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Book 34: On The Edge Of Gone

“This is the second time my future vanishes: it’s January 29, 2035, and I give up.”

Dates read: March 22-25, 2016

Rating: 7/10

My husband and I sometimes will stream some nonsense TV show in the 30-45 minutes before we go to bed. We don’t really watch it per se, it’s just kind of on in the background. Alaska State Troopers is a show we do that a lot with, and so is Doomsday Preppers. The latter is more interesting than you might think…the kinds of people who are preppers aren’t always the kinds of people you would imagine would be into that sort of thing. Sure, there are plenty of rural, religious types, but there’s also families who live in McMansions in the suburbs, young single urbanites…a surprisingly diverse cross-section of our population.

But what if they were right? What if the end of the world was nigh? Corinne Duyvis’ On the Edge of Gone takes place in the Netherlands about 20 years in the future, and at the beginning of the novel, we join teenager Denise and her mom as they (and the rest of the world) are getting ready for a comet to strike the planet. The very wealthy have left Earth via spaceship, and so have some of the very lucky, who won lotteries for spots on those ships. The remaining population have been assigned to shelters to ride out the strike and immediate aftermath. Denise, her sister Iris, and her mother are in the latter group, but when the appointed day comes and Iris is nowhere to be found, Denise and her mother find themselves running late to get to their shelter in time. On their way, they come across one of Denise’s former teachers and her partner who have had an accident, and are permitted to take shelter aboard the spaceship they’ve been assigned to in return for helping them get there.

Once she’s on the ship, Denise immediately starts trying to figure out how to stay…wouldn’t anyone want to explore the stars instead of try to survive in the kind of post-apocalyptic situation that killed the dinosaurs? The rest of the plot unfolds from there: Denise’s quest to find her sister and secure herself and her family room on the ship. When I was reading it, I kept expecting the ship taking off to be when the plot would really start, and it took me until about a quarter of the way through to figure out that wasn’t the point. The point are the questions the scenario raises; most poignantly, how do you figure out who should live and who should die? What kinds of skills are really necessary anyways? We can all agree on doctors, cooks, and engineers, but who’s more important: artists or lawyers? Young people or experienced people?

There’s a movement out there centered around the idea that we need diverse books. I agree. I’m never going to be one to go on a deliberate spree to only read books by or about a particular gender or racial category (my favorite author is White Man Jeffrey Eugenides), but I think a lot of people’s…fear or resistance or whatever it is, exactly, that makes them suspicious of others who aren’t like them is based on a lack of exposure. It’s easy to demonize gay people, or trans people, or people of color, to think of the world as Us v. Them, when you don’t know any of Them. Once you get to know Them, it turns out they’re people, just like you, with the same kind of hopes and dreams and bills and taxes that you have. Even literature can be an important bridge to build empathy…a book implicitly asks you to care about these people on the page, to imagine yourself in their shoes. Which is why it matters that Denise and Iris are mixed race, that Denise is autistic (as is the author), that Iris is transgender. Those aren’t the kind of people you normally read books about. And this book in particular is well-crafted, with a story that draws you in and makes you ask yourself how you would deal with the situations that are presented therein. Definitely worth and read and a think.

Tell me, blog friends…what kind of not-typical protagonists would you like to see books about?

**I received a free copy of this book from NetGalley in exchange for a fair and honest review**

Note: Review cross-posted at Cannonball Read

Book 33: Private Citizens

 

“She felt mute and illiterate in the language of power, which was money. She knew that corporate oligarchs used it to subvert democracy. But she was hazy on macro and micro; how US trade agreements affected sweatshop conditions in Indonesia; what the Fed did, exactly. Her efforts to research the housing market crisis ended in page-crumpling fury- credit default swaps? Mortgage-backed securities? Collateralized debt obligations? How could people be moral when morality obliged you to know everything? It was her fault for not studying econ in college, but she’d had so much contempt for the future ibankers that it had seemed principled not to.”

Dates read: March 19-22, 2016

Rating: 8/10

I may have graduated from college almost ten years ago (eep!) but I went straight to law school after that, so I really only started to have that post-graduation trying-to-figure-it-out experience about 6 years ago. It took me a couple years….I spent nine months trying to find a job as a lawyer, doing a couple stints of book rush at the college bookstore to score some pocket money, then once I got into litigation practice I washed out (I have no problem admitting I couldn’t handle the pressure) after about a year and a half. From there, I was lucky enough to have a friend with a connection to the Obama campaign in Nevada, and figured I could spend a few months doing field organizing, making enough money to cover expenses while I contemplated next steps. But I met my now-husband while campaigning, and so I stayed in Nevada. Needing a job, I happened to find out about an internship with a lobbying firm during legislative session. I took it, and they liked me so much they kept me! Things in my life have been pretty stable since, but those 2-3 years right after graduation were fumbling and awkward and kind of scary sometimes.

