Julia

Stole this from my mom, and read it in 24 hours heading back across the country. I'm not sure why I love Yunior's voice so much, but I do. I first read a bunch of these in The New Yorker, but they were a pleasure to re-read. “The half-life of love is forever”...

Jill Soloway, who wrote for Six Feet Under, is obviously very compelling when creating characters for HBO shows. Although at times she's VERY funny in her memoir, at other times her humor falls flat. Let me compare: I would have read a David Sedaris book of this length in an afternoon. “Tiny Ladies” took me a week. There wasn't anything that grabbed me enough to keep me hooked beyond my general feelings of “gotta finish a book once you start.” The reason this book is worth reading is that I have the suspicion that Soloway discussing her wacky and sometimes painful childhood, zany friends, and general life misadventures in person would be sidesplitting, she is undoubtedly a thoughtful and energetic feminist, and I would like to be her friend. Jill, are you on goodreads? You seem awesome!

I first read Valencia for one of Susan Fraiman's brilliant seminars (I think Contemporary Women's Texts?) during the spring of my first year of college. Michelle Tea was my first introduction to real lesbian fiction, and she absolutely excels in channeling the frenetic pulse of the girl scene in San Francisco circa the early 90s. Her memoir/fiction (the lines are blurred) zings with the unbound energy of the idealistic, and when she's heartbroken, she's heartbroken to a degree I think only the young, fabulous, and broke are truly capable of. She was an epic, self-indulgent mess, but that's why it's good.

After a re-read (I was in San Francisco, and it seemed only appropriate to replace my lost copy), I have realized that, while I found it still fun and challenging and sexy and totally unique, the first time I read Valencia, it was exactly the right book at exactly the right time, you know? So I don't know that I can ever get back to my original obsession (chalk it up to diminishing idealism), but there's still plenty to really enjoy, and I'll always fondly remember how much I adored this book way back when.

Tea, on inner selves:
“I knew what I stood for, even if nobody else did. I knew the piece of me on the inside, truer than all the rest, that never comes out. Doesn't everyone have one? Some kind of grand inner princess waiting to toss her hair down, forever waiting at the tower window. Some jungle animal so noble and fierce you had to crawl on your belly through dangerous grasses just to get a glimpse.”

Silly, silly, silly. But also funny. Would have been a great airplane read, except that I'm such a sucker that I got teary-eyed at the end.

Hmm. It's funny to only give three stars to a book by someone who I think deserves 5+ stars for his actual work in the world...but I think I like Pema Chodron better, at least for easily accessible writings about embodying Buddhist ideals out in the messy real world. It's not that this wasn't easy to read–it was–but felt a little toooooo easy at points. Like, if you've never read anything about engaged Buddhism, here's a good starting point. I still found it a thoughtful and warm review/introduction, and it did make me excited to read more of what he has to say in the future.

I'm not sure my memory is accurate, but I recall loving “The God of Small Things” more. Still, plenty here to savor and reflect on in this pleasurable novel. It's a truly a sweeping story in terms of scope, traversing much of India both historically and geographically. Roy is very skilled at integrating political realities into this work in ways that don't feel pedantic; I realized quickly that I was going to need to learn a lot more about the history of Kashmir to really appreciate some elements of the story, and I'm glad to have done so. There are so many main characters that I sometimes felt I didn't care enough about each of them as I might have if there were fewer, and a few of them were interesting but lacking in interiority. Overall, a good read well-suited for traveling.

The trilogy as a whole is a crystal-clear five stars from me. The finale gets 4 stars because it is so poignant to love a story so much that reading the whole last book is suffused with the resignation that the story is going to come to an end! I think the penultimate chapter is a squee bit rushed in terms of pacing, but the final chapter makes up for it. I'm sure I'm going to read the series again, and probably not even all that long from now!

I found myself without reading material on a recent flight, so splurged on this, recalling how much I'd loved Wolf Hall. It was a 4- as opposed to 5-star experience for me because I knew what to expect of Mantel's style, whereas I'd been actually shocked by experiencing her craft for the first time. Still, this was a great read. There were points where I felt like the plot was almost careening towards the grim and foregone conclusion, in a way that both nervously thrilled me, and that I suspect may be a fairly accurate reflection of what it would have felt like to be living in the eye of the political storm Mantel depicts.

I'm not sure what quirk of personality has led me to find the most exquisite expressions of how I feel about people, life, the universe, and the meaning of everything in the poetry of ancient Sufi mystics, but time and again, I find myself turning to either Daniel Ladinsky's translations of Hafiz, or Coleman Barks' translations of Rumi for inspiration. The back cover of this book has a good quip on Barks' skill: “His ear for the truly divine madness in Rumi's poetry is remarkable.” Rumi's irreverent, sometimes beautifully meandering, often funny, always graceful love poems to his god (indeed, to the universe) are not to be missed. This collection took me nearly a year to get through, because so many little pieces of it jump out to be savored before moving on to the next poem, stanza, or even line, but I know I'll be returning to it again and again. In the words of Jelaluddin Chelabi, the living descendant of Rumi's lineage, “Love is the religion, and the universe is the book.”

