I like to approach every book as if I'm the first person to ever read it, or to ever feel the emotions portrayed by its author.
Isn't that the point of literature, classic or otherwise? To inspire awe, or at least a sense of wonder?
When I stumbled upon, for four dollars, the gem Roll of Honor at Half Price I certainly felt appreciative of works by masters including Isaac Asimov ("The Last Question", a soul-searching introspective on the microscopic, yet meaningful role of human beings in the vast complexity of the universe; ending with a surprisingly funny commentary on religious belief)
and others like Robert Bloch, the Psycho writer who has a charmingly dark sense of humor (Bloch wrote "Daybroke" in 1958 - the story's protagonist is a man who cunningly evaded a nuclear apocalypse, but is forced as he walks through the obliterated town to see gruesome reminders of the materialistic culture which once was - and he ends this with the statement from the supposedly failed general of the U.S. Army, "What do you mean, man?" said the general, flames rising, "We won!")
Robert Bloch was also the editor of another absolute all-time favorite short story anthology that I also snatched up at a thrift store called "Monsters in our Midst".
My favorite, and the favorite of "Honor" editor Frederik Pohl - who explains the sci-fi writing community's formation with each story's introduction - was "Who Goes There" by John W. Campbell.
Campbell's story is the longest, Pohl explains, because he was featured in three World Cons - 1947, 1954, and 1957, and also Campbell published and masterminded the magazine "Astounding".
"Who goes there" is a story about a U.S. research lab in Antarctica in 1938.
The opening scene is different, in many ways, from its adaptation, the John Carpenter movie The Thing which was set in 1982.
While Carpenter chose to open with a helicopter chasing a husky dog running across a vast Alaskan wilderness, Campbell's story begins with the immediate realization that something is terribly wrong.
"The place stank", Campbell wrote.
He describes the dripping of the ice-alien-monster haunting the nightmares of the luckless
Campbell's McReady was "a forgotten myth... a looming bronze statue that held life and walked."
In Carpenter's movie, although the details are changed, the characters' desperation is conveyed so effectively, just like the story. We are consumed by the claustrophobia and paranoia that they feel. Each interpretation defies you to look away or to stop reading.
The way that Campbell describes the group's reaction reminds me of Joseph Heller's Catch 22. They are tolerant in a trained, desensitized way of the insane reactions that people have to unbelievable, inescapable situations.
The Thing captures this militaristic mentality in the way that each scene, acted carefully, conveys the sense that humanity as a whole will survive if the individuals sacrifice themselves.
Strangely, the story ends happily. We are one step behind the future world of the aliens, which "came from a world with a bluer sun."
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
A very long dislcaimer, regarding a very long absence
I was mildly astonished to notice that since January of 2010, I have 16 unpublished and unfinished book reviews.
Most of them began with something funny, about books I barely remember reading.
I have deeply resolved to never again sell all of my books, many of which took years to accumulate and some considerable effort of bookstore searching, internet crawling, and depraved, unholy public library fines to obtain.
I also admit to some very shameful family book sharing incidences from which I have never quite recovered, trust-wise. (In the black market of books, I am indebted to my sister heavily. I promise I will replace your Douglas Adams entire Hitchhiker's Guide anthology - which I read entirely in about a month.)
The point is that I, as many people know who are addicted to the crack-like high of fiction, have lived, breathed, and read any and everything I could get my hands on since I could navigate my way through a sentence at about six.
I crave. I long. I dream. I plot and scheme, sometimes, just to get a look at what people have in their library. I get glazy-eyed over just the idea of reading. I can't get through the day without one.
My name is Larisa, and I am a bookaholic.
Most of them began with something funny, about books I barely remember reading.
I have deeply resolved to never again sell all of my books, many of which took years to accumulate and some considerable effort of bookstore searching, internet crawling, and depraved, unholy public library fines to obtain.
I also admit to some very shameful family book sharing incidences from which I have never quite recovered, trust-wise. (In the black market of books, I am indebted to my sister heavily. I promise I will replace your Douglas Adams entire Hitchhiker's Guide anthology - which I read entirely in about a month.)
The point is that I, as many people know who are addicted to the crack-like high of fiction, have lived, breathed, and read any and everything I could get my hands on since I could navigate my way through a sentence at about six.
I crave. I long. I dream. I plot and scheme, sometimes, just to get a look at what people have in their library. I get glazy-eyed over just the idea of reading. I can't get through the day without one.