Which is all to say that the just-graduated-and-I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing, trying to discern out who you really are and what you really want to do era isn’t all that far behind me, considering that I’m 30. That time in their lives is what the characters in Tony Tulathimutte‘s Private Citizens are facing, so I had an immediate connection with the story. Confused social activist Cory, insecure tech worker Will, unstable grad student Henrik and self-destructive wannabe writer Linda all knew each other at Stanford and live in and around tech-boom San Francisco, and the story follows each of them in turn as they try to figure out the obstacles in front of them: Cory’s inheritance of a flailing nonprofit, Will’s inability to cope with his hyperambitious, emotionally withholding girlfriend Vanya, Henrick’s loss of funding for his research and recurrence of bipolar disorder, and Linda’s drug issues and infatuation with her own perceived genius. They’re not friends anymore, per se, more like people whose lives intertwined in college as roommates or in ill-fated relationships, and never came completely apart. And as their lives get more complicated and harder, they find themselves coming back together.

Both Tulathimutte’s characterizations and grasp on the thorny knot it can be to be a millennial are strong and ring true. Cory and Will and Henrik and Linda all feel like real, if highly magnified, people. None of them are especially likable, but all of them can be sympathetic. They’re all experiencing the fuzzy mess of trying to check your privilege, of trying to find the right boundaries between your online life and your real one, figuring out your own niche in a crowded world, living up to the praise and expectations you’ve been inundated with for your whole life. It’s trendy to dismiss millennial malaise as a bunch of whining from spoiled brats, but Tulathimutte understands that it isn’t that simple. We were raised to believe that you earn a medal just for showing up, that you can be anything you want to be…and when it turns out that your life isn’t particularly special, you can’t shake the feeling that it’s your fault, somehow, that you’ve failed yourself and wasted your potential. The writing is maybe a little heavy on esoteric word choices, but it’s sharp and incisive and compelling. I’m not sure how I felt about the end, though…it felt like a bit of a departure from the rest of the book, at least in part. But maybe when I read it again (and I plan to), knowing how it winds up, it’ll fit more cohesively.

Tell me, blog friends…how long did it take you to get yourself together after college?

**I received a free copy of this book from the publisher, William Morris, through Edelweiss in exchange for a fair and honest review**

Note: Review cross-posted at Cannonball Read

Book 31: To Die For

 

“Around sixth or seventh grade we got the video camera- one of the first they came out with- and that’s when Suzanne got into news. She’d have me tape her so she could watch her performances and work on certain problem areas, like licking her lips and saying um. It’s a very competitive field, video journalism. And she figured it’s never too early to start. She knew what she wanted by then, so why wait around to start developing her skills, is what she said. We were all so proud of her.”

Dates read: March 14-16, 2016

Rating: 8/10

I don’t care for the Kardashians. I refuse to purchase magazines that feature them as cover models. I don’t watch any of their shows. I don’t buy their apps. I find them to be vapid, shallow, and insipid; with no talent and nothing to offer. I am apparently in the minority in holding that opinion. Which is fine, other people apparently enjoy them and they’re richer than I can even dream of ever being. But even I have to hand it to them in one respect…they are incredibly skilled at creating and maintaining one thing that many people want but few have: fame.

Suzanne Maretto, the main character of Joyce Maynard’s To Die For, desperately wants to be famous. She wants nothing more in life than to be a national news anchor, and she pursues that goal with relentless determination. Not even just like Jim Harbaugh levels of determination. Attacking each day with an enthusiasm unknown to mankind isn’t enough. She will do whatever it takes. If that means taking out her good-natured husband because he has the gall to want to start a family, well, that’s what it means. She begins an affair with an underprivileged, not especially bright high school student and convinces him and his friends to carry out the hit.

The story is told in a multiple-narrator format. We don’t know at the beginning that this is the story of a murder, just that something big must have happened. Chapters are told from the viewpoints of Suzanne’s parents, her teenage lover, his friends, her husband’s parents and friends, and even Suzanne herself (among others). Slowly, the story emerges: the affair, the murder, the arrests, the aftermath. It’s well-written, with several very different perspectives that each maintain their own voice (her parents both think she’s the bee’s knees, but the tone of each parent varies from the other) and so engaging that you keep thinking “just one more chapter” (they’re all short) and before you know it you’ve gobbled through half the book.

