Booklog 'Em
Nov. 19th, 2008 09:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trinityofoneGuess who’s ridiculously behind on her booklog again? Yes, that would be me.
168. Who Can Save Us Now?, Ed. by Owen King & John McNally — Anthology of short stories featuring original superheroes (and villains). On balance, I liked this collection—there were more stories I felt positive toward than ones that annoyed me. Tom Bissell’s entry was possibly my favorite and made me want to investigate more of his work; in contrast, Jennifer Weiner’s tale made me feel pretty good about the fact that I haven’t yet bothered to check out her books, even when I find them at sales for $1. In general, I wish this collection had concentrated less on superhero angst and made more room for superpower joy; I feel like that the idea of superpowers and superheroes is so saturated in pop culture that everyone’s forgotten that to suddenly be able to fly or run fast or be super strong would be awesome—in the original sense of that word. I’d like to produce a collection of superhero stories in which absolutely no emo is allowed.
I’m listening to Death Cab For Cutie as I write this, but that’s beside the point.
169. Bright Young Things, Scarlett Thomas — To my surprise and delight, this turned out to be my favorite of the Scarlett Thomas novels I’ve read so far. It follows six young Britons—three women and three men—who apply for a job only to find themselves drugged and dumped on a (seemingly) deserted island for some unknown reason. The plot never really comes together, but this book is really all about character, and Thomas has created six complex and interesting ones here. They’re not all entirely likeable all of the time, but they feel real and honestly representative of a certain pop culture-soaked, purpose-deprived portion of my generation (or perhaps more accurately, the one right before mine, but close enough). I found them all at least somewhat relatable, often painfully so, and I also felt real affection for them, especially Anne, who easily earns a spot on the list of my favorite female characters. So despite being a book in which very little actually happens—mostly the six main characters just talk to each other—I couldn’t put it down.
Unfortunately, I think it’s out of print, but if you can find it (thank you, Friends of the Beverly Hills Public Library!) I definitely recommend it.
170. Dreams From My Father, Barack Obama — Probably if enough time passes, I will eventually be able to speak objectively about Barack Obama, but at this point he’s only been President-Elect for two weeks, so nope, we’re not there yet. So instead I’ll say, first of all, how wonderful and incredible it is to have a president who can write. This is not the best book I’ve ever read, nor the best memoir, but it’s still head and shoulders above the pack—just like the man who wrote it. It’s fascinating just as a story, but especially in terms of the person we all know Obama to be today. During the campaign, everyone (rightly) remarked upon his sense of calm—“No drama Obama”—and this made me especially glad to have read this book, because in talking about his youth here, Obama makes it clear that he spent a lot of time (rightly) being angry. His ability to stay calm, to stay reasonable, to be a leader—these are all things he clearly had to work for, and that only impresses me more.
It also delights and amuses me to think of this book in the context of all the superhero stuff I’ve been reading lately—does Obama have an origin story here or what? In some ways it really is comic book perfect: the son of two different worlds and how he gained the strength and experience to…well, save us all. You know. In a non-spandex-y way.
Okay, now I feel a little goofy. But Obama’s a comic book fan! I’m sure he’d appreciate the analogy.
171. Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict, Laurie Viera Rigler — Well, it’s been two months, so the burning hatred I felt for this book when I first put it down has faded somewhat. It remains, however, idiotic and nonsensical even in memory. Courtney Stone, a modern-day Angeleno and the supposed Jane Austen addict of the title, miraculously finds herself transported back not only to Austen’s England, but into the life—and body—of a woman named Jane Mansfield (yup). Despite having supposedly read all of Austen’s books multiple times, Courtney seems shocked—shocked!—by almost every aspect of Regency life—basic stuff that even I am familiar with, despite being only a Casual Jane Austen Reader at Best. Courtney also frequently mentions the fact that she is a feminist, but all her goals and aspirations in life seem to involve finding a man. Plus she’s whiny. Basically, I spent most of the book wanting to punch her in the neck, which doesn’t make her a terribly good protagonist for a bit of fluff like this.
