moving under skies

After Graceling's blandness I hadn't planned to seek this "prequel" out, but we got a used copy in my store so I borrowed it on a whim. I'm glad I did--I liked this book much more than I did the first. Fire suffers from many of the same flaws that Katsa does--both have a genetic gift/curse that ostracizes them and gives them endless fountains of angst; both are annoyingly mature for their ages*, and both are in danger of becoming mouthpieces for the author's idea of feminism rather than actual freestanding characters. Luckily, Fire is less annoying than Katsa on all fronts except for her dubious name--but even that was explained (and thus permissible) in ways that "Po" (grr) and "Bitterblue" (grrrrrr) never were. Maybe I was just in a more receptive mood--I hardly read any fiction in November so perhaps I was hungry for it--but overall Fire's inner journey was much more interesting to me than Katsa's ever was. I found her transformation, her eventual acceptance of herself and her abilities, utterly convincing and almost moving. Beyond inner-transformation, the plot wasn't great--random, unnecessary characters from the last book, and a mostly off-page jumble of a war weakened it--but the characters had nice chemistry, and the romance was 100% less hideous than the previous book (in part because neither party was named "Po"). In case it isn't obvious, Cashore's naming habits bother me far more than her stance on sex. I still probably won't read "Bitterblue" because the name makes me feel pukey and I don't think I can stand a whole book of it.

*A note on the ages of the characters: I accept that this is a fantasy medieval society and so it doesn't bother me that characters are sexually active or leading armies at their young ages--it's just that the emotional tone and diction of every teen-aged person in everything Cashore writes reads as much older than their stated ages. Like other reviewers, I wish she'd just write an adult book already.

This one started out entertaining--I liked the narrator's hostility and sharpness, and was intrigued by the introduction--but I very quickly became disenchanted. Maybe I'm just not ready to read a farcical, satirical romp about terrorism. It's possible. More likely, the author simply failed to convince me on every level: plot, characters, tone--everything. I ended with a sense that Julavits didn't really know what sort of a book she was writing--political commentary? family drama? inquiry into the nature of identity? examination of the nature of humanity based on how quickly it dissipates in extreme situations? Julavits tried to do all and failed at capturing any, in large part because of this fracturing overambition, but also because of her over-attachment to being clever, detached, and postmodern. Two stars not because "it was ok"--it was not--but because I have read far worse books and would like to save the dread one star for them. And Julavits' lauded (by the blurbs, at least) "savage humor" did indeed amuse me a couple of times on a sentence level, and I was mildly interested in the sibling dynamics for maybe a quarter of the book. Overall, though, the book failed to create any emotional or intellectual resonance at all.

This was an airplane book for me, and for that purpose it was a fine one: a quickly paced adventure story, reminiscent of Stevenson or Dickens. In the end, I felt it strained credibility and toed the absurd much more than I care for, & of course my most common complaint of ultimately flat characters. But then I have never had a taste for Dickens, and it was very clear that Dickensonian was what Tinti aspired towards.

My, this was fun. Why can't all of the rabid teen readers go wild and cultish over books like this one instead of--well, I won't pursue that sentiment since I don't want to get all polemical about unrelated books, BUT STILL. This one was a delightful fast read with just enough moral implications & social commentary to keep the shamefully delicious romance element from ever reaching vampiric levels of unbearability. I can't wait to get my hands on the sequel!

I would recommend this (and I often do--Jackson is one of my workplace fallbacks when customers ask me what to read) to very brave sorts. Of which, alas, I am not. All of Shirley Jackson's books probably deserve another star from me but I cannot bring myself to begrudge them on grounds of permanent damage. Her horror stories are so psychological and probing that they make me feel a bit mad when I read them, and this book has stayed with me forcefully. Her stories--and this one in particular--are disorienting and twisty and gloriously gothic. It's what makes them so terrifying, but also so good.

I'd love to do theory on these stories. I really loved this book despite my prejudice against the short story. Petrushevskaya is as bleak and troubling as the title of this collection suggests, but since her work is so firmly rooted in soviet history and culture she never seemed gratuitously grim. I couldn't put this one down, and I really hope more of her work will be translated--if what comes next is as good she'll be an auto-read.

I picked this up because I loved the cover and the title, but alas, the content did not measure up. The book was okay--not atrociously written, mildly interesting throughout--but the content just wasn't new enough for me I suppose. My continual reaction was, "Well, yeah, obviously." In addition to "nothing I didn't already know or could logically intuit" points loss, Wolf also seemed unable to decide whether she was writing a scientific or a personal book; she'd switch between personal anecdotes to APA-style restating of her thesis in unemotional language at the turn of a page. A commitment to either impulse would have served the book better.