I remember seeing the movie treatment of this book several years ago, and enjoying both the sharp satire and the strong performances (Nicole Kidman as Suzanne and Joaquin Phoenix as her young boyfriend were both particularly good). Both the book and the movie depict that rare beast: the sociopathic female. It seems that career ambition is the new social climbing for ladies with anti-social personality disorder. While Scarlett O’Hara and Becky Sharp schemed to land themselves wealthy husbands, Suzanne Maretto and her obvious counterpart, Tracy Flick, maneuver to achieve professional goals. This makes me a little uncomfortable, honestly. I don’t think you need to look further than the discourse that has surrounded Hillary Clinton during her time in public office to see that a woman who is too obviously interested in power is treated as some sort of freakish anomaly. I’m in my second traditionally male profession (the law, now lobbying) and the double standards at work are very real and very persistent.

Tell me, blog friends…would you want to be famous?

Note: Review cross-posted at Cannonball Read

Book 25: The Big Rewind


“I glared up at her. If there are vampires anywhere in the world, they’re in this end of Brooklyn, sympathy-sucking leeches living every day like it’s their own private reality show, latching on to anything that might get them a moment of attention, a warm body, a subway seat on a ten-minute ride.”

Dates Read: February 28-March 1, 2016

Rating: 8/10

I remember making mixtapes. When you were a kid growing up when I was a kid, there were two ways to get songs onto your tape: a dual tape deck (covetable, and eventually something my family had, but not until later) or the good old radio. I don’t know how many nights I sat there in my bedroom, waiting for a song to come on so I could add it to my mix. Obviously this made for some haphazard tracklists because things were in the order you could get them off the radio, so I never got much into the mixtape as artform. I am an obsessive playlist curator on my iTunes today, though, which is for all intents and purposes the same thing.

Mixtapes as artform are at the heart of Libby Cudmore’s The Big Rewind. We’re going back to Brooklyn…but this time, the modern-day hipster-infested version. Jett Bennett is subletting her grandmother’s rent-controlled apartment and working temp jobs while she tries to figure out what to do with her life now that she has her Master’s in music journalism but no one seems to want to pay her for her writing. When she gets a mixtape in her mailbox meant for her neighbor KitKat, she goes to drop it off…and discovers KitKat’s body, murdered by a blow to the head. Jett works to try to solve the crime, the only clue to which is the mixtape, and is inspired to go back through her own collection of mixtapes from lost loves, reaching back out to them along the way.

The Big Rewind was obviously inspired by Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity, with both books featuring main plotlines in which the music-obsessed protagonist reconnects with ex-lovers as they try to figure out where they’re going with their lives. But it’s not a gender-swapped rip-off: there’s the mystery of what happened to KitKat to move the plot forward, and Jett is a very different person than Hornby’s Rob Fleming. But the parallels are clear, and if you enjoyed Hornby’s, you should enjoy Cudmore’s, too. 

This is a perfect summer/beach read for 20- and 30-somethings. It’s entertaining and moves quickly, blending together light mystery and light romance with bright, witty prose. The reason I throw an age range on there is that the book very much reflects the world as it would exist to a mid-to-late 20s resident of Brooklyn: it’s peppered with references to Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, blogs, Reddit, etc, that might just fly right over the head of people who use social media primarily to post family photos and political memes. As someone who spends a lot of time online myself, it feels very organic and natural, but for someone who experiences the internet as a less integral part of their life, it might be confusing. That being said, I really enjoyed it and would definitely recommend it. This is Cudmore’s debut novel, and I’m excited to see what she does next!

Tell me, blog friends…when was the last time you made a mixtape?

**I received a free copy of this book from the publisher, William Morrow Books, through Edelweiss in exchange for a fair and honest review**

Note: Review cross-posted at Cannonball Read

Book 24: The Guest Room

Dates read: February 25-28, 2016

Rating: 6/10

“He realized how much he was dreading the sunrise: it would illuminate just how much his world had changed since yesterday- and how damaged was the little bark that carried his soul, how far it was from the shore, and how menacing were the waves in between. No one, he knew, was ever going to look at him quite the same way again.”

As someone getting married soon (about a month after this post will go live, but about three-ish months from when I’m writing it), reading a novel about a bachelor party gone horribly wrong is…interesting. Not that I’m worried about Drew having the kind of party that goes on in The Guest Room. If I were, I wouldn’t be marrying him.