The ending of the book is also a vortex of bad ideas, poorly executed. What a waste of time.
172. When Will There Be Good News?, Kate Atkinson — Oh, stab me in the heart some more, Kate. Atkinson’s Jackson Brodie novels (the trilogy that begins with Case Histories) just get more and more depressing. This latest is simply brutal. And yet…I loved reading it, in spite of how bleak it is, in spite of the fact that the plot relies on some rather ridiculous Dickensian coincidences, in spite of Atkinson’s apparent hatred of semi-colons and love of comma splices. I’m not sure what it is, exactly, but I just love the way Atkinson’s characters leap off the page, the way their voices crackle and spark and echo in my head. I love the way she writes. She remains one of those authors who can in effect do no wrong: I will read anything she puts to paper. (Got old grocery lists? Send ’em to me!) But, uh…try to write something a little lighter next time, Kate, okay? For my sake?
173. Marvels, Kurt Busiek — A history of the Marvel Universe, as told from the perspective of an ordinary man. I wasn’t blown away by this, but I enjoyed it. As with much of Busiek’s work, the pace is slooooooow, and I wish that Phil could have been a bit more of a dynamic character in his own right. I did appreciate Busiek’s stab at making the logic of the X-Men fit in with the logic of the rest of Marvel’s heroes—it’s never made sense to me that a world that accepts the Fantastic Four is terrified of mutants. The Gwen Stacy chapter was well done as well.
Also: the art is gorgeous.
174. Iron Man: Execute Program, Charlie & Daniel Knauf — A glossy and fun Iron Man storyline that nicely sets up parts of Civil War. While not exactly profound, it has the right combination of action, character development, and fun fantasy “whoa”-factor to keep me happy.
175. Close to Shore, Michael Capuzzo — A decent but unspectacular account of the 1916 shark attacks off the Jersey Shore, which served as the inspiration for Jaws. The book is slow to get going as Capuzzo attempts to paint a picture of life in the Eastern United States in the teens, a task with which I felt he had only limited success. Clearly a lot of research went into this account, and Capuzzo provides a lot of detail, but he never really makes the past come alive like, for example, E.L. Doctorow does in Ragtime. Neither are the descriptions of the shark attacks particularly intense; there are far too many chapters in which Capuzzo describes a swimmer going out into the water in proximity to the shark, only to close with a line like, “Little did Robert know who close he came to death that day.” This doesn’t add suspense; it just makes the narrative seem needlessly drawn out. Weirdly, Capuzzo also orders the climax so that the chapter in which the shark is captured and killed is followed by several chapters describing failed attempts to capture and kill the shark. Uh, dude—I think you’ve got that backwards.
If you’re a big shark fan, you might enjoy this book more than I did, although I feel like I’ve read National Geographic articles that described shark attacks in a more titillating manner. Or you could just watch Jaws again, which I did the day after finishing the book—I found it much more satisfying.
176. Seducing Mr. Darcy, Gwyn Cready — Why, self, why?
In a way, I really do only have myself to blame here. There’s no logical reason that I would start reading a book like this actually expecting to like it. But I got so much giddy stupid pleasure out of the BBC’s Lost in Austen, I got greedy and went looking for more. Which means I badly need my own version of the personal opera singer from Scrubs: “MISTAKE!”
The writing here isn’t appallingly awful, but the characterization more than makes up for it. Or whatever the opposite of making up for it is. Not only does Cready butcher Austen’s characters—seriously, did she even read Pride and Prejudice? She seems to think Elizabeth Bennet has only two sisters as opposed to four (poor Mary and Kitty, forgotten again!)—she can’t even do justice to her own. Her bad guys are ridiculously, implausibly vile—idiotic caricatures. She can’t seem to decide if her hero is a proper, prudish, scholarly type or an ass-spanking sex fiend. (Not that I would be opposed to a character who’s both, but this dude rotates on a dime with no explanation. Where’s the fun in that?) And her heroine is named Flip. Flip. Need I say more?