My name is Larisa, and I am a bookaholic.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Reading, part 3
Terry Pratchett's Making Money is a hilarious and thoughtful commentary on the true value and meaning of money in society, and the resulting neurosis that often result from material obsession.
Money is the gazillionth novel of the DiscWorld Series, in which trolls, dwarfs, vampires, golems, Igors, and humans grudgingly co-exist in the massive metropolis Ankh-Morpork. Rather than following a strictly chronological order, each book in the series focuses on a different character in the fictional world while integrating other characters into the story.
It's difficult to summarize Pratchett's style, though many critics have tried (better than me). To put it plainly, reading any one of his novels will cause uncontrollable giggling, especially in public places such as the bus.
Pratchett's stories have a wonderful, life-affirming quality that is seldom found in 'science fiction' books, I think. And yet, his grasp of the seriousness and absurdity of real life problems translates effortlessly into his DiscWorld.
The many layers of these stories include first an instantly engaging plot, accompanied by exceptional character development. Then some of the jokes within this are what you might call high-concept puns, which will leave you laughing far later (believe me, it's brilliantly simple).
The protagonist in Making Money is Moist Von Lipwig, a former and current criminal who literally escaped death with the dubious assistance of the city's "ruthless dictator", Vetinari. The author makes very unclear the circumstances of Lipwig's release, but establishes that he was a very intelligent thief.
For more unknown reasons, Vetinari is "persuading" Lipwig to transfer from the head of the post office, which he has operated far too successfully, to the chairman of the bank.
The genius of this novel is that Lipwig's character is inherently likeable and commendable even though he is literally a crook in charge of a bank (another awesome joke). In contrast to the abhorrent family who owns the bank, he seems like a mild trickster next to the soulless, sinister band of greedy and back-stabbing Lavishes.
Lipwig contrives to outsmart the Lavishes and control a threatening group of Golems, mythical beings that play a big part in the plot.
Pratchett's finesse with story telling is widely-respected around the world, and I can see why. He keeps the dramatic suspense building until the very end. Don't try to figure out what's happening, just roll with the story and laugh at all the jokes. It's truly hilarious.
His sense of irony is impeccable, and the different groups of citizens hold their own prejudices which are thinly veiled as social commentary.
Fair warning: these books are highly addictive and not to be trifled with by the casual reader.
Money is the gazillionth novel of the DiscWorld Series, in which trolls, dwarfs, vampires, golems, Igors, and humans grudgingly co-exist in the massive metropolis Ankh-Morpork. Rather than following a strictly chronological order, each book in the series focuses on a different character in the fictional world while integrating other characters into the story.
It's difficult to summarize Pratchett's style, though many critics have tried (better than me). To put it plainly, reading any one of his novels will cause uncontrollable giggling, especially in public places such as the bus.
Pratchett's stories have a wonderful, life-affirming quality that is seldom found in 'science fiction' books, I think. And yet, his grasp of the seriousness and absurdity of real life problems translates effortlessly into his DiscWorld.
The many layers of these stories include first an instantly engaging plot, accompanied by exceptional character development. Then some of the jokes within this are what you might call high-concept puns, which will leave you laughing far later (believe me, it's brilliantly simple).
The protagonist in Making Money is Moist Von Lipwig, a former and current criminal who literally escaped death with the dubious assistance of the city's "ruthless dictator", Vetinari. The author makes very unclear the circumstances of Lipwig's release, but establishes that he was a very intelligent thief.
For more unknown reasons, Vetinari is "persuading" Lipwig to transfer from the head of the post office, which he has operated far too successfully, to the chairman of the bank.
The genius of this novel is that Lipwig's character is inherently likeable and commendable even though he is literally a crook in charge of a bank (another awesome joke). In contrast to the abhorrent family who owns the bank, he seems like a mild trickster next to the soulless, sinister band of greedy and back-stabbing Lavishes.
Lipwig contrives to outsmart the Lavishes and control a threatening group of Golems, mythical beings that play a big part in the plot.
Pratchett's finesse with story telling is widely-respected around the world, and I can see why. He keeps the dramatic suspense building until the very end. Don't try to figure out what's happening, just roll with the story and laugh at all the jokes. It's truly hilarious.
His sense of irony is impeccable, and the different groups of citizens hold their own prejudices which are thinly veiled as social commentary.