In The Guest Room, Richard Chapman is just trying to be a good best man when he agrees to host his little brother Phillip’s bachelor party at his home. He sends his wife and young daughter away for the weekend, expecting the usual kind of bachelor deal: drinking, carousing, maybe strippers. What he gets are two young Eastern European women in his living room that are clearly more than “just” strippers: they’re prostitutes. What he doesn’t realize until much later is that they aren’t “just” prostitutes, but women who are being trafficked for sex. After he comes close to but ultimately stops himself from sleeping with one of them, his entire world is turned upside down when they violently kill their “bodyguards” and take off. The story splits and follows two tracks: what happens with Richard as the ramifications of that night spiral out of control in both his personal and professional lives, and the story of Alexandra, the girl Richard almost slept with, both before and after that night.

While author Chris Bohjalian does a great job of making Richard a sympathetic character, using him as a lens to show how even fundamentally decent men participate in and perpetuate a culture that treats women as commodities, Alexandra’s is the more dynamic story. An aspiring ballerina in Armenia, she is lured away from home after both her parents die by her mother’s former employer with promises of dance training and a career. Once she’s taken, the 15 year-old is repeatedly raped, groomed to become a high-class call girl over the course of a few years in Russia, and then comes to the US, where the bachelor party is among her first assignments.

There’s a distaste, if not recoil, by “normal” people when they think about the idea of a woman having sex for money. What kind of person would consider something like that? Why on earth? I was among them, but over the past couple years, I’ve been reading Maggie McNeill’s excellent blog, and I’ve come to understand that plenty of women willingly chose the sex trade for lots of perfectly understandable reasons. While sex slavery does exist, it’s MUCH less prevalent than most people would believe. So while the story told by Alexandra might be true for some small number of women, your average escort has a much more prosaic background. And while I think Bohjalian chooses to make her story dramatic for the purpose of impact, it still perpetuates a mythology that a lot of people cling to which is ultimately harmful for sex workers.

As I whole, I found the book decent but not great and ultimately forgettable. There’s a good amount of suspense built in Richard’s storyline, wondering how things are going to play out for him, and even more in Alexandra’s storyline once it gets to the “after the murder” part. But the ending felt…undercooked, for lack of a better way to describe it. It seemed like Bohjalian wrote himself into a corner and kind of flailed his way out of it. On a final, nitpicky note, I’ve never had to Google as many words in the course of one book as I did with this one. I think of myself as having a pretty extensive vocabulary, but there were many words I’d never encountered before. Which is great on one level, because I’m always down to add a new word to my trove. But it struck me as a little pretentious, since most of those words were used when a simpler, more accessible one would have been perfectly appropriate.

Tell me, blog friends…what’s your favorite pretentious vocab word?

**I received a free copy of this book from NetGalley in exchange for a fair and honest review**

Note: Review cross-posted at Cannonball Read

Book 21: The Namesake

“He hates having to live with it, a pet name turned good name, day after day, second after second. He hates seeing it on the brown paper sleeve of the National Geographic subscription his parents got him for his birthday the year before and perpetually listed in the honor roll printed in the town’s newspaper. At times his name, an entity shapeless and weightless, manages nevertheless to distress him physically, like the scratchy tag of a shirt his has been forced permanently to wear.”

Dates read: February 16-19, 2016

Rating: 9/10

Lists/Awards: 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die, Time Magazine Best Books of the Year

One of the quirks I’ve noticed since I’ve been living in Nevada is how proud people are of how long their family has been in Nevada. If someone is a third, fourth, or fifth generation Nevadan, that will be one of the first things out of their mouths when they meet you. Growing up in Michigan, I never heard someone proudly call themselves a third-generation Michigander. It never would have occurred to anyone to say. Part of it, I think, is the immigrant culture of the other side of the country. Plenty of people aren’t even third-generation Americans.

When I went to school at the University of Michigan, it it felt like all the Indian kids knew each other. They had built-in friends as soon as they walked on campus. Good friends, not the “that girl who graduated a few years ahead of me and we were in the National Honors Society together” friends. Their parents knew each other, they would explain. But I didn’t really get it…with some exceptions, I wasn’t necessarily close to my parents’ friends’ kids. And then I read The Namesake, and it clicked.

Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake is the story of Indian immigrants and their children in America. It begins when Ashima and Ashoke Ganguli are about to have their first child, recounting a bit of their individual histories in India and how they came to have their marriage arranged. When the boy is born, the pet name his parents give him while waiting for an Indian grandparent to send a letter with his “real name” ends up being recorded on his birth certificate out of confusion. Their child is named Gogol, after a Russian writer who is meaningful to Ashoke. Although his parents eventually settle on Nikhil to be his real name, Gogol sticks until he gets to college. Gogol hates his name, the way it sounds, the way it stamps him as unmistakably “other” in his American life. He changes it legally to Nikhil once he becomes an adult, but it is not quite so easy to deal with the uneasy internal tension between the Indian culture of his parents and the American culture he was raised and lives in, between who he was/is, and who he wants to be.