Well, I could—unsurprisingly, I could go on ranting forever. But I’ve probably already wasted enough time on this foolishness.
177. Astro City: The Tarnished Angel, Kurt Busiek — Kurt, buddy, you’ve got some interesting ideas, but why must your pacing flow like molasses hit with a supervillain’s freeze-ray?
178. The Subway Chronicles, Ed. by Jacquelin Cangro — Collection of short essays about the New York City subway. I suspect I would have enjoyed this book more if I’d only read one or two pieces a week—not really feasible with a library book. Many of the essays are interesting, but read cover to cover, the collection becomes extremely monotonous. I also wish more of the writers had taken their essays to the next level: far too many are literally about the subway, with no connections made to larger themes. Really good essays, in my experience, tend to be about more than one thing—they have levels. (There’s a metaphor about the subway running beneath the city streets that I could go for here, but I’m not sure I have the energy.) Even for a book I came to with no expectations, this was underwhelming—not even worth reading to lighten the commute.
179. You Don’t Love Me Yet, Jonathan Lethem — Oh my god. I’m actually shocked that a book by a respected author like Lethem could be this bad. Because it is so bad. It’s full of whiny, painfully hipstery characters with names like Fancher Autumnbreast tooling around a fake L.A. that makes no geographical sense (even less than the real L.A., I mean) and having lots of deeply unpleasant-sounding sex that made me lock my legs at the knee as I read. Fine. That’s just bad. But what launches this book into the stratosphere of shockingly, appallingly bad (or perhaps drilling it down into the hot, cramped hell thereof) is the fact that Lethem’s plot involves taking a cool, independent female bassist and making her completely subservient to an obnoxious, controlling, and—Lethem seems to take great joy in telling us—physically repellent man. Meanwhile, female friendships exist in this book apparently just so they can be tossed aside like a crumpled tissue when the right man walks into the room. I just… This is really the best you can do for me, 2008?
Despite all the things I’ve read about how wonderful Lethem’s The Fortress of Solitude and Motherless Brooklyn are, this book makes me never want to read a single word of his again.
180. Cycler, Lauren McLaughlin — Once a month, teenager Jill McTeague turns into a boy for three days. Whereas I would be like, “OMG! Best period alternative ever!”—especially since Jill is lucky enough to have a cute bisexual boy fall in love with her—Jill is less than psyched by this little bit of genderfuckery. In fact, thanks to the influence of her cartoonishly evil mother, Jill has totally sublimated her male side, causing him to split into a separate personality called Jack. And Jack’s starting to get pissed.
Frankly, I do not blame him. Jill is such a weenie. Not only can she not even consider any solution to her problem outside of total denial, she freaks out when her awesome boyfriend confesses he likes dudes as well as chicks. Girl, as far as I am concerned you are living the dream here—I find your whining even less attractive than Buffy constantly bemoaning the fact that she doesn’t have a normal life.
McLaughlin’s got a great premise here, but she fails to take full advantage of it. Things didn’t really get moving until the very end—at which point you find out, nope, better wait for the sequel. Sigh. Well, you know I’ll be there—examples of decent published genderfuck are simply too few and far between.
Total Reviews: 180/224
Now I've got to try to recruit volunteers to call Georgia this weekend. Yes, another phone bank. I CAN'T STOP.
168. Who Can Save Us Now?, Ed. by Owen King & John McNally — Anthology of short stories featuring original superheroes (and villains). On balance, I liked this collection—there were more stories I felt positive toward than ones that annoyed me. Tom Bissell’s entry was possibly my favorite and made me want to investigate more of his work; in contrast, Jennifer Weiner’s tale made me feel pretty good about the fact that I haven’t yet bothered to check out her books, even when I find them at sales for $1. In general, I wish this collection had concentrated less on superhero angst and made more room for superpower joy; I feel like that the idea of superpowers and superheroes is so saturated in pop culture that everyone’s forgotten that to suddenly be able to fly or run fast or be super strong would be awesome—in the original sense of that word. I’d like to produce a collection of superhero stories in which absolutely no emo is allowed.
