How I Became a Famous Booklogist
Aug. 15th, 2009 09:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trinityofoneHEY CHECK IT OUT EVERYBODY, I AM FAMOUS ON THE INTERNETS:
(The above contains: 1. Nothing to disturb the spoiler-free and 2. Me!)
*~WOW!~*
Okay, and if you can get over the excitement of THAT, here's more I-am-insanely-behind booklog:
51. Q&A, Vikas Swarup — Wow. Simon Beaufoy really deserved that Best Adapted Screenplay Oscar. I didn’t think that Slumdog Millionaire was the Best Movie EVAR! as some people seem to, but the book is just awful. Scattered and poorly written, with a narrative that relies on more farfetched coincidences than a cracked-out Dickens novel, Q&A also manages to make its protagonist completely unsympathetic, and its romance entirely unromantic. Oh, and the whole thing—the first few chapters especially—is cringingly homophobic. If you loved Slumdog, this will merely taint your appreciation of it. Though I guess it’s interesting to see how the same concept can be taken in two wildly different directions—one that’ll make people hand out Oscars, and one that’ll make them want to mimic Oscar the Grouch.
52. Underground, Haruki Murakami — Incredibly powerful account of the 1995 sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subway. Murakami tells the story very simply, using mostly Studs Terkel-style first person accounts. It’s fascinating to see different people’s versions of the same events, especially since many of the survivors interviewed were in close proximity to each other (such as, on a tiny subway car) when the attacks took place, and yet their perspectives will often deviate from one another in interesting ways.
In the second half of the book, Murakami interviews former members of Aum Shinrikyo, the cult that perpetrated the attacks. This section is likewise compelling, and horrifying, though in different ways. I find the cult mentality somewhat difficult to grasp, so my reaction to the second section contained an element of bafflement to it as well, but that sort of works, as in a way the book is about trying to make sense of the insensible. It’s a wonderful work as a piece of history, and as an introspective look at everyday human action in the face of tragedy.
53. The Girl on the Fridge, Etgar Keret — Surrealist, minimalist Israeli short stories. I liked Pizzeria Kamikaze, the graphic novel Keret wrote, but I think at least 93% of my enjoyment there was based on Asaf Hanuka’s amazingly beautiful and evocative art. Without it, there were often things about Keret’s stories that I found admirable, but I didn’t particularly enjoy them—they read to me like Raymond Carver, only more random and confusing. Just not my thing.
54. Honolulu, Alan Brennert — Earnest white guy novel about a group of Korean picture brides who settle in Hawaii in the early part of the 20th century. This book is well-intentioned and certainly well-researched, but it never felt authentic to me—essentially because it isn’t. Like the prose style, the plot is workmanlike, maybe a little bland. It’s not bad by any means, but it doesn’t really say anything new, or say what it is saying in a new way. I read this for work, and that’s really the only reason I would have; it’s just not my kind of novel.
55. Girls of Riyadh, Rajaa Alsanea — All right, the truth is: I find most chick lit at least somewhat depressing. There are some funny, talented authors writing in the genre, but when the breadth of the plot is, "Will Mary Jane get her man? While wearing FABULOUS SHOES?" I can't help but feel a little bummed. Not that, in its own way, my own ideal plot isn't equally a shallow fantasy—"Will Mary Jane save the world from aliens/demons/Republicans/the mole people and get her man? While wearing FABULOUS SHOES?"—but at least in that version there's something else at stake. At least in that version (uh, when it's done well), Mary Jane gets to do stuff instead of merely have things happen to her.
If American/British/what have you chick lit depresses me, then Saudi Arabian chick lit is enough to make me near-suicidal. Perhaps I'm conducting a narrow read, but I felt like the stories of the women included in this book only confirmed my worst suspicions/fears/concerns about what life is like in Saudi Arabia for those with an XX chromosome. (This is a country where women cannot legally drive.) Alsanea tries to keep the tone light, but I found that even what the characters consider to be the sparkly good times got me down. You may blame at least part of this on my Eeyoreish tendencies, but I still think this book is pretty fucking bleak.
56. Fly on the Wall, E. Lockhart — While clearly not Lockhart's magnum opus (The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks! Read it!), this is still a charming, original YA novel. I like how open this book is about sex, and I really like the multi-ethnic cast of characters--how often do you encounter a protagonist who's both Chinese-American and Jewish? Gretchen's also just wonderfully funny and real. I wish I'd found more examples of girls like her in fiction when I was the same age.
57. Ex Machina: Tag, Brian K. Vaughan — Gosh. I remember really enjoying this, and yet, until I read the GoodReads description, I had absolutely no memory of what happened in it. Apparently this is the same-sex marriage one? You'd think I'd remember that, jeeze.
This "review" says way more about the poor state of my brain than it does about this book.