Although the novel takes turns, illuminating the story briefly through the eyes of Ashima and Ashoke, it mostly follows Gogol/Nikhil as he navigates childhood, college, and his adult relationships (curiously, it never follows his sister Sonia, who remains on the periphery, although it does very briefly follow the woman who becomes Gogol’s wife after their marriage). Lahiri’s prose is magnificent…it’s rich without being flowery, and her words beautifully illustrate the dilemmas the characters face in a way that shows you without telling you. The characters themselves are well-rounded, multi-faceted, and face their entirely normal lives and problems in a way that feels like actual people you might know rather than characters on a page. Lahiri doesn’t need to put them through incredible obstacles to show you who they are and why you should care. She just writes them with such humanity that it wouldn’t even occur to you not to care. It’s a wonderful book and I loved it.

Tell me, blog friends…do people tell you how many generations they’ve lived there in your state, or is that just a Nevada thing?

Note: review cross-posted on Cannonball Read

Book 16: Mr. Splitfoot

“I have a parade of grotesque urges. I want to push little buttons quickly. I want information immediately. I want to post pictures of Ruth and me smiling into the sun. I want people to like me, like me, like me. I want to buy things without trying them on. I want to look at photos of drunk kids I knew back in high school. And I want it all in my hand. But my cyborg parts have been ripped out. What’s the temperature? I don’t know. What’s the capital of Hawaii? I don’t know anything. I don’t even know the automated systems in my body anymore. I don’t know how to be hungry, how to sleep, to breathe.” 

Dates Read: January 7-11, 2016

Rating: 7/10

What does it mean to like a book? Does it mean you find it compelling and want to keep reading it when you put it down? Does it mean you think it’s well-written? Does it mean that you connect with the characters and care about what happens to them? Does it mean you don’t want it to end? Does it mean you want to read it again? Or is it just something ineffable, unquantifiable, that marks the dividing line between “liked it” and “didn’t like it”? I can’t remember a book before Mr. Splitfoot that has so challenged me to think about what I mean when I say that I “like” a book. I’m still not sure, months after it’s been filed away as “read” on Goodreads, whether or not I liked it (I write the first draft of my review very quickly after finishing a book, but I do come back to make revisions a few times before anything officially goes up). That rating? Not a result of any sort of thought process besides that a six seemed too low, and an eight too high.

Mr. Splitfoot is structured as dual narratives that come together at the end. The first, earlier-in-time part of the story follows Ruth and Nat, two of many abandoned children at a state-funded, religiously-motivated facility in upstate New York that cares for them, sort of, until they turn 18. Ruth’s older sister Elinor has aged out, so she and Nat declare themselves sisters and bond to each other as their chosen family. As children, they start playing at summoning ghosts with the other kids, and once they reach their late teens, a traveling con man named Mr. Bell takes them and their act on the road. The second, later-in-time part of the story focuses on Cora, Ruth’s niece, in the present day. At 25, she’s living with her mother, working a dead-end job at an insurance company, and has just been knocked up by older man named Lord who’s still married to the wife that was institutionalized after she tried to kill him. Cora only met Ruth (and Nat) once, but that one visit stuck with the then-teenage Cora for life. When Ruth suddenly reappears, after Cora’s revelation of her pregnancy to Lord doesn’t go well, Cora is just about over everything in her life enough to follow the now-mute Ruth on a journey. Where they’re going, and why, and how Ruth came to be mute, are revealed only gradually over the course of the stories as they move forward.

I think, ultimately, that I liked Mr. Splitfoot. I LOVED the language. I highlighted what feels like a quarter of the book in my Kindle and agonized for quite a while over which quote to publish as a part of this post. I’ve put more Samantha Hunt in my Amazon wishlist, because her way with words is incredible. It reminded me of how Jeffrey Eugenides writes, and Eugenides is one of my all-time favorite authors. And I found the book compelling, both because of its powerful language and because I wanted to see how the mysteries presented by the story were going to be wrapped up. And when they do wrap up, at the end, it makes for a big and satisfying emotional punch. But I thought it moved too slowly, with not enough revelations along the way…instead of whetting my appetite for more, I just kept getting frustrated by not knowing what was going on or where it was headed. And characterization, which is big for me in my enjoyment of a book, was thin. It was hard to understand what motivated the characters to act the way they did. Was it worth reading? Yes, for the wordsmithing alone. But did I enjoy the experience of reading it? Only sort of and sometimes. I did appreciate it by the end, and it stuck with me for a long time. 