I’m listening to Death Cab For Cutie as I write this, but that’s beside the point.
169. Bright Young Things, Scarlett Thomas — To my surprise and delight, this turned out to be my favorite of the Scarlett Thomas novels I’ve read so far. It follows six young Britons—three women and three men—who apply for a job only to find themselves drugged and dumped on a (seemingly) deserted island for some unknown reason. The plot never really comes together, but this book is really all about character, and Thomas has created six complex and interesting ones here. They’re not all entirely likeable all of the time, but they feel real and honestly representative of a certain pop culture-soaked, purpose-deprived portion of my generation (or perhaps more accurately, the one right before mine, but close enough). I found them all at least somewhat relatable, often painfully so, and I also felt real affection for them, especially Anne, who easily earns a spot on the list of my favorite female characters. So despite being a book in which very little actually happens—mostly the six main characters just talk to each other—I couldn’t put it down.
Unfortunately, I think it’s out of print, but if you can find it (thank you, Friends of the Beverly Hills Public Library!) I definitely recommend it.
170. Dreams From My Father, Barack Obama — Probably if enough time passes, I will eventually be able to speak objectively about Barack Obama, but at this point he’s only been President-Elect for two weeks, so nope, we’re not there yet. So instead I’ll say, first of all, how wonderful and incredible it is to have a president who can write. This is not the best book I’ve ever read, nor the best memoir, but it’s still head and shoulders above the pack—just like the man who wrote it. It’s fascinating just as a story, but especially in terms of the person we all know Obama to be today. During the campaign, everyone (rightly) remarked upon his sense of calm—“No drama Obama”—and this made me especially glad to have read this book, because in talking about his youth here, Obama makes it clear that he spent a lot of time (rightly) being angry. His ability to stay calm, to stay reasonable, to be a leader—these are all things he clearly had to work for, and that only impresses me more.
It also delights and amuses me to think of this book in the context of all the superhero stuff I’ve been reading lately—does Obama have an origin story here or what? In some ways it really is comic book perfect: the son of two different worlds and how he gained the strength and experience to…well, save us all. You know. In a non-spandex-y way.
Okay, now I feel a little goofy. But Obama’s a comic book fan! I’m sure he’d appreciate the analogy.
171. Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict, Laurie Viera Rigler — Well, it’s been two months, so the burning hatred I felt for this book when I first put it down has faded somewhat. It remains, however, idiotic and nonsensical even in memory. Courtney Stone, a modern-day Angeleno and the supposed Jane Austen addict of the title, miraculously finds herself transported back not only to Austen’s England, but into the life—and body—of a woman named Jane Mansfield (yup). Despite having supposedly read all of Austen’s books multiple times, Courtney seems shocked—shocked!—by almost every aspect of Regency life—basic stuff that even I am familiar with, despite being only a Casual Jane Austen Reader at Best. Courtney also frequently mentions the fact that she is a feminist, but all her goals and aspirations in life seem to involve finding a man. Plus she’s whiny. Basically, I spent most of the book wanting to punch her in the neck, which doesn’t make her a terribly good protagonist for a bit of fluff like this.
The ending of the book is also a vortex of bad ideas, poorly executed. What a waste of time.
172. When Will There Be Good News?, Kate Atkinson — Oh, stab me in the heart some more, Kate. Atkinson’s Jackson Brodie novels (the trilogy that begins with Case Histories) just get more and more depressing. This latest is simply brutal. And yet…I loved reading it, in spite of how bleak it is, in spite of the fact that the plot relies on some rather ridiculous Dickensian coincidences, in spite of Atkinson’s apparent hatred of semi-colons and love of comma splices. I’m not sure what it is, exactly, but I just love the way Atkinson’s characters leap off the page, the way their voices crackle and spark and echo in my head. I love the way she writes. She remains one of those authors who can in effect do no wrong: I will read anything she puts to paper. (Got old grocery lists? Send ’em to me!) But, uh…try to write something a little lighter next time, Kate, okay? For my sake?