58. How I Became a Famous Novelist, Steve Hely — Hilarious send-up of the current literary “scene.” Hely’s protagonist, Pete Tarslaw, concludes, not unreasonably, that most acclaimed novelists are just big faking fakers who fake, from the James Patterson thriller types to the earnest, sappy Nicholas Sparkses. (Or rather the very funny fictional equivalents whom Hely invents.) But Pete takes it one step further, and decides to emulate them: he will crank out an intentionally bad—but sellable—“literary” novel and thus make big bucks, attain fame, and get back at his ex-girlfriend.
The excerpts from Pete’s “masterpiece,” The Tornado Ashes Club, are as side-clenchingly funny as that title suggests (I mean, c’mon—I’ve read some good novels about clubs and societies, but SERIOUSLY, that naming trend needs to stop. Along with “The Whatever’s Daughter/Wife”). Hilarious too are the made-up bestseller listings and other fake documents (fauxuments?) Hely includes. But Hely is never malicious—in the end, he’s actually a bit nicer to the writers he’s parodying than I would be. Crafting the perfect blend of poetry and meanness is a delicate bit of mixology to maintain, but for the most part, I think Hely manages it.
Subsequently, I have enjoyed recommending this novel to customers, thus earning it a place on our store’s bestseller list. ;-)
59. Devilish, Maureen Johnson — Johnson’s section of Let It Snow made me want to check out more of her work; this particular book may not have been the right choice as, though it’s well-written, it suffers from a rather weak plot. Smart, rebellious Catholic schoolgirl Jane is (naturally) shocked to discover that her best friend, socially awkward Ally, has sold her soul to a demon. Sub-par Scoobying ensues. Johnson’s—I feel pretentious using this word, but okay, her mythology seems very poorly thought out. The rules of her universe don’t make much sense, nor are her characters—including the clearly clever Jane—particularly adept at maneuvering around them. Various deals are made for various characters’ souls (all in attempt to regain Ally’s and defeat the demons), but in order to keep the plot going, the characters continue to be incapable of taking the easy way out and instead repeatedly entangle themselves more. It’s very hard to enjoy witty prose when everyone is being an idiot. Perhaps supernatural fiction is not Johnson’s milieu?
60. Rest You Merry, Charlotte MacLeod — Perfectly pleasant cozy-type mystery, which takes place in the ’70s and stars an old-fashioned professor at a small American agricultural college. I liked Professor Shandy’s quiet wit and general oddness, and MacLeod manages to deliver at least one deliciously creepy image. This was a rec from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wychwood, and I can see why she enjoys the series; if I stumbled across any of MacLeod’s other books at a library sale, I’d probably snatch them up. However, this wasn’t memorable enough that I’ll be actively and desperately seeking them out.
Total Reviews: 60/137
I...feel like there was a third thing but now I can't remember what it was. Um. Possibly expect an edit?
(The above contains: 1. Nothing to disturb the spoiler-free and 2. Me!)
*~WOW!~*
Okay, and if you can get over the excitement of THAT, here's more I-am-insanely-behind booklog:
51. Q&A, Vikas Swarup — Wow. Simon Beaufoy really deserved that Best Adapted Screenplay Oscar. I didn’t think that Slumdog Millionaire was the Best Movie EVAR! as some people seem to, but the book is just awful. Scattered and poorly written, with a narrative that relies on more farfetched coincidences than a cracked-out Dickens novel, Q&A also manages to make its protagonist completely unsympathetic, and its romance entirely unromantic. Oh, and the whole thing—the first few chapters especially—is cringingly homophobic. If you loved Slumdog, this will merely taint your appreciation of it. Though I guess it’s interesting to see how the same concept can be taken in two wildly different directions—one that’ll make people hand out Oscars, and one that’ll make them want to mimic Oscar the Grouch.
52. Underground, Haruki Murakami — Incredibly powerful account of the 1995 sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subway. Murakami tells the story very simply, using mostly Studs Terkel-style first person accounts. It’s fascinating to see different people’s versions of the same events, especially since many of the survivors interviewed were in close proximity to each other (such as, on a tiny subway car) when the attacks took place, and yet their perspectives will often deviate from one another in interesting ways.
In the second half of the book, Murakami interviews former members of Aum Shinrikyo, the cult that perpetrated the attacks. This section is likewise compelling, and horrifying, though in different ways. I find the cult mentality somewhat difficult to grasp, so my reaction to the second section contained an element of bafflement to it as well, but that sort of works, as in a way the book is about trying to make sense of the insensible. It’s a wonderful work as a piece of history, and as an introspective look at everyday human action in the face of tragedy.
53. The Girl on the Fridge, Etgar Keret — Surrealist, minimalist Israeli short stories. I liked Pizzeria Kamikaze, the graphic novel Keret wrote, but I think at least 93% of my enjoyment there was based on Asaf Hanuka’s amazingly beautiful and evocative art. Without it, there were often things about Keret’s stories that I found admirable, but I didn’t particularly enjoy them—they read to me like Raymond Carver, only more random and confusing. Just not my thing.