Tell me, blog friends…what do you mean when you say you like a book?

**I received a free copy of this book from NetGalley in exchange for a fair and honest review**

Note: Review cross-posted at Cannonball Read

Book 15: The Serpent King



“If he could be still enough, all the world’s motions would cease. The orbit of the earth. The dance of tides. The march of rivers to the sea. Blood in veins. And all would become nothing but her perfect and temporary thereness. Hold this moment. Keep it. Until the next train whistle in the distance pierces the stillness.”

Dates read: January 5-7, 2016

Rating: 10/10

The town I grew up in was just this side of rural by the time I hit high school: they put up the first full stoplight (not just a blinking red or yellow) when I was in eighth grade. Our first McDonald’s came that year too, or the year after. I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if we’d had the internet in high school. The internet was around when I was in high school, of course (I graduated in 2003). Everyone had an email address, and (more importantly) an AIM screen name. But the internet was dial-up, and unless you had two phone lines at your house, you couldn’t be constantly online or no one would be able to make calls. What I mean was if we’d had the internet like today, constant availability and access. I used books and movies to escape the limits of my experience as a high schooler, but if I were in high school today, I have to imagine I’d have been an active blog reader and probably a blogger myself.

Which is why I think I connected so hard with Lydia, one of the three rural Tennessee high school students at the heart of The Serpent King. Lydia reminds me of myself in high school…that feeling that you were destined for something greater than what Belle in Beauty and the Beast referred to as “this provincial life” (Belle’s kind of a snob when I think back to that movie). Thinking that you were smarter than the people around you, and that somehow made you better than them. While I had a little bit of a hard time buying that Lydia wouldn’t have at least some social interest from her peers solely by virtue of her fashion-blogger access to fancy things, she was such a well-drawn character and her emotional truth resonated enough to make this merely a quibble.

Her two best friends and fellow outcasts: Dill, the son of a Pentecostal minister serving time for possession of child pornography, and Travis, a hulking, gentle soul who immerses himself in a Song of Fire and Ice-esque fantasy series, are trying to navigate their senior year. Senior year of high school is such an emotionally-charged time of life, where you start really thinking about The Future in a real way for the first time. The K-12 schooling that has been your entire life since you can remember is about to be over, and the future can feel both overwhelmingly wide and incredibly narrow at the same time. Everything is tinged with a kind of premature nostalgia because you know it’s ending. The Serpent King captures the feeling of senior year with such assuredness and beauty that it took me straight back there mentally…I found myself pondering what senior-year me would think about the life I’ve ended up with, what I would have been like as a senior if I graduated ten years later, trying to figure out what ever became of people that I haven’t even thought about in ages.

This is the best high-school experience novel I’ve read since The Perks Of Being A Wallflower. Chbosky’s novel has become a modern-day classic, and I don’t see any reason why The Serpent King shouldn’t do the same. Strong characters and a beautifully-told, powerful story. A must-read.

Tell me, blog friends…what did you think your life would be when you were a senior in high school? How differently did it turn out?

**I received a free copy of this book from NetGalley in exchange for a fair and honest review**

Note: Review cross-posted at Cannonball Read

Book 14: Thirst

“She sat on the step, her skirt hugging up and exposing the tight skin at the bend of her knee. The stairs were lipped with crosshatched edgings that looked like graphite. Something about it made him sad- that brutal edge so close to Laura’s knee. There was nothing in either one of their bodies as permanent as those emergency stairs”

Dates read: January 2-5, 2016

Rating: 6/10

Almost four years ago now, I moved from Michigan to Nevada. In Michigan, I lived right on the water, on an inland lake. Like, open the door and the water was no more than a stone’s throw away. I’ve been swimming in the summer and on ice skates in the winter for as long as I can remember. Moving to Nevada was a very real change from that. Nevada is the driest state in the country in a good year, and we haven’t been having good years lately. We’re in the middle of a serious drought, and it’s not hard to imagine a future in which there could be significant water restrictions.

But the action in Thirst is kicked off by something not so prosaic as a drought. Rather, the fresh water simply vanishes.  The grid goes down, as does the network, and emergency services are so overwhelmed that they can’t respond to the crash causing the enormous traffic snarl Eddie Chapman finds himself in. He doesn’t know about the water yet. Frustrated at the delay, close to home, and wanting to avoid worrying his anxious wife, Laura, he leaves his car behind and jogs back to his house. On the way there, he notices that the stream he crosses is dry, the trees around it singed and ashy. And thus Eddie, Laura, and their suburban neighbors find themselves in an awful bind: unable to communicate with anyone besides the people they’re in physical proximity to, no access to news or information, and no water during the steamy summer weather. How everyone deals with the circumstances they find themselves in is really what the book is about. How do you provide for yourself? Your neighbors? Strangers? The initial panic, the dwindling supply of liquids, the delirium as the dehydration kicks in…the pretense of civilization vanishes quickly. 