Fair warning: these books are highly addictive and not to be trifled with by the casual reader.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Summer reading, part 2
The title of Kurt Vonnegut's 1965 God Bless You Mr. Rosewater: or Pearls Before Swine sheds little light into the novel's context.
The protagonist 'Mr. Rosewater' actually refers to two individuals, similar in disposition, who are related by blood but strangers.
The first, Eliot, a middle-aged man in the throes of alcoholism, faces separation from his distant and oddly afflicted wife, disappoinment from his conservative, misunderstanding, yet loving father; and a legal inquiry into his sanity by a scheming lawyer who wants a slice of the family fortune for himself.
Fred Rosewater is the cousin from the less fortunate Rhode Island chapter of the family. Fred is an insurance agent who is "poor and boring" according to him and his socially climbing wife.
The Illinois Rosewaters are a wealthy family, Vonnegut establishes. Eliot's madness, or extreme eccentricity, seems to result from a tragedy during his service in World War 2, in which he accidentally killed three civilian firemen (we also know that Eliot is obsessed with volunteer fire departments in the present).
As a war veteran and only child born into money, Eliot falters through life as first an arts collector and philanthropist, but slowly loses his grip on reality through a series of public disgraces.
Eliot endeavors to spend much of the family fortune helping a town in the family's namesake Rosewater County, populated by people widely regarded as disreputable.
The townspeople regard Eliot as a saint of sorts who provides them with counseling and money when they need it. He own wife moves back to Europe to live as a socialite, but then goes crazy herself for reasons which her psychiatrist can't understand.
While all of this is going on, the family lawyer Musharref convinces cousin Fred to sue Eliot for his share of the estate based on the fact that he's crazy and unfit to run the foundation.
Eliot admits to a total psychotic break near the very end. He finally loses his mind on the way to finalize divorce from his wife (who is certainly not an awful person in this context, she truly cares about him).
He "wakes up" in the narrative one year later, remembering almost nothing about the lost time.
Mr. Rosewater is certainly not my favorite book, from my favorite author. I alternated between total disinterest and mild fascination at Vonnegut's unyielding devotion towards mocking simply everything.
Maybe I just can't stand how itchingly familiar the idiosyncratic Rosewater's debated 'insanity' is.
Like many Vonnegut books of this period, the characters are seedy opportunists, rich establishment hacks, and the occasional misunderstood hero. This may or may not be Eliot here. It's sometimes difficult to discover the character's motivation, as Vonnegut relies mostly on non-omniscient narrative. It's not that his characters aren't compelling or that his grasp of history is not relevant. They are, and it is.
If you know any Vonnegut, you realize that all of this is backstory. The true meaning often lies in the last few chapters.
The point, comprehensively, is that none of it matters, that none of society's graces or failures change anything in life. The reader must understand that Vonnegut is truly the master of ultimate cynicism.
However, redemption waits.
Eliot is not an enlightened person because he gives his life and fortune to the poor and unwanted.
Rather,he struggles as a man not only disillusioned with what he believes to be a disdainful and pompous, idiotic upper class (this would be too obvious).
As Vonnegut would say in Deadeye Dick, a person's life story ends at some point, and "all that remains to be experienced is the epilogue". Eliot's story ended when he killed the firemen in the war.
Eliot wants to define what makes him human, for better or worse. He doesn't shy away from the truth of his mental state, the way people see him or his family, or the unhealthy illusions the residents of "his town" have about him and themselves.
Lastly, the author usually includes one moment of pure clarity (actually at the beginning):
"Thus did a handful of rapacious citizens come to control all that was worth controlling in America. Thus was the savage and stupid and entirely inappropriate and unnecessary and humorless American class system created."
God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut, war survivor, and self-proclaimed humanist.
The protagonist 'Mr. Rosewater' actually refers to two individuals, similar in disposition, who are related by blood but strangers.
The first, Eliot, a middle-aged man in the throes of alcoholism, faces separation from his distant and oddly afflicted wife, disappoinment from his conservative, misunderstanding, yet loving father; and a legal inquiry into his sanity by a scheming lawyer who wants a slice of the family fortune for himself.
Fred Rosewater is the cousin from the less fortunate Rhode Island chapter of the family. Fred is an insurance agent who is "poor and boring" according to him and his socially climbing wife.