At least for me personally, this was a really, really important book to read. I've been thinking a lot lately about how I want to be in the world–what choices I want to make, where my priorities are. Pollan does a truly stellar job of exploring the complexities of the choices we are confronted with regarding food in this bountiful country, not to mention how to reconcile the industrial with the idealistic in a way that is practical yet honorable. The history of the evolution of humans and domesticated plants and animals was relatively new territory for me, but certainly much appreciated, his general conversational tone never allows the topic to be dumbed-down yet keeps it accessible, and his food writing is often sublime. I think it's rare to read a book and be conscious, after reading it, of having what you learned affect decisions in your day-to-day life. The Omnivore's Dilemma has certainly done that for me, and I would recommend it to anyone interested in thinking a little more deeply about food.

One of those awesome books where the narrator is creepy & terrible, but completely compelling. Dying to see the movie now, to see how such fabulous actresses as Dame Dench & Cate Blanchett interpret their nuanced roles.

I first read this (the first quarter of the Alexandria Quartet) the summer after graduating from high school. Apparently I wasn't ready for it yet–I loved the language, but didn't start the other three novels in the series.

Apparently the time is right. Loved, loved, loved this.

I'm currently on the third novel now, and will review the whole quartet when I'm finished. In the meantime, a favorite quote from this novel:

“I suppose we writers are cruel people. The dead do not care. It is the living who might be spared if we could quarry the message which lies buried in the heart of all human experience.”

Vibrant. Truly. In a weird way it reminds me of Allende, I think because of Diaz's ability to combine a sweeping & heartbreaking cultural history with the minutia of a heartbreaking personal history–except there's very little cursing in Allende. And no footnotes. Both of which I loved. The narrator, Yunior, has as strong a voice as I've read recently, possibly ever, and the book as a whole is thoroughly, completely modern. Funny, tragic, and beautiful. A must read, even though I'm sure everyone else was ahead of me on getting to this one.

This book took me FOREVER to read. I feel guilty giving it two stars, because I feel that in large part, my experience with it was me being an inattentive reader. Which begs the question...is that a failing of the book, or me just attempting to read it at a place where I wasn't truly ready or willing to absorb it? There are certainly many beautiful and moving parts–Hong Kingston does not shy away from the often disturbing, shaming, and hurtful parts of being a young female Chinese-American. I'd venture a guess that a more patient reader than I would truly enjoy its unfolding.

I cannot recall encountering another book that used more words I didn't know. There are times that Haskell can be a teensy bit pedantic, but often, he plucked words out of obscurity that fit his usage well, and the book generally thrums with his keen intellect. I'm married to an arborist, so was predisposed to love this book, but it really is fantastic. Chapters include in-depth explorations from a ceibo tree in the Amazon to a Callery pear in New York City, and Haskell's eye for detail makes learning a great deal while reading enjoyable. Here's one of my favorite passages:

“Muir said that he walked ‘with nature,' a companion. Many contemporary environmental groups use language that echoes Muir, placing nature outside us. ‘What's the return on nature?' asks the Nature Conservancy. ‘Just like any good investment, nature yields dividends.' The masthead for the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, Europe's largest environmental group, promises that the organization is ‘giving nature a home.' Educators warn that if we spend too long on the wrong side of the divide, we'll develop a pathology, the disorder of nature deficit. In the post-Darwin world of networked kinship, though, we can extend Muir's thought and understand that we walk within. Nature yields no dividends; it contains the entire economy of every species. Nature needs no home; it is home. We can have no deficit of nature; we are nature, even when we are unaware of this nature. With the understanding that humans belong in this world, discernment of the beautiful and the good can emerge from human minds networked within the community of life, not human minds peering in from outside.”

Not my favorite Kingsolver novel (that would be The Poisonwood Bible), but a good read I got as a birthday present from roommates. Kingsolver can be a little heavy-handed with her moral lessons; in this novel, it's that we need to do something about climate change RIGHT NOW (which begs the question–who reading Kingsolver novels doesn't already believe that?). Nonetheless, she reliably provides spunky and wise female characters who are also not annoyingly perfect, and the emotional heft of this particular novel (regarding marriage, class, and identity) feels genuine.

Normally I'm a Kleypas fan, but I just didn't love this one! Can't put my finger on exactly why: I like both Kev & Win, the protagonists, and liked the structure of both of them having roughly equal interiority, but I found myself leaning toward skimming as opposed to savoring. There is also a lot going on plot-wise: half-Roma/half-Irish brothers separated since childhood realize they're related, grandfather who turns out to be a murderous, racist asshole, charlatan doctor trying to poison people. Some of the additions I liked, like getting to see more of Cam and Amelia, but others felt less welcome: based on the set up for Married by Morning in this book, Leo Hathaway's change of heart regarding Catherine Marks is going to induce whiplash.