54. Honolulu, Alan Brennert — Earnest white guy novel about a group of Korean picture brides who settle in Hawaii in the early part of the 20th century. This book is well-intentioned and certainly well-researched, but it never felt authentic to me—essentially because it isn’t. Like the prose style, the plot is workmanlike, maybe a little bland. It’s not bad by any means, but it doesn’t really say anything new, or say what it is saying in a new way. I read this for work, and that’s really the only reason I would have; it’s just not my kind of novel.
55. Girls of Riyadh, Rajaa Alsanea — All right, the truth is: I find most chick lit at least somewhat depressing. There are some funny, talented authors writing in the genre, but when the breadth of the plot is, "Will Mary Jane get her man? While wearing FABULOUS SHOES?" I can't help but feel a little bummed. Not that, in its own way, my own ideal plot isn't equally a shallow fantasy—"Will Mary Jane save the world from aliens/demons/Republicans/the mole people and get her man? While wearing FABULOUS SHOES?"—but at least in that version there's something else at stake. At least in that version (uh, when it's done well), Mary Jane gets to do stuff instead of merely have things happen to her.
If American/British/what have you chick lit depresses me, then Saudi Arabian chick lit is enough to make me near-suicidal. Perhaps I'm conducting a narrow read, but I felt like the stories of the women included in this book only confirmed my worst suspicions/fears/concerns about what life is like in Saudi Arabia for those with an XX chromosome. (This is a country where women cannot legally drive.) Alsanea tries to keep the tone light, but I found that even what the characters consider to be the sparkly good times got me down. You may blame at least part of this on my Eeyoreish tendencies, but I still think this book is pretty fucking bleak.
56. Fly on the Wall, E. Lockhart — While clearly not Lockhart's magnum opus (The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks! Read it!), this is still a charming, original YA novel. I like how open this book is about sex, and I really like the multi-ethnic cast of characters--how often do you encounter a protagonist who's both Chinese-American and Jewish? Gretchen's also just wonderfully funny and real. I wish I'd found more examples of girls like her in fiction when I was the same age.
57. Ex Machina: Tag, Brian K. Vaughan — Gosh. I remember really enjoying this, and yet, until I read the GoodReads description, I had absolutely no memory of what happened in it. Apparently this is the same-sex marriage one? You'd think I'd remember that, jeeze.
This "review" says way more about the poor state of my brain than it does about this book.
58. How I Became a Famous Novelist, Steve Hely — Hilarious send-up of the current literary “scene.” Hely’s protagonist, Pete Tarslaw, concludes, not unreasonably, that most acclaimed novelists are just big faking fakers who fake, from the James Patterson thriller types to the earnest, sappy Nicholas Sparkses. (Or rather the very funny fictional equivalents whom Hely invents.) But Pete takes it one step further, and decides to emulate them: he will crank out an intentionally bad—but sellable—“literary” novel and thus make big bucks, attain fame, and get back at his ex-girlfriend.
The excerpts from Pete’s “masterpiece,” The Tornado Ashes Club, are as side-clenchingly funny as that title suggests (I mean, c’mon—I’ve read some good novels about clubs and societies, but SERIOUSLY, that naming trend needs to stop. Along with “The Whatever’s Daughter/Wife”). Hilarious too are the made-up bestseller listings and other fake documents (fauxuments?) Hely includes. But Hely is never malicious—in the end, he’s actually a bit nicer to the writers he’s parodying than I would be. Crafting the perfect blend of poetry and meanness is a delicate bit of mixology to maintain, but for the most part, I think Hely manages it.
Subsequently, I have enjoyed recommending this novel to customers, thus earning it a place on our store’s bestseller list. ;-)
59. Devilish, Maureen Johnson — Johnson’s section of Let It Snow made me want to check out more of her work; this particular book may not have been the right choice as, though it’s well-written, it suffers from a rather weak plot. Smart, rebellious Catholic schoolgirl Jane is (naturally) shocked to discover that her best friend, socially awkward Ally, has sold her soul to a demon. Sub-par Scoobying ensues. Johnson’s—I feel pretentious using this word, but okay, her mythology seems very poorly thought out. The rules of her universe don’t make much sense, nor are her characters—including the clearly clever Jane—particularly adept at maneuvering around them. Various deals are made for various characters’ souls (all in attempt to regain Ally’s and defeat the demons), but in order to keep the plot going, the characters continue to be incapable of taking the easy way out and instead repeatedly entangle themselves more. It’s very hard to enjoy witty prose when everyone is being an idiot. Perhaps supernatural fiction is not Johnson’s milieu?
60. Rest You Merry, Charlotte MacLeod — Perfectly pleasant cozy-type mystery, which takes place in the ’70s and stars an old-fashioned professor at a small American agricultural college. I liked Professor Shandy’s quiet wit and general oddness, and MacLeod manages to deliver at least one deliciously creepy image. This was a rec from
wychwood, and I can see why she enjoys the series; if I stumbled across any of MacLeod’s other books at a library sale, I’d probably snatch them up. However, this wasn’t memorable enough that I’ll be actively and desperately seeking them out.Total Reviews: 60/137
I...feel like there was a third thing but now I can't remember what it was. Um. Possibly expect an edit?