The Illinois Rosewaters are a wealthy family, Vonnegut establishes. Eliot's madness, or extreme eccentricity, seems to result from a tragedy during his service in World War 2, in which he accidentally killed three civilian firemen (we also know that Eliot is obsessed with volunteer fire departments in the present).
As a war veteran and only child born into money, Eliot falters through life as first an arts collector and philanthropist, but slowly loses his grip on reality through a series of public disgraces.
Eliot endeavors to spend much of the family fortune helping a town in the family's namesake Rosewater County, populated by people widely regarded as disreputable.
The townspeople regard Eliot as a saint of sorts who provides them with counseling and money when they need it. He own wife moves back to Europe to live as a socialite, but then goes crazy herself for reasons which her psychiatrist can't understand.
While all of this is going on, the family lawyer Musharref convinces cousin Fred to sue Eliot for his share of the estate based on the fact that he's crazy and unfit to run the foundation.
Eliot admits to a total psychotic break near the very end. He finally loses his mind on the way to finalize divorce from his wife (who is certainly not an awful person in this context, she truly cares about him).
He "wakes up" in the narrative one year later, remembering almost nothing about the lost time.
Mr. Rosewater is certainly not my favorite book, from my favorite author. I alternated between total disinterest and mild fascination at Vonnegut's unyielding devotion towards mocking simply everything.
Maybe I just can't stand how itchingly familiar the idiosyncratic Rosewater's debated 'insanity' is.
Like many Vonnegut books of this period, the characters are seedy opportunists, rich establishment hacks, and the occasional misunderstood hero. This may or may not be Eliot here. It's sometimes difficult to discover the character's motivation, as Vonnegut relies mostly on non-omniscient narrative. It's not that his characters aren't compelling or that his grasp of history is not relevant. They are, and it is.
If you know any Vonnegut, you realize that all of this is backstory. The true meaning often lies in the last few chapters.
The point, comprehensively, is that none of it matters, that none of society's graces or failures change anything in life. The reader must understand that Vonnegut is truly the master of ultimate cynicism.
However, redemption waits.
Eliot is not an enlightened person because he gives his life and fortune to the poor and unwanted.
Rather,he struggles as a man not only disillusioned with what he believes to be a disdainful and pompous, idiotic upper class (this would be too obvious).
As Vonnegut would say in Deadeye Dick, a person's life story ends at some point, and "all that remains to be experienced is the epilogue". Eliot's story ended when he killed the firemen in the war.
Eliot wants to define what makes him human, for better or worse. He doesn't shy away from the truth of his mental state, the way people see him or his family, or the unhealthy illusions the residents of "his town" have about him and themselves.
Lastly, the author usually includes one moment of pure clarity (actually at the beginning):
"Thus did a handful of rapacious citizens come to control all that was worth controlling in America. Thus was the savage and stupid and entirely inappropriate and unnecessary and humorless American class system created."
God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut, war survivor, and self-proclaimed humanist.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Something to show for it: My summer in books pt 1
Turncoat: Jim Butcher (2009)
The purpose of this review was not to rehash, for yet another time, the plot and potency of the Jim Butcher experience, but to establish that I can write one single entry without deleting it.
In the course of these examinations I have discovered that I sure like Jim Butcher, and Turncoat (book 11 in the Dresden Files Series) and so does the rest of the country, according to the New York Times best seller list and all the sci-fi people out there. If you haven't read the other ten books in the series, try to pay attention. I know I did.
Chicago detective and tall man Harry Dresden the Wizard is so confused, and so righteously angry. He wants to save humanity, in which he is tenuously included, yet conflicting forces confound him on all sides.
For instance, a near lifeless body is thrust on his doorstep in the first 20 words, and identified as his enemy; yet begging for the wizard's help. What's a modern socially conscious fictional wizard detective to do? Dump the council member who wants him dead, or believe his sketchy story and endanger his own life?
If you're Butcher, arm him with a snazzy outfit and contact the reinforcements - werewolves, in this case. Throw in an early, unexpected casualty, and take the money and run.
There's little room for disbelief of the premise here, given the parameters of the plot setup. That's not a spoiler, just the style of writing. Morgan, the White Council Warden who used to hate Dresden, is being framed.
Harry believes him despite the overwhelming evidence, and it's so Humphrey Bogart. No one else believes Dresden except his noir counterparts, his vampire brother Thomas and his apprentice Molly, and his girlfriend Anastasia.
Butcher spares little time on background information, and possibly even less on character development, although that's to be expected for a series of this kind. His stories thrive on an odd combination of complexity, historical background, and vagueness.
