LAST QUARTER OF 2011 CATCHUP

Yeah, sorry about that, er, five-month absence. It turns out that maybe (just maybe!) I don’t have the time to pontificate at length about every book I read in addition to posting every recipe I make? But never fear! I am not giving up, just retrenching a little. I’ll get the old stuff out of the way as best I can, and then figure out how to handle new stuff from here on out. This will probably mean monthly roundups with short blurbs about books on which I don’t have much to say, interspersed with longer posts about books I want to cover in depth.

Ironically, my book consumption declined dramatically at around the time I stopped updating this site. I used to spend half of my hour-long lunch break reading, five days a week, but that time has gradually been chipped away. I started telecommuting two days a week, using my breaks for errands and biking and other non-reading things; then my company started allowing us to take half-hour lunches and leave 30 minutes early at the end of the day, an option I started utilizing more and more often, spending my half-hour break walking (a must for me, to survive sitting at a desk all day) instead of reading. Also, in the first half of 2010, I was taking three-hour round-trip Metro rides to work twice a week, sometimes finishing an entire book in just one or two commuting days. Then, in July, I acquired a carpooling partner, which has been wonderful in every way (much shorter and easier commute, new friend, etc.) except for the loss of all that uninterrupted reading time. Now I just try to snatch a few peeks at my books at odd times of the day, while eating breakfast, brushing my teeth, etc., and I’m lucky if I can finish two books a month. I really need to make an effort to carve out reading time in the evenings and on the weekends, because I just don’t feel like myself when I’m not tearing through piles of books at a good clip. It doesn’t help that after the last movie came out, I decided to reread all the Harry Potter books, and then got majorly bogged down in my least favorite, the interminable Goblet of Fire. (Thankfully, I’m now over the hump, having just finished Order of the Phoenix, so I predict smoother sailing from here onward. I love this series, but my favorite parts are the grownup characters and the good-vs.-evil uberplot, less so the adolescent angst, irritating homework procrastination, and endless Quidditch scenes.)

But! At least this little lull gives me a chance to try to get this blog up to date without constantly trying to hit a moving target, right? So buckle up and let’s do this thing.

Miss Buncle’s Book, by D.E. Stevenson: Odd, hilarious, and thoroughly delightful. A seemingly mind-mannered spinster secretly writes a bestselling, thinly fictionalized potboiler about her quirky small town, her neighbors instigate a witch hunt to discover the pseudonymous author’s identity, and strangely, some of the novel’s plot twists start coming true. I’m thrilled to have found a brand new author in my favorite genre of obscure early-twentieth-century comedies of manners—particularly one as prolific as Stevenson (the “D.E.” stands for Dorothy Emily), who has 46 entries in my library catalog alone (most of them, I’m sure, sadly out of print). Stevenson does seem to have an annoying-to-me habit of using an excessive number of comma splices, one of my editorial pet peeves, but I’m trrying to let that slide, chalking it up to different grammatical standards of her country and era, or at least the carelessness of her publisher’s proofreading department.

The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul, by Douglas Adams: The second (and, sniff, final) Dirk Gently book, and I liked it just as much as the first—maybe slightly more, actually, because it featured (a) a realistic female protagonist, (b) Thor, and (c) one of the best titles ever.

It Looked Different on the Model: Epic Tales of Impending Shame and Infamy, by Laurie Notaro: Notaro keeps publishing interchangeable collections of humorous personal essays and I keep checking them out, but at this point it’s more out of a strange sense of loyalty/compulsion/completism than any great enjoyment. They entertain me well enough for the moment but evaporate from my brain as soon as I finish them. If I had infinite time on my hands I wouldn’t mind this, but given my constraints and huge TBR list, I really need to break the cycle and just quit.