This novel read, to me, of a mix of two books I’ve read recently: Jose Saramago’s Blindness (which I loved), and Knut Hamsun’s Hunger (which I hated). Like Blindness, the story follows a group of people cut off from the outside world in a place where rules and the social ties that bind are disintegrating after a catastrophic event. Like Hunger, the inability to meet basic needs of physical survival cause the characters to become delusional and therefore unreliable narrators. Thirst is better than Hunger, but not nearly as good as Blindness. The plot took a while to start moving, and I felt like it ultimately wrapped up a little too quickly. Less exposition at the beginning, more denouement at the end would have made it stronger. But it’s engaging, and once I got into the thick of it I was intrigued and wanted to know what happened next. It’s pretty quick to get through, and I enjoyed it. I’d recommend it to a friend interested in post-apocalyptic style literature, but don’t think I’ll end up re-reading it myself.

Tell me, blog friends…what do you think is the worst doomsday scenario? Running out of water sounds like a pretty awful one to me.

**I received a free copy of this book from NetGalley in exchange for a fair and honest review**

Note: Review cross-posted at Cannonball Read

Book 10: All The King’s Men



“But if anything is certain it is that no story is ever over, for the story which we think is over is only a chapter in a story which will not be over, and it isn’t the game that is over, it is just an inning, and that game has a lot more than nine innings. When the game stops it will be called on account of darkness. But it is a long day.” 

Dates read: November 27- December 6, 2015

Rating: 10/10

Awards/Lists: Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, Time’s All-Time 100 Novels, Newsweek’s Top 100 Books, The Observer’s 100 Best Novels

Like I mentioned a little while back, apart from my bookworm tendencies, I’m also a big fan of movies. I remember watching the Sean Penn movie version of this novel and (like many critics for what was supposed to be an awards-bait picture) walking away deeply unimpressed. I didn’t even really remember the plot of the story, except that the main character was supposedly based on former Governor of Louisiana Huey Long and that it was “about” political corruption.

As it turns out, the actual novel is only partially about political corruption. Politics is mostly a framing device for the real story. The meat of the book is about how actions have consequences, and that there’s no getting around that. Reporter-turned-political-staffer-type Jack Burden (it’s hard to describe what it actually is he does for Willie Stark, the Huey Long analogue referenced above, and don’t think for a second that surname isn’t symbolic) burned out of his Ph.D. program when he uncovered a story that made the consequences of heedless actions too real, and tries to hide behind inaction to save him from having to deal with that kind of responsibility. His work for Stark means that he mostly doesn’t have to make decisions, until it intersects with his personal life in a way that starts forcing him to do just that and refusing to let him slip quietly away from the results.

That central conceit, though, isn’t really clear until you get about halfway through with the story. The first part of the story feels very much like a standard issue dramatic story about yes, politics and corruption. We learn the story of Willie Stark, how he made it from a bumpkin, to a young political appointee fighting a shady, kickback-laden county contract, to a stooge goaded into running for Governor by people using him for their own purposes, to a morally questionable Governor himself. That part of the novel is interesting and easily digestible enough, but the real power of it comes from the later, more philosophical part that shifts Stark’s story into the background and brings Jack’s story up front.

The storyline wrangling and plot development is masterful, but where the real beauty of this book is are the words. Robert Penn Warren won the Pulitzer Prize for this novel, but he also won one for poetry, and you can tell. Picking out a highlight quote was torture…I read this on the Kindle and digitally underlined about half the book because I was so in love with the language. It’s a page turner, but not in a suspenseful kind of way. You just want to keep reading it to keep basking in the glory of the writing. I was sad to put it down when it was over.

Tell me, blog friends: what politically-themed books or movies float your boat?

Book 8: Kramer v Kramer

“And if they could get this over with soon, in a few years they would be out of infancy and they would have this beautiful family, his beautiful wife, his beautiful children. And so, to be complete in some way, to create a perfect universe with himself in the center, husband, father, his domain- for all the old, buried feelings of not being attractive, for all the times his parents were disapproving, for all the years he struggled to place himself- he would have something special, his beautiful little empire, which he, in his self-delusion, was going to build out of sand from a sandbox.”