His characters are well described but often empty of motivation. You want to root for them, and sometimes you do, but it's hard to become emotionally invested in them as they bounce in and out of the narrative.
Not to say that Butcher doesn't write well. His story is instantly engaging, aggressively so, even. Like a sort of literary headlock. Forget about putting this book down, either. But he assumes you know the back story, and that you identify with the assorted non-human deities. There's quite a bit of sex, too.
Keep reading, though. Inside of the wall to wall action, and truly funny one-liners, the author has moments of quiet introspection that give way to a deeper meaning (not in a "Christiany" way, sorry if you're offended.)
Harry's battle speaks loudly of the silent class and race conflicts in this country, and in a real way of the actual wars going on worldwide. He strives, however clumsily as the character calls for, to force everyone to reconcile their differences.
My personal favorite line, "In this country, diplomacy is when you bring a sandwich in one hand and a gun in the other and say, make your choice."
The author also makes less subtle comments on the nature of humanity, such as Thomas' change of personality after torture, as he becomes the 'monster' which he has always been.
In Butcher's hands, Dresden is innately flawed and self-effacing, endearing in that quasi-human way. We look for defects in our heroes, even in fiction. We want to be caught up and drawn away, and then tethered by sober remarks (like the author's reference to WW2).
Get caught up, but be sure to have plenty of free time!
Fortunately, only the henchmen get killed. (just kidding!)
The purpose of this review was not to rehash, for yet another time, the plot and potency of the Jim Butcher experience, but to establish that I can write one single entry without deleting it.
In the course of these examinations I have discovered that I sure like Jim Butcher, and Turncoat (book 11 in the Dresden Files Series) and so does the rest of the country, according to the New York Times best seller list and all the sci-fi people out there. If you haven't read the other ten books in the series, try to pay attention. I know I did.
Chicago detective and tall man Harry Dresden the Wizard is so confused, and so righteously angry. He wants to save humanity, in which he is tenuously included, yet conflicting forces confound him on all sides.
For instance, a near lifeless body is thrust on his doorstep in the first 20 words, and identified as his enemy; yet begging for the wizard's help. What's a modern socially conscious fictional wizard detective to do? Dump the council member who wants him dead, or believe his sketchy story and endanger his own life?
If you're Butcher, arm him with a snazzy outfit and contact the reinforcements - werewolves, in this case. Throw in an early, unexpected casualty, and take the money and run.
There's little room for disbelief of the premise here, given the parameters of the plot setup. That's not a spoiler, just the style of writing. Morgan, the White Council Warden who used to hate Dresden, is being framed.
Harry believes him despite the overwhelming evidence, and it's so Humphrey Bogart. No one else believes Dresden except his noir counterparts, his vampire brother Thomas and his apprentice Molly, and his girlfriend Anastasia.
Butcher spares little time on background information, and possibly even less on character development, although that's to be expected for a series of this kind. His stories thrive on an odd combination of complexity, historical background, and vagueness.
His characters are well described but often empty of motivation. You want to root for them, and sometimes you do, but it's hard to become emotionally invested in them as they bounce in and out of the narrative.
Not to say that Butcher doesn't write well. His story is instantly engaging, aggressively so, even. Like a sort of literary headlock. Forget about putting this book down, either. But he assumes you know the back story, and that you identify with the assorted non-human deities. There's quite a bit of sex, too.
Keep reading, though. Inside of the wall to wall action, and truly funny one-liners, the author has moments of quiet introspection that give way to a deeper meaning (not in a "Christiany" way, sorry if you're offended.)
Harry's battle speaks loudly of the silent class and race conflicts in this country, and in a real way of the actual wars going on worldwide. He strives, however clumsily as the character calls for, to force everyone to reconcile their differences.
My personal favorite line, "In this country, diplomacy is when you bring a sandwich in one hand and a gun in the other and say, make your choice."
The author also makes less subtle comments on the nature of humanity, such as Thomas' change of personality after torture, as he becomes the 'monster' which he has always been.
In Butcher's hands, Dresden is innately flawed and self-effacing, endearing in that quasi-human way. We look for defects in our heroes, even in fiction. We want to be caught up and drawn away, and then tethered by sober remarks (like the author's reference to WW2).
Get caught up, but be sure to have plenty of free time!
Fortunately, only the henchmen get killed. (just kidding!)
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