The Magician King, by Lev Grossman: I really liked The Magicians, so I was excited when I discovered there was going to be a sequel, but I was also surprised. After rereading the first book to get up to speed for the second one, I don’t know how I could have been so incredibly dense, or at least naïve, the first time around, because its ending practically screams sequel setup. This is the second time in recent memory that I’ve apparently been willing to believe that writers are cruel or inventive enough to end their standalone novels with odd dangling cliffhangers. Anyway, I’m still not sure The Magicians really needed a sequel, but at least the one it got is pretty good. A lot of the action takes place in Fillory, the Narnia-like imaginary land, and on a sea voyage that brings to mind The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Quentin is a bit less self-centered, emo, and annoying this time around, which is nice, but the really interesting stuff comes in the flashbacks that explain what happened to Julia, his high-school friend who wasn’t accepted to Brakebills and had to learn her magic on the streets. Parts of her dark and disturbing story reminded me of The Secret History, which is always a plus. Overall, the plot is a bit less focused, but it was clearly paving the way for a third book that will assumably wrap everything up, so that didn’t bother me too much.

Spoiled, by Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan: Soapy, contemporary pop-cultural teen novels were never my bag when I was younger and I don’t like them any better now, but I read this one out of allegiance to its authors, the founders of Go Fug Yourself, one of the funniest and best-written blogs around. I wasn’t wowed by this frothy, fashion-preoccupied little confection, but it was still smarter and more substantial than most of the genre. The Hollywood satire was amusing and the story endearing enough that I don’t regret reading it.

Miss Buncle Married, by D.E. Stevenson: Having found true love with her adorable editor (not surprisingly, I’m always a sucker for an editorial romance) at the end of the first book (see above), Barbara Buncle (now Abbott) moves to a different town with her new husband and finds it as full of fascinating characters as the last. The plot has less structure than Miss Buncle’s Book, leading the story to feel a bit fluffy and meandering at times, and it’s a bit sad to see Barbara repressing her artistic impulses (she writes a wonderful book about her new town but decides she can never publish it or she’ll hurt everyone’s feelings and become an outcast the way she did in her last town), but I was once again charmed by the characters and Stevenson’s writing.

Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, by Ransom Riggs: A disappointment. This book generated a lot of buzz, and while I can see why—a supernatural YA story constructed around bizarre found photographs is definitely a cool idea—I don’t think it lived up to the hype. This is partially the fault of my expectations: based on the chilling cover photo, I thought it was going to be a creepy Victorian freak show ghost story, when in reality it reminded me more of X-Men. But I also think it wasn’t particularly well-written and struggled under the weight of its own conceit; the photos on their own are so eerie that it’s kind of a letdown when the story explains them, and working them in with the text sometimes felt contrived, like a writing exercise that’s gone on too long. The book is clearly setting up potential sequels, but I don’t have much interest in reading them. I would, however, watch the inevitable film version, because a book with such a big visual component might actually work better as a movie.

Even more disappointingly, my lukewarm feelings for this book shot a hole in a theory I had recently developed, which was that I was bound to love any book with “Miss” or “Mrs.” (or possibly, though yet untested, “Mr.” or “Major”) in the title. I mean, come on: Mrs. Dalloway, Miss Pym Disposes, Miss Mapp, Miss Hargreaves, Mrs. Ames...? All good stuff. Now it’s back to square one, I guess.

Rin Tin Tin: The Life and the Legend, by Susan Orlean: Orlean is right up there with Mary Roach in my favorite nonfiction writers list, so I was thrilled to see that she finally put out a new book, but less thrilled that it was about Rin Tin Tin—about whom, admittedly, I knew nothing, but it seemed like a slight topic. More fool I, because this turned out to be a fascinating, riveting, lovely book. I’ve already subjected a number of people to enthusiastic in-person recitals of all the factoids I gleaned from it, so I’ll just say that the story of Rin Tin Tin, an orphaned German Shepherd puppy found in an abandoned German encampment by an American soldier amid the battlefields of France during World War I, who would go on to become a beloved movie star and entertainment franchise, is really interesting, but even better are Orlean’s digressions into everything from the history of the breed to the military use of animals during both world wars to the birth of the film industry, and her overall meditations on humanity’s very relationship with domestic creatures. This is a must-read for any animal lover.