173. Marvels, Kurt Busiek — A history of the Marvel Universe, as told from the perspective of an ordinary man. I wasn’t blown away by this, but I enjoyed it. As with much of Busiek’s work, the pace is slooooooow, and I wish that Phil could have been a bit more of a dynamic character in his own right. I did appreciate Busiek’s stab at making the logic of the X-Men fit in with the logic of the rest of Marvel’s heroes—it’s never made sense to me that a world that accepts the Fantastic Four is terrified of mutants. The Gwen Stacy chapter was well done as well.
Also: the art is gorgeous.
174. Iron Man: Execute Program, Charlie & Daniel Knauf — A glossy and fun Iron Man storyline that nicely sets up parts of Civil War. While not exactly profound, it has the right combination of action, character development, and fun fantasy “whoa”-factor to keep me happy.
175. Close to Shore, Michael Capuzzo — A decent but unspectacular account of the 1916 shark attacks off the Jersey Shore, which served as the inspiration for Jaws. The book is slow to get going as Capuzzo attempts to paint a picture of life in the Eastern United States in the teens, a task with which I felt he had only limited success. Clearly a lot of research went into this account, and Capuzzo provides a lot of detail, but he never really makes the past come alive like, for example, E.L. Doctorow does in Ragtime. Neither are the descriptions of the shark attacks particularly intense; there are far too many chapters in which Capuzzo describes a swimmer going out into the water in proximity to the shark, only to close with a line like, “Little did Robert know who close he came to death that day.” This doesn’t add suspense; it just makes the narrative seem needlessly drawn out. Weirdly, Capuzzo also orders the climax so that the chapter in which the shark is captured and killed is followed by several chapters describing failed attempts to capture and kill the shark. Uh, dude—I think you’ve got that backwards.
If you’re a big shark fan, you might enjoy this book more than I did, although I feel like I’ve read National Geographic articles that described shark attacks in a more titillating manner. Or you could just watch Jaws again, which I did the day after finishing the book—I found it much more satisfying.
176. Seducing Mr. Darcy, Gwyn Cready — Why, self, why?
In a way, I really do only have myself to blame here. There’s no logical reason that I would start reading a book like this actually expecting to like it. But I got so much giddy stupid pleasure out of the BBC’s Lost in Austen, I got greedy and went looking for more. Which means I badly need my own version of the personal opera singer from Scrubs: “MISTAKE!”
The writing here isn’t appallingly awful, but the characterization more than makes up for it. Or whatever the opposite of making up for it is. Not only does Cready butcher Austen’s characters—seriously, did she even read Pride and Prejudice? She seems to think Elizabeth Bennet has only two sisters as opposed to four (poor Mary and Kitty, forgotten again!)—she can’t even do justice to her own. Her bad guys are ridiculously, implausibly vile—idiotic caricatures. She can’t seem to decide if her hero is a proper, prudish, scholarly type or an ass-spanking sex fiend. (Not that I would be opposed to a character who’s both, but this dude rotates on a dime with no explanation. Where’s the fun in that?) And her heroine is named Flip. Flip. Need I say more?
Well, I could—unsurprisingly, I could go on ranting forever. But I’ve probably already wasted enough time on this foolishness.
177. Astro City: The Tarnished Angel, Kurt Busiek — Kurt, buddy, you’ve got some interesting ideas, but why must your pacing flow like molasses hit with a supervillain’s freeze-ray?
