Swerve

I got this book for a dollar from a book fair near Strasburg, Virginia.  If you ever wondered where overpublished books go to die, there you go.  I didn’t pick it up for any other reason than I’ve had a girlcrush on Aisha Tyler since she made Talk Soup palatable.

I know we all have our girly moments of unbelievable insecurity, but do I really want to take advice from Aisha Tyler, the 6 foot tall gorgeous goddess, on “how to be a badass,” as she decides that’s what the book is about in the first chapter?  The thing about badasses is, you are or you aren’t.  You don’t wake up one day and decide to be a badass, or at least not the type of badass Aisha Tyler is.   She’s found a way to make a great living being tall, beautiful, and intelligent.  Most of us aren’t so fortunate to have that trifecta.

It’s a quick read, and it’s a fun read if you’re a fan of Aisha Tyler, but if you’re the type of girl who subscribes to Bust, this isn’t anything fantastically new or different — just a celebrity cashing in on her reputation.  More power to her.

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, LAX to Dulles

I couldn’t help but feel a slight Jeffrey Eugenides influence when I read this on my way to visit friends and family on the east coast. I don’t like Eugenides–his books are written like movie treatments, and I feel like he’s writing to be read, and any depth to his books is subsequently self-conscious.

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is everything I want Middlesex to be. Both are Pulitzer Prize winners; only one deservedly so.

I don’t see myself rereading this any time soon, but it is worthy of its praise, and if you’re in the mood for That sort of book — character-driven cultural and sub-cultural fiction? — this won’t disappoint.

Of Mice and Men

A friend of mine is working on his Ph.D. in literature, focusing on something hideous like 16th century poetry.  He hates Steinbeck with a passion, considers him to be worthless, too simplistic, too accessible, too … easy.  I guess that’s why I’ve been digging the ‘beck recently.

Whilst whiling away a miserable few years in high school, a family friend gave me Cannery Row to remind me that I actually do enjoy reading.  I picked up Sweet Tuesday a few weeks later, loved it, and kind of forgot about him as a whole.  I never had to read The Grapes of Wrath in school, but have been moving a copy around with me for the past several years until I finally finished it recently.  Especially in These Economic Times, I think it’s striking for one man to sum up so succinctly the trials and tribulations of the disenfranchised with a few masterfully written characters.

I think the most appealing part of Steinbeck’s catalog is how easy it is to read.  It takes talent to create memorable characters while pushing an agenda.  I guess that’s why I like Upton Sinclair, and the much more recently published Life of Pi.  You could just read a story, if you wanted, take it for what it’s worth.  I find that Steinbeck makes me appreciate not just literature as a whole, not just writing as an art, but also the individual stories that magnify a segment of society unaccustomed to being examined.

That being said, it was horribly depressing, especially since I finished it one morning before I even got out of bed.  Not a recommended way to start a day.

In Cold Blood

I was a huge Truman Capote fan before I ever read a word of his writing, thanks in large part to one Audrey Hepburn. I read the short story proper last year, and saw one of the biopics (the one that came out first that doesn’t costar Sandra Bullock), before putting In Cold Blood on my list o’ books to read.  It stayed on the list as I copied it onto three different planners, which means I’ve been meaning to read it for a long time.  I happened across it at the library and didn’t devour it, as I expected, but I did savor it.

What an incredible writer.  I obviously knew a good chunk of the story, and the language was fantastic, but reading it knowing it’s the story that killed him is oddly inspiring.  To be so passionate about something, to not take for granted that talent, and to (arguable, I guess) have died as a result — that’s the stuff legends are made of.

It’s not worth rereading if (like my mother) you read it a long time ago, but it is an absolute must-read for anyone who wants to know why the most recent contemporary stories, fiction or otherwise, are hardly worth the ink in comparison to true talent.