The Distant Hours, by Kate Morton: A’s mom sent this to me with a note saying she thought it was right up my alley, and sure enough, I really liked it. I have a hard time resisting stories where modern-day characters delve into secrets of the past, particularly if they avoid visits to the library and long-lost letters, and this one also involved (a) World War II in Britain (particularly the evacuation of children from London during the Blitz), (b) a protagonist who’s an editor and loves Jane Eyre, (c) sisters living in a castle with their distracted writer father a la I Capture the Castle, and (d) a literary mystery surrounding the genesis of a (fictional) classic children’s novel. I was skeptical at first, but Morton deftly interweaves past and present to tease out the suspense and pays clever homage to Gothic fiction without going over the top. The book is long and fairly dense, but I could barely tear myself away—it was a good thing I was reading this on my Thanksgiving vacation. I didn’t feel a deep emotional connection to the book, per se—I didn’t think the characters were very vivid or especially likable—but the excellent storytelling and dark, foreboding mood kept me breathlessly enthralled. Good fun, the English-major version of a beach read.

The Story of Charlotte’s Web: E.B. White’s Eccentric Life in Nature and the Birth of an American Classic, by Michael Sims: Liked the idea, disliked the writing. It rubs me the wrong way when biographers get overly lyrical and fanciful and try to write about their subjects as though they’re fictional characters, and this book had that in spades, at the expense at much actual analysis. It was interesting to learn that White actually had his own farm as an adult, and those experiences directly inspired Charlotte’s Web, but the concept seems better suited to a long article than a 300-page book; there was SO MUCH detail, especially in the childhood chapters, that might have been at home in a 600-page general biography but didn’t contribute much to this more focused version and honestly felt like it was only there to pad things out. I liked learning more about White, particularly his awesome-sounding wife, Katherine (who was his editor at the New Yorker—another editorial romance!), and the early days of the New Yorker (did you know that Harold Ross once told James Thurber, “How the hell did you get the idea you could draw?”), but I probably would have been better off reading a brief general bio or a history of the magazine. The stuff about the inspiration and writing of Charlotte’s Web and White’s earlier children’s books is of course the best part (such as the fact that Garth Williams, who went on to be a major illustrator, got his start with Stuart Little), but much of the same ground is covered Dear Genius: The Letters of Ursula Nordstrom, a book I much prefer. (Also: I know I’m just being cranky now, but I still don’t know what “E.B. White’s eccentric life in nature” is really even supposed to mean. Also: Several glaring typos, including “nickle” instead of “nickel,” did not help me feel any more kindly disposed. Run spell check, at the very least!)

The Psychopath Test: A Journey Through the Madness Industry, by Jon Ronson: Love Jon Ronson. Love this topic. Loved this book so much I nearly read it all in one sitting, on the plane from LA to St. Paul for Christmas, then immediately bought a copy for A. It’s mesmerizing, hilarious, and disturbing in equal measures.

THE BONESHAKER

This should have been such a slam dunk: a YA novel set in small-town Missouri in 1913, featuring a mechanically-minded tomboy protagonist who must beat the devil at his game, plus the titular bicycle, an ominous traveling medicine show, a blues guitarist reminiscent of Robert Johnson (with a similar Faustian story attached), steampunky automata, and a healthy dose of American folklore. But it just didn’t do it for me. I hesitate to place too much judgment on Kate Milford’s writing because I listened to this as an audiobook—which I plucked semi-randomly off the shelf at the library for my commuting entertainment, perhaps having confused it with Cherie Priest’s Boneshaker, which, confusingly coincidentally, is another YA novel published at around the same time, with harder-core steampunk elements and zombies to boot. I’m not a committed audiobook fan, so it’s possible something about this just didn’t translate from page to voice (I do know the book featured plentiful illustrations, which of course I missed out on), and maybe I’d have enjoyed this more if I actually read it (it’s gotten a lot of good reviews, strengthening the It’s Just Me theory).