178. The Subway Chronicles, Ed. by Jacquelin Cangro — Collection of short essays about the New York City subway. I suspect I would have enjoyed this book more if I’d only read one or two pieces a week—not really feasible with a library book. Many of the essays are interesting, but read cover to cover, the collection becomes extremely monotonous. I also wish more of the writers had taken their essays to the next level: far too many are literally about the subway, with no connections made to larger themes. Really good essays, in my experience, tend to be about more than one thing—they have levels. (There’s a metaphor about the subway running beneath the city streets that I could go for here, but I’m not sure I have the energy.) Even for a book I came to with no expectations, this was underwhelming—not even worth reading to lighten the commute.
179. You Don’t Love Me Yet, Jonathan Lethem — Oh my god. I’m actually shocked that a book by a respected author like Lethem could be this bad. Because it is so bad. It’s full of whiny, painfully hipstery characters with names like Fancher Autumnbreast tooling around a fake L.A. that makes no geographical sense (even less than the real L.A., I mean) and having lots of deeply unpleasant-sounding sex that made me lock my legs at the knee as I read. Fine. That’s just bad. But what launches this book into the stratosphere of shockingly, appallingly bad (or perhaps drilling it down into the hot, cramped hell thereof) is the fact that Lethem’s plot involves taking a cool, independent female bassist and making her completely subservient to an obnoxious, controlling, and—Lethem seems to take great joy in telling us—physically repellent man. Meanwhile, female friendships exist in this book apparently just so they can be tossed aside like a crumpled tissue when the right man walks into the room. I just… This is really the best you can do for me, 2008?
Despite all the things I’ve read about how wonderful Lethem’s The Fortress of Solitude and Motherless Brooklyn are, this book makes me never want to read a single word of his again.
180. Cycler, Lauren McLaughlin — Once a month, teenager Jill McTeague turns into a boy for three days. Whereas I would be like, “OMG! Best period alternative ever!”—especially since Jill is lucky enough to have a cute bisexual boy fall in love with her—Jill is less than psyched by this little bit of genderfuckery. In fact, thanks to the influence of her cartoonishly evil mother, Jill has totally sublimated her male side, causing him to split into a separate personality called Jack. And Jack’s starting to get pissed.
Frankly, I do not blame him. Jill is such a weenie. Not only can she not even consider any solution to her problem outside of total denial, she freaks out when her awesome boyfriend confesses he likes dudes as well as chicks. Girl, as far as I am concerned you are living the dream here—I find your whining even less attractive than Buffy constantly bemoaning the fact that she doesn’t have a normal life.
McLaughlin’s got a great premise here, but she fails to take full advantage of it. Things didn’t really get moving until the very end—at which point you find out, nope, better wait for the sequel. Sigh. Well, you know I’ll be there—examples of decent published genderfuck are simply too few and far between.
Total Reviews: 180/224
Now I've got to try to recruit volunteers to call Georgia this weekend. Yes, another phone bank. I CAN'T STOP.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-19 06:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-19 07:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-19 07:38 pm (UTC)I'll have to look for that book. Thanks!
ETA: Astro City too! :D
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-19 07:45 pm (UTC)You'll probably like Astro City more than I did. I may have just been going through an impatient period, I don't know.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-19 10:23 pm (UTC)I hate Jonathan Lethem! I have now read two of his books (Amnesia Moon and Girl in Landscape), and that was TWO TOO MANY.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-19 11:01 pm (UTC)Oooh, please tell me in detail why those books suck! Since I also hated the anthology he edited (The Vintage Book of Amnesia) I'm getting near the point where I could BookMooch my copy of The Fortress of Solitude without guilt!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-19 11:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-20 03:18 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-20 05:51 pm (UTC)You should come! I'm going to be there both Saturday and Sunday—it would be nice to meet you!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-20 06:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-20 06:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-20 10:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-20 11:04 pm (UTC)I did meet David Hewlett a couple years ago, at a screening of A Dog's Breakfast. It was insanely awesome. So things like that can be a good experience, certainly!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-20 11:09 pm (UTC)I love The Wolves of Willoughby Chase! I will maybe check out Aiken's Austen stuff, and I'll definitely be reading that Kessel collection. Thanks!