I don't reread books often as a rule. But I reread this one almost once a year with startling regularity. Though it lacks the famous Nabokovian puzzle structure of Pale Fire or the intense psychological horrors & delights of Lolita, Pnin is my favourite of his works. This book is Nabokov at his most delicious, witty, and glittering, proof of his mastery as a writer of perfect sentences--but unlike others of his books (which--caveat--I read regularly and tend to love anyway), the pageantry does not dwarf the pathos of its story. Pnin is simultaneously one of the saddest and funniest books I have ever read, an endearing character sketch of a fascinating and tragic man. And oh, those sentences! Glorious.

Quick poll: does anyone know an Actual Teenager who has read and loved, or even liked, this book? Truly, I'd love comments on the question. I liked this book, but I am a semi-grownup with a documented interest in both the philosophy of identity and the history of science--both major aspects of Octavian, and easily the parts that kept me fascinated. Anything with Natural Philosophers I gobble up voraciously. Long sentences and unusual words are a bonus thrill. Not to sound terribly pretentious or anything, but this set of interest points are pretty much a post-college development for me, and I wonder if I'd have been (a) patient and (b) strong-hearted enough to make it through this (appropriately; I somewhat contradictorily hate it when horrific history is dumbed down for the meek) grueling book back when I was a Young Adult. Is this just one of those YA books that's actually meant for adults? If so, are the awards that deface its cover essentially meaningless? Is it destined to end up one of those books that's only ever read in high school and is unanimously despised for its difficulty?

What I learned: Apparently, I now read any book that's been blurbed by Stephen King. And I hardly ever like his books. Huh. My review: I recommend this book to people all of the time at the bookstore where I work and it's usually responded to positively. It's an intriguing mystery that doesn't feel stupid. Wouldn't you buy a book from me on a glowing recommendation like that?*edit* In retrospect I like this book more and more. It's a smart mystery amidst a sea of dull and formulaic bestsellers, transcending the genre to become something truly memorable as a book and not just a throwaway bathtub puzzle (I mostly read mysteries in the bath and the two are forever entwined for me). The intertwining case histories meld together perfectly to create an utterly satisfying ending. It's been a year and countless people have bought it on my word and not a one has complained--it's a winner, for sure.

I've been noticing an awful lot of books narrated by dogs lately--have been recommended a few and have politely demurred. I hate feeling emotionally manipulated and tend to avoid books that are intentional tearjerkers, which most animal stories are. Happily, this book, which chronicles the life and memories of one canine Mr. Bones (literary reference alert!) after his homeless master is lost. Auster is, I think, the type of author who tends to just collapse under the weight of his ideas; this is one of his few that has held up to the end. It's funny, and sad--& yet somehow managed to avoid the pitfalls of sentimentality that tend to pepper animal stories. I liked Mr. Bones' voice best & very much. Though he sometimes tended to the overly literary and destroyed the conceit, Mr. Bones on the whole was perfectly baffled and always doggy; when he was wise (which he was) it did not feel forced.

Tao Lin's style of writing--concrete, repetitive, reporting surface actions and objections only, usually of the most banal sort--disagrees with me violently. I love lush writing, replete with meaning, and this is anything but. If it were simply a matter of aesthetic differences I wouldn't give such a low rating--to each their own, right?--but I also happened to violently dislike the story: 22-year-old "Haley Joel Osment" is a shoplifting, self-destructive degenerate who falls into a mutually destructive relationship with fellow lost soul, underaged "Dakota Fanning," a relationship that sordidly drifts from unhealthy to abusive. All told as soullessly as possible through email, Gchat, and dry recounting of their encounters, each less distinguishable from the last. Maybe it made me feel so terrible because its contents and plot and its commentaries are all about things that I generally feel pretty bad about on a daily basis without external reminder--the difficulty of creating and sustaining meaningful relationships, the way technology can hinder connection, the awful easy aimlessness of modern life--but I disliked the way it was presented so totally that, even recognizing that I agree with ideas that Lin may or may not be attempting to tackle (I err on "not" after reading a few flippant & shallow review comments about the book), I can't summon a shred of good feeling for the book.

So many sentence fragments! They're fine in emails and text messages and goodreads reviews. But if you expect me to stick with you for a whole novel you had better not end every paragraph with one. Too frustrating.

I really wish I had read this book completely clean of any expectation--the amount of hype that I'd absorbed about it set up a lot of false expectations and I was sorely disappointed. Sullivan is not, contrary to all of the blurbs and reviews, a generation-defining essayist; never does he come close to earning the title of "David Foster Wallace successor." "Geoff Dyer lite" is the aptest way I can think to describe him, but why bother with a watered down version when you can just read and enjoy Dyer himself? There were several essays in here that were good and worthwhile. The short essay about his brother's electrocution was heartbreaking and probably the best. Most were simply tolerable. I would hesitate to recommend this collection.

I read this book with a speed that would make you think I adored it, but in fact I figured out the plot twists very early on and finished it just to have my guesses confirmed. I'm not sure I would recommend this to anyone except former childhood (or current adult) egyptologists--the parts with fictional!Carter were the best of the book.