I really did like the idea of the book, just not the execution. The characters, particularly Natalie, the heroine, felt flat and wooden; the pacing was often ponderous; there were lots of descriptive passages that seemed like they were supposed to be lyrical but didn’t sing; too much of the plot seemed to be contrived around Natalie having inexplicable visions at convenient moments; and in the end some narrative threads were unresolved—I think because Milford is planning a sequel, but it felt unsatisfying. Would it be insulting to say that I’d like to see someone adapt this into a movie? With the action at the forefront and some awesome visuals (I’m thinking Tim Burton would be perfect for this), it would make a damn cool and creepy Southern Gothic fantasy film. As an audiobook, however…meh.

THE TWENTY-ONE BALLOONS

Have you heard of this? I hadn’t (or of its author, William Pene du Bois), but it won the Newbery in 1948. Unfortunately, it was also the first book we’ve read for book club that I’ve actively disliked. I don’t think I would have enjoyed it much as a kid, either. It’s the story of a retired schoolteacher who decides to travel around the world in a giant balloon and ends up on the secretly-inhabited island of Krakatoa shortly before the volcano erupts—so far, so good, right? I’d expected a fun, exotic, bigger-than-life, pseudo-Victorian adventure tale a la Jules Verne, but although the essential elements were interesting, the execution fell flat. In the hands of someone like Roald Dahl, I think the premise could have led to a rip-roaring story, but du Bois’s writing didn’t do his ideas justice. To me, it seemed like the kind of children’s book someone would write if they didn’t have children, didn’t know any children, and didn’t remember being a child: plenty of bizarre and nonsensical goings-on, but nothing substantial to bind them together—no narrative arc, no character development, and oddly, none of the humor or whimsy that make masters like Dahl so awesome. Most of the book is devoted to earnest anthropological discussions of the semi-utopian Krakatoan society and dry, detailed technical explanations of various inventions (and if there is anything I have absolutely no patience for reading, it’s lengthy descriptions of mechanical and spatial concepts). I was mildly diverted while reading it, but every time I set it down I really didn’t have any urge to pick it up again. I kept wondering if standards for children’s literature were really so different in 1948—what did reviewers of the time see in it to praise it so highly? No one in my book group seemed too thrilled by it either. But a quick check of Amazon revealed that there are still plenty of contemporary readers (children as well as adults, presumably) who love it, because it has a near-perfect five-star rating. So I’m just going to conclude that this is not the type of book for me and leave it at that.

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.

CODEX

After liking The Magicians, I checked out Lev Grossman’s first novel, excited that it promised to be a literary mystery about searching for a lost book, complete with a bit of romance between scholars, a la Possession. I love suspenseful research scenes and hot library action! (I realize that sounds sarcastic, but it’s not. Judge me if you must.)

Unfortunately, Codex kind of…sucked? The book stuff kept me reading, but there was no payoff. The characters were flat and unlikable, the situations unconvincing, the pacing slow, the plot aimless. My particular beef was that the narrator was supposed to be this hotshot workaholic investment guy (and it suddenly occurs to me that having a character who does nothing but work is a pretty convenient way to explain the fact that he has no personality or believable life whatsoever) who abruptly blows off his job to become obsessed with this book mystery (as well as with a tedious online role-playing game that turns out to be barely tied to the plot). Now, for my money, if you’re going to have a character completely change his personality (a personality we have to take the author’s word for, because we have no evidence it really exists) and spend the entire book saying things along the lines of “he had never acted like this before” or “he had no idea why he was doing this, but he just couldn’t stop himself,” the only plausible explanation is probably going to be mystical. I guess because Grossman handled the supernatural so well in The Magicians, I assumed there might be an otherworldly element to the power of the quest for the codex to upend the narrator’s life. When this turned out not to be the case, the plot felt crushingly mundane to me. Once the questions of whether the codex would be found and what it would say were resolved, I found I didn’t care about the answers. As you can probably tell, the book really frustrated me; it had potential, but the plotting and character development felt so lazy. I actually wish I had skipped this one.