on two different days, that is how much we loved it; I noticed that there was even a Powell’s at the airport, which seemed to me like selling out until I realized it had a way better selection than any airport bookstore I’d ever seen, including a whole shelf of used books!) At first I questioned whether I really needed to own it—I mean, it’s certainly not a deep read—but then I remembered that owning things that consistently make you laugh is an important life survival skill.

The Boy Who Followed Ripley, by Patricia Highsmith: Highsmith Month Book #2, and the fourth of five Ripley books. I’ve grown attached enough to Tom Ripley (and his quiet, comfortable life in France that is always being interrupted by dangerous circumstances) that I feel compelled to finish the series, even though I don’t think any of them will be quite as good as the first one. They always feel a bit strange and uneven, and I have to keep reminding myself that it’s because they’re written from the point of view of a character who, although he seems perfectly pleasant most of the time, has no real conscience or emotional affect. Still, this book seemed to feature a kinder, gentler Ripley and occasionally verged on dullness (except for the sequence where he dresses in drag and goes undercover at a gay nightclub in Berlin); I preferred the manipulative Ripley of Ripley’s Game.

Things I Learned About My Dad (In Therapy), edited by Heather Armstrong: Essays on fathers and fatherhood from a number of my favorite bloggers, including Dooce, Mighty Girl, and Que Sera Sera. Yay to my library for finally buying this so I could read it!

When You Are Engulfed in Flames (David Sedaris): I’ve read a number of reviews declaring that this newest collection of essays isn’t as good as Sedaris’s earlier books, but honestly, it’s been so long since I’ve read his other books that I don’t have a clear basis for comparison. Suffice to say that this one kept me fully entertained on the flight home from Indianapolis—in fact, I was too hooked on reading it to do much napping, even though I’d gotten up at 3:45 a.m. to leave for the airport. I didn’t laugh aloud, but I smiled often, and I finished the whole book within a few days, which is a good enough testimonial for me.

The Separation (Christopher Priest): I started reading this right after Ha’Penny, without realizing that it, too, involves an alternate version of history in which the British make peace with Nazi Germany—weird coincidence! This book features the same obsession with twins and doubles that Priest explored in The Prestige, but I didn’t find it nearly as compelling. The concept is fascinating: the story centers on a pair of twins, one an RAF pilot during WWII and the other a pacifist. In one half of the story, the pacifist twin dies, the RAF twin lives, and history proceeds as it did in real life; in the other half, the RAF twin dies, and the pacifist twin lives to help negotiate peace with Germany. These two realities somehow coexist or overlap at various points in the book. It’s intriguing in a mind-twisting postmodernist way, but unfortunately the writing style is on the dry side—the story is told through a series of historical documents (diaries, etc.), and while it’s clear Priest did a lot of research on bombing raids and such, I felt that I had to wade through a swamp of mundane detail just to get to the story (which is why it took me nearly two months, reading off and on, to finish). The twins seem emotionless and never become engaging characters, and to be honest, I wouldn’t have minded a little more explanation of the dual-reality thing. It wasn’t a bad book, but after loving The Prestige so much, I was disappointed.

The Penderwicks (Jeanne Birdsall): Utterly charming—just the type of gentle narrative about smart, eccentric siblings having fun that I used to love reading when I was a kid. I can’t wait to get my hands on the sequel, which by all accounts is even better.

Persepolis and Persepolis 2 (Marjane Satrapi): Yet another case of reading inspired by seeing the movie (if you’re counting, that's the sixth occasion in this post alone). Here, the movie is such a perfect adaptation (as it should be, considering Satrapi did it herself) that reading the books is pretty much like watching an extended-edition DVD (but one where all the deleted scenes are just as good as the ones that made into the film). A quick, fun, yet moving read.