Reading Falling Man on Flight 15 JFK to SFO

I’ve been on a very mild 9/11 lit kick recently.  Is that a tacky thing to say?  I’m not sure why, if it has anything to do with my recent trip to New York, my newfound respect for this government to be (America’s Scapegoat: now in color! — poor taste?), but I find myself drawn to literature’s response to something that happened such a long time ago. I started Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel, the name of which I always think isMe You and Everyone We Know, which is incorrect, but it’s something like Everything and Absolutely Nothing or Nothing is Absolute or Something or Other (edit I’m home now and just looked up at my bookshelf and it is actually called Extremely Loud &Incredibly Close) and there’s a handprint on the cover. It took me a year to finish it. I’m not sure if this is because the last Foer novel I finished happened to coincide with an ill-fated trip to Spain and picking it up consistently reminded me of what a complete idiot I am when it comes to attempting to wrangle my emotions into reasonable actions, but now I’m starting to think that I just have a hard time dealing with somebody’s else’s response to an event that did not affect me directly but about which everyone seems to have Something To Say about how it’s affected all of us.

You can’t take 9/11 personally anymore. It’s no longer an excuse – “I’m sorry I was late for this court ordered appearance. I was up late worrying about planes crashing into my house;” “Your honor, I think I’m just not over 9/11.” Where was it that I first heard it used as a punchline? It was something to do with a guy explaining to a girl why they couldn’t be together – “Maybe I’m just not over 9/11 or something.” You know you’re over something when you can laugh about it, but timing is everything. Too soon and you risk horrifying the general public. Too late and you’re just passé. Humor is a tricky thing.

Speaking of which, has anyone else noticed the prevalence of hypothetical humor? An event will happen, and a beat later, someone will deliver the response they wish they had delivered thirty seconds prior. For example: three girls on a bed, lounging platonically, drunk and/or stoned. One girl burps; the other two giggle. A beat, and then: “What if you were all,” and then the other girl burps a word, perhaps referencing something earlier in the night. More giggles. A more perfect humor.

We like to hold onto the things that make us laugh. Maybe that’s why we recreate them in a more ideal form (ideal only because of the fortune of hindsight.) People aren’t as quick as they used to be. They don’t need to be anymore, I guess. Even wit is something that you can edit in real time, recreate with the desired response. No longer does one have to stew under the curse of a delayed perfect retort.

So that’s the problem I have reading books about 9/11. My mind invariably wanders. I read the whole book this weekend, and cannot name one of the characters. I read and reread pages and paragraphs and sentences and words and nothing stuck. I didn’t have this problem with White Noise (the only other Don DeLillo book I’ve read), but I could not pay one bit of attention to whatever he as trying to say about a horrific event from which a world is still reeling.

But the words came into my line of vision, and I read them in order, and I turned the pages, from page 1 to page 249, and there was something about a wandering art installation and maybe the artist died at the end, or maybe I just thought he should have, so I’m going to count it. I still have another eight hours before I get home and no other books to read, so maybe I will reread it and create a more informed opinion.

As it is, if you find yourself still thinking about where you were when you found out that the towers had fallen, I have yet to read anything that makes me feel better about it, but Foer’s version, even over the course of a year, is more memorable than Delillo’s over the course of flight 15.

Reading Lunar Park on Flight 5, SFO to JFK

I just don’t know how I feel about Bret Easton Ellis. The thing of it is, I am hugely attracted to confidence, just like anyone, so his bravado, his gumption, his chutzpah is simultaneously eyeroll-inducing and intriguing. His casual bisexuality, his deliberate self-sabotage, his blatant ennui, his obnoxious precociousness: was it Joan Jett who first suggested the inevitable hatred that accompanies love*? Anyway.

There is one thing I will say about Ellis about which no one can disagree intelligently: he knows how to sell a book. He makes the Vonnegut-esque choice to allow his narrators to be aware that they are being read, which takes equal parts egomania and implicit trust in his readers. Certainly, one detects the smack of his ego, cleverly inflated throughout his entire catalog, and isn’t that part of the appeal? By admitting, or submitting, to the worst of himself, he helps the reader resolve their own version of self-loathing. Based on his public persona, in his own words and in the words of others, I might argue that Ellis’ most selfless thought is by far more selfish than your least humble thought. Or maybe I’m just typing out my ass.