Dates read: November 9-12, 2015

Rating: 7/10

I feel like I have a unique perspective on stories about divorce and custody. For one thing, I was raised by a single mother and had a relationship with my father only after the time I turned 10. For another, I actually spent about a year and half working as an attorney specializing in post-divorce custody litigation after I graduated from law school. I have a whole rant about how doing that kind of work was a significant factor in driving me out of the practice of law, but that’s not what we’re here for. We’re here to talk about Kramer v. Kramer.

I saw the movie before I read the book and it’s one of the more successful literary adaptations I’ve seen…it might actually be more effective than the source material. Which isn’t to say the source material isn’t very good in its own right. There’s a legal philosophy known as the “tender years doctrine”, which basically boils down to the belief that women are presumed to be better parents of very small children. There was a time when it was applied essentially automatically to grant a mother custody of a young child, almost regardless of the circumstances of the situation. This book, and its big-screen adaptation, were a part of helping drive a social shift away from that doctrine, ultimately making a difference in how custody law is determined by the courts.

The story is simple, with a straightforward plot: Ted and Joanna Kramer get married and have a son. Joanna stays home to raise him, but finds herself increasingly unsatisfied by an entirely home-and-child-based existence. Ted is unsympathetic, believing child-rearing to be Joanna’s responsibility, particularly while their son is small. So Joanna leaves. Ted is has no choice but to assume full parental duty in her absence. The couple divorces and Joanna signs away her custody rights. After over a year, in which the father and son become extremely close and Ted completely rearranges his life and his thinking to be the father his son deserves, Joanna returns out of the blue, demanding custody. And she gets it, based on the tender years doctrine.

I didn’t feel compelled to spoiler alert any of that, because the book and movie have been around so long that the conclusion is no longer a surprise. But also because the power of the book comes not from the outline of the story, but from how it’s told. The beginning portions, detailing how Ted and Joanna came to be married, could in large part take place in the present day. They don’t end up together because of their undying love, but because they’re both bored of the singles scene and the other is good enough. Joanna’s frustration at being forced into the primary caregiver role, at the expense of her own desires to be a contributing member of outside society, also feels like it could be written about any number of women today. We watch Ted go from the kind of man who insists that his wife stay home to take care of their son even though she doesn’t want to, to the kind of man whose whole world is his son, slowly and organically. It’s not forced or rushed or false, which makes the gut punch of Joanna’s return that much harder to take. It ends happily enough, with Joanna relinquishing her victory and Ted retaining custody. The novel makes its point without preaching, and is all the more powerful for so doing.

Tell me, blog friends…what do you think of the tender years doctrine?

Book 3: Reservation Road

“There are heroes, and there are the rest of us. There comes a time when you just let go the ghost of the better person you might have been.” 

Dates read: October 15-18, 2015

Rating: 3/10

So along with my unquenchable appetite for books, I’m also a voracious movie-watcher. I remember seeing a trailer for the movie version of Reservation Road at some point, deciding it looked sad but interesting, and throwing it on my Netflix queue (where it lingered for a long time because I was constantly pushing up more interesting-looking things). And then when I came across a cheap used copy of the book, I bought it and figured that I might as well read it, because the book is always better, right?

Well, after reading the book, the movie has come off my Netflix queue entirely. Because if the book is better, I can’t take the movie. I knew it was going to be depressing going in based on what I knew about the plot: a young boy is killed in a hit-and-run car accident, and that accident has powerful reverberations on everyone involved. Obviously anything dealing with child death is going to be difficult material, but I used to read those Lurlene McDaniel books about teenagers with cancer on the regular, so surely I could handle it.

Turns out, not really. Not because it was too emotionally charged, but because it was boring and uncentered. The story is told in rotating chapters, varying perspective between Dwight (the driver that hits and kills ten year-old Josh), Ethan (Josh’s father), and Grace (Josh’s mother). The novel doesn’t spend enough sustained time with any of the characters to really dig into them more than on a surface level: Dwight feels guilty, but not enough so to jeopardize his relationship with his own ten year-old son by turning himself in; Ethan feels impotent rage at his powerlessness in the situation, and Grace just withdraws from everything. I did find myself wondering why Grace was written in the third person while the men were written in the first person. Did Schwartz not feel comfortable writing first-person perspective for a woman? Is it supposed to be symbolic of her emotional deadening with grief, that she doesn’t even have the willpower to view herself as the center of her own story anymore? I’m honestly not sure. None of the characters grows or changes, everyone just stays stuck in their patterns. Which is probably realistic, I can’t even imagine what the process of mourning the loss of a child would be like and hope I never have to know. But it doesn’t make for enjoyable or even very interesting reading.

Tell me, blog friends…what books that you enjoy are kind of depressing? Are there any subjects you won’t read about it because they’re too much?

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