Nom de Plume

So, there is no little handy Amazon picture and you’ll have to bear with me. The WP-Amazon plug in that I love so much works neither in IE7 nor the latest WordPress version, and I am far too lazy to save the image, upload it, insert it, look up my amazon associates code, link the image, and THEN write a post.

Can you blame me?

And can you blame me for mixing up these two novels? The Thirteenth Tale and The Keep are both gothic, and both fine for what they are. They both also made me lose interest partway through, though The Thirteenth Tale (which reminded me of that John somebody novel about the wicked grandmother who lures her grandson away from Australia to complete her revenge, what was that called?) was the more interesting of the two. And that’s really about it.

I tried to read this while Dave was here working on the kitchen. He’s a great guy, but I was feeling very scattered. Not only was I reduced to wandering Seattle like a homeless person, but I was without office, without any place uncluttered to sit (in truth, the house looked like a bomb had hit), and without any peace amid the hammering and drywall dust. All this is to say that I got midway through the book, put it down, and never picked it up again. In short, dear reader, this was an abandoned book. And I am perfectly willing to admit that there were external circumstances that contributed to its abandonment.

However.

The mess in the house matched the mess between the covers.

I am ambivalent about Special Topics in Calamity Physics. Marisha Pessl does a fabulous job of capturing a certain mood and feel. She has a keen eye, and is truly witty. At the same time, I found the novel incredibly disorganized. The story moves along in fits and starts–and when the plot is moving forward, it’s a great read. But there are pages and pages devoted to nothing more than setting the mood with arcane references and intellectual acrobatics. To this end, every paragraph has several long parenthetical asides; my feeling is that if one relies so heavily on parentheses that a quarter of the book is devoted to them, one should consider better organization. Ultimately, Special Topics lost me.

It’s too bad. There was so much good stuff there–but it could have used some ruthless chopping.

I don’t have the energy to write reviews. So here we are again with one-word reviews. I might be able to muster up a couple more words.

Amazing.

The jury’s still out on this one. It’s wonderfully written, but frankly do I care? Not so much.

Decent historical kiddie lit.

Enchanting.

This series is truly a delight.

Totally, completely, absolutely FUN.

Completely underrated.

Once upon a time, I remember really, really liking T.C. Boyle. I devoured The Road to Wellville, Riven Rock, The Tortilla Curtain, and various books of shorts. His writing is so effortless, and he has a unique ability to capture the truly bizarre. But I lost patience with Drop City a chapter in–and while I finished The Inner Circle, I wonder if I’ve outgrown my T.C. Boyle phase or whether his more recent novels have lost their spark.

The Inner Circle is about Kinsey and his sex studies. The protaganist is one John Milk, who tells the story of his involvement with Kinsey as a researcher. He’s recruited while still in college, gets married, conducts research, and basically screws pretty much everything until the lackluster end. The thing is, sex sells and T.C. Boyle is cashing in. And now that I think of it, he’s always cashed in. His writing is as effortless as ever, but I finished the novel with a strong sense of disappointment.

You note there is no handy-dandy little Amazon picture next to this one; I picked it up at Heathrow, and it’s available only in England. It’s too bad. This was a lovely little novel–apparently Mavis Cheek is big on the other side of the pond. I get the feeling based on past titles and the somewhat too-catchy title that this novel represents a departure from her previous books. Anyone know? In any case, the novel follows the life of her hapless heroine as told through a history of the crummy houses she lives in. It’s full of pithy insight and penetrating observations, and if you can get ahold of a copy, I think you may be reminded of a British Ann Tyler.

From Masha Hamilton via The Elegant Variation:

The Camel Bookmobile made its first run almost a decade ago. Three dromedaries trudged through dusty, arid northeastern Kenya near the border with Somalia to bring a library to settlements so tiny and far-flung they’d become nearly invisible; places lacking roads and schools, where most people had never held a book between their hands and where they lived daily with drought, hunger and disease…

The Camel Bookmobile books are primarily in English. The children are taught the language in outdoor “classroomsâ€? under acacia trees for the younger students, indoor classrooms for the older students. They particularly like children’s storybooks, though all fiction is also sought-after, as well as books about math and astronomy, biology and other sciences. …

… The Camel Bookmobile librarians told me their patrons also really appreciate the sense of connection they get when a book is signed from a particular place and person. It widens their understanding of the world. So send a favorite book or two, sign your donations with your name and city, and add a note if you wish.

So come on all you bleeding heart liberals, send a book:

Garissa Provincial Library
For Camel Library
Librarian in Charge, Rashid M. Farah
P.O. Box 245
Garissa, Kenya

And know that you’re in good company.

I rarely read short stories; they seem to require a curious mindset, in which one feels intelligent but mildly ADD. Generally, I feel one or the other. That start and stop, start and stop puts me off, before I even begin. And it’s a shame, because my bookshelves are teeming with shorts. Like Mark Winegarder’s That’s True of Everybody. It was one of my Edward R. Hamilton purchases at least a year ago. I had read Winegardner’s novel Crooked River Burning, and liked it. So what the heck, I thought. The book has been moldering away since.

Well, I’m down with the flu–recovering nicely now, thank you–and spent all of Sunday lying in bed reading. One of my informal resolutions for the year is to catch up on the many titles I’ve bought but haven’t read. This was one. And it was a strange one.

Oh, not in a bad way. It’s just that I recently finished this book, and I can barely remember any of the individual shorts–but am still left with a general impression of everything being off somehow, that the strangeness of all the characters is somehow illuminated but universal. It was good.

The village of Fetherhoughton is a dour place, indeed. Anchored by moors, the people are superstitious and humorless in their isolation. The Catholic church is presided over by Father Angwin, who has lost his faith, and Sister Perpetua (otherwise known as Purpit) of the convent, an austere, cruel terror of a a woman. When the bishop decrees that the statues in the church are nothing more than idolatrous symbols and must come down, he also threatens Father Angwin with a curate. And thus appears Fludd. But Fludd is not all that he appears to be, and strange, miraculous things start to happen. Recommend.

Good airplane reading. May the person who found it in the seat pocket enjoy.

I had thought that this was an overrated book. I had thought it overhyped. I had thought that it wasn’t nearly as press-worthy as it appeared to be.

Reader, I was wrong.

I’m coming into this a little late in the game, so there’s no point in recapping the story. All I can say is that the e-mail exchange in the beginning makes it hard to get into the book–but once you do, it’s worth it. Well worth it.