I like Ellis as a writer, I like him as a public figure, and I like him as a personality, but only because he’s winking at all of us when he sits down to form yet another painfully brilliant bit of literature. I think the main character in Lunar Park – not the sensationalized Ellis, not his fictional son, not the spirit of his father – is the house itself, located on Elsinore Lane – which, in addition to being a thinly veiled Hamlet reference, also rearranges to spell “None Are Ellis.” He remains a carefully crafted mystery, refreshingly aware of the intrinsic value of intrigue and ego.

I would be curious to know if this or if Armistead Maupin’s The Night Listener was written and/or published first, for they are eerily similar in their metafiction genre, their self-awareness, and their departure from the authors’ recognized tone. Palahnuik falls into this category as well, I suppose, with his Haunted, though his satire is more inclusively satirical—or more reliably written, at least.

*”I hate myself for loving you” has been featured prominently in my soundtrack of the last several months.

Three weeks in, two books down

My internet’s been spotty, my money’s being spread thing, and though the days are a balmy 75 degrees, the nights dip well below 60 (that’s cold for a southern California girl), making this the perfect time to catch up on reading.  Last night, curled up on my couch with everyone from The Kinks to Mark Ronson to Stevie Wonder to Kings of Leon, I finished Party of One by Anneli Rufus and America by Jon Stewart (and others) last night.

A former friend recommended Rufus’ book to me over a year ago, and though she begged me to read it for my own good, it took me a year to get past the introduction.  I’m glad I finally picked it back up.  This is a bit random, but the bit that stuck with me the most is her essay on anchoresses, which is one of the few things I remember piquing my interest in my medieval lit classes.  I love the dichotomy of the anchoress lifestyle: literally shutting one’s self off from the world, only to have to depend on strangers to provide food and remove waste.  I couldn’t quite go that extreme with my loner ways, but if you can appreciate that lifestyle on some level, you’d probably enjoy this book.

Rufus forms a compelling, gentle, if slight long-winded argument separating loners from outcasts, and though I have come to terms with my loner nature, it’s always nice to know there are more like myself out there.  This is probably best read by teens who could use some validation for their natural inclination for a loner lifestyle.

Stewart’s book was hilarious.  I’m sorry I had it for so long before actually reading it, but every page had something to giggle at, and I’m more of a “laughing on the inside” person.

I’m off to New York for the weekend, which, considering it’s going to be the coldest weekend in the past fifteen years (if my flight even makes it across the country), will probably afford lots of time for starting and finishing new books.  Wee!

Reading Dostoevsky at the Hungry Cat and Coffee Cat

It’s a Saturday evening, and I’ve walked from my studio to the main downtown strip to make some returns from my birthday shopping spree the week prior. I am set to walk back when I decide I might want a drink, should I happen upon one.

I take several turns, winding my way haphazardly back to the west side, hoping to stumble across a place where I can read privately in public…or publicly in private; I guess it works either way. Reading is a solitary act, of course, but that doesn’t make a reader anti-social by design. Most of my remarkable reading experiences have occurred in public places. Truly, there is nothing more human than experiencing something as innately intimate as reading in a public place.  It is one of the few typically solitary acts one can commit in public.

The choice of book is key. I have been involved in lively debates about Palahnuik in candle-lit San Francisco bars. I’ve listened plaintively to another’s thoughts on The Grapes of Wrath in a wine lounge in southern California. Unfortunately, perhaps a bit ironically, Dostoevsky does not lend itself to social encounters. Either the general public hasn’t read it, wants to forget having read it, or assumes the person reading it doesn’t want to be brought out of the Russia about which Dostoevsky so vividly writes.

Though I was an English major, I was never forced to read this in school, and I’m so pleased. It’s a book that should be pored over, not rushed through. It is slow going, for sure. I am 100 pages in and the crime has just been committed, and the punishment is 400 pages in the making. That might turn some people off wordy Russian literature, but as soon as I’m a few paragraphs in, it doesn’t matter if I’m sneaking in a martini in a crowded restaurant or a working my way through a pot of rose mint tea in a loud coffee house; I am immediately transported to winter in impoverished 19th century Russia.  I’m equally grateful to return to my recession-proof life in Santa Barbara, where the 60 degree weather sends residents running for cashmere and hot toddies.  Maybe it’s just me, but nothing makes me feel warmer than hearing about how cold somebody else is.

I borrowed this book March of last year from a dear friend who made me swear to return it, being that it was her sister’s copy. I’m flying out to New York next Thursday to meet up with that friend, and I’ve promised to return the book to its rightful owner. I hope to finish it by then, or I’m sure I never will.

The List

This is a list of the 50 books I’d like to read this year, based on (a) the books I own and have yet to read, (b) books on various wishlists I’ve made over the years, and (c) the list of books-to-read I keep in my daily planner.  It is subject to change at any time.  The point is to complete 50 books in general, not 50 specific books.

My only real rule is that I want to read 50 new books this year, so this is list is all books I haven’t read before.

I’ve started these books.
I own these books.
I don’t own these books, nor have I started them.
I’ve finished these books.

1. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Diaz
   
2. In Cold Blood, Truman Capote
3. Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck
4. Party of One, Anneli Rufus
5. Lunar Park, Bret Easton Ellis
6. America, Jon Stewart
7. Falling Man, Don DeLillo
8. Swerve, Aisha Tyler
9. The Audacity of Hope, Barack Obama
10. The Age of Turbulence, Alan Greenspan
11. Crime and Punishment, Fyodor Dostoevsky
12. Think Like a Billionaire, Donald Trump
13. Reporting Live, Lesley Stahl
14. Rich Dad Poor Dad, Robert Kiyosaki
15. Lottery, Patricia Wood
16. Mr. China, Tim Clissold
17. Glamorama, Bret Easton Ellis
18. The Informers, Bret Easton Ellis
19. The Maytrees, Annie Dillarol
20. Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand
21. The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand
22. The Black Swan, Nassim Taleb
23. Run, Ann Patchett
24. The Shotgun Rule, Charlie Huston
25. The Raw Shark Texts, Steven Hall
26. The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox, Maggie O’Farrell
27. Then We Came To The End, Joshue Ferris
28. Bridge of Sighs, Richard Russo
29. The Savage Detectives, Roberto Bolano
30. The Great Man, Kate Christensen
31. The God of Animals, Aryn Kyle
32. The Spellman Files, Lisa Lutz
33. The Year of Living Biblically, A.J. Jacobs
34. Breakfast of Champions, Kurt Vonnegut
35. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Diaz
36. Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov
37. The Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood
38. Like You’d Understand, Anyway, Jim Shepard
39. Throw Like a Girl, Jean Thompson
40. Tree of Smoke, Denis Johnson
41. Twenty Grand, Rebecca Curtis
42. Varieties of Disturbance, Lydia Davis
43. Hurry Down Sunshine, Michael Greenberg
44. The Forever War, Dexter Filkins
45. The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, David Wroblewski
46. Serena, Ron Rash
47. So Brave, Young and Handsome, Leif Enger
48. The Lazarus Project, Aleksandar Hemon
49. When Will There Be Good News?, Kate Atkinson
50. Lush Life, Richard Price

Alternates:

1. The Nine, Jeffrey Toobin
2. Meditations in an Emergency, Frank O’Hara
3. The Likeness, Tana French
4. Then We Came To The End, Joshua Ferris
5. Breath, Tim Winton

Hello. Hello.

I used to read all the time, literally, from the moment I woke up in the morning to the very second I couldn’t bear to keep my eyes open anymore.  It got to the point where my reading habit was a financial liability (the library in my tiny town being inadequate for my reading desires).  I declared myself an English major in college and continued going though novels in a matter of hours.  Since I graduated a year and a half ago, I’ve found there are so many other things that take the place of it, to my detriment.  To remedy this travesty, I’ve set the goal of reading a book a week this year, save for two weeks when I’m sure I will find something more social to do.

I want to read fifty books this year, and I don’t want to pay a dime for any of them.   I already have a list of fifty books I’ve been wanting to read, and there is no reason I can’t utilize my own personal library, and my city library and Google Booksand the Gutenberg Project to achieve my goal.  With a bit of research and planning, there’s no reason I should have to invest anything other than time into this goal.

Writing, of course, goes hand in hand with reading, and though my little project will be the skeleton for this blog, I imagine the books I am reading will lead to some blatantly influenced and inspired essays.