Dear Toni Morrison–

“Beloved” is still my favorite. But its status as a close contender means it's great enough to merit a resounding “Fuck yeah.”

Love,
julia

Last of the Alexandria Quartet. I've quoted from the other three, so here's a bit of Clea: “A phrase of Pursewarden's came into my mind as I softly closed the door of the ward. ‘The richest love is that which submits to the arbitration of time.' “

Individually, any of the four is a gem. Altogether, the Quartet is magnificent. I don't love, or even like, Elizabeth Gilbert, but I read a quote of hers a bit ago about listening in a college freshman English class to some dude saying how Harper Lee was a one-hit-wonder. And how ludicrous that is to say about someone who wrote a definitive (perhaps the definitive) novel on racism in America.

I feel similarly about Durrell. I don't care if he wrote another damn word, because the Quartet is a masterpiece. The language is eloquent, the plot more intricate and surprising than I could have anticipated, and the total accomplishment is beautiful. It's hard, perhaps impossible, to summarize four unique novels succinctly, let alone attempt to describe their cohesive whole. But, a treasure!

So all during my cross-country tour for grad school interviews, this book I borrowed from Lauren was waiting for me in my suitcase. I kept reading other things...“Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time,” “No Reservations,” and InStyle magazine, mainly. Quick airport reads. I'm really glad I finally committed myself to reading this. I was off to a slow start, but as the book progresses, the language becomes ever more deliberate and ever more beautiful. I've read a lot of contemporary fiction about the immigrant/child of immigrant experience (such as Indian-Americans Arundhati Roy, Jhumpa Lahiri, etc., which are exquisitely wonderful in their own right), but I don't know much about Korean culture (right, culture CAPITAL C and all that, too long to go into in a goodreads review), so a Korean-American experience, not to mention a male Korean-American experience in particular, was really an interesting one to feel I was gaining insight into. In some ways, Lee's writing reminds me of Marilynne Robinson's. All of sudden, you realize that a page and a half ago you've been smacked between the eyes with a heartbreakingly beautiful insight, rendered into concise yet poetic language. Count me as a big fan. Four starts instead of five only because it took me (and possibly entirely due to my own halted reading pace) a while to realize all that this book had to offer.

True confession: Persepolis took my graphic novel virginity. And it was awesome. I really love Satrapi's aesthetic; the book is just sort of a true pleasure to read. Satrapi has a compassionate but clear-eyed view of her younger self, which is great in and of itself, but my favorite part was actually learning more about modern Iranian history in the context of a first-person narrative. Now what I'd really like is to get all my geopolitical updates as told from the perspective of spunky teenage girls in minimalist but lively cartoons.

Ugh. Embarrassing!

But I was really stressed out all week, and realized that this schlocky gem was sitting on my bookshelf, as yet unread (I bought it just before a transatlantic flight, paranoid that my half-finished reading material would be finished too quickly). And Dan Brown is nothing if not a frothy distraction.

You know, the usual: nice art historical detail, questionable nonsense about science, a hackneyed and vaguely misogynistic love story, and a whole boatload of suspense that kept me reading despite the other shit.

So I feel like I'm committing literary sacrilege, but the stars say it all...liked it, didn't love it, and feel like I was supposed to. At times, Marquez did totally blow me away. But other times, I felt this sneaking suspicion that something had been lost in translation. Definitely glad I read it, though, and feel like I should give it a re-read at some point to reevaluate.

I hadn't read any Patchett since State of Wonder, and the oranges on the cover grabbed my attention in a used bookstore - there are evocative vibes of several geographical areas in the novel, including descriptions that made me homesick for the stifling humidity of Virginia in August, which is quite a feat. Both Commonwealth and my recollection State of Wonder make me slightly curious about how I'd feel about Bel Canto upon re-reading, by which I remember being totally, positively stunned. Anyway, I very much liked but did not love this. This is a novel about family culture(s), the ties that bind (or don't), and how we each have to make peace with shared history in our own ways. Patchett clearly feels great affection for her characters, which engendered empathy in me as a reader, as well, but there's something about the structure (I suspect it may be too many “main” or “main-ish” characters to invest in any one too deeply, although I appreciated the chance to view the same family tragedy from different viewpoints) that made things feel slightly cursory when I wanted more depth. My primary feeling upon finishing was gratitude for novels in general, but a hankering to re-read some Marilynne Robinson or Richard Ford, not more Patchett.

I read much of this out loud to Jacob while he was driving us from Zion National Park back to SLC. Credit to Collins where it's due for coming up with a pretty gripping plot, we then took turns polishing off the rest of the book over the next two days so we could find out what happened to Katniss. My one gripe is that the book is so clearly part of a series. I think movie franchises have ruined me for serial novels. I mean, yes, I did go see Johnny Depp's second turn as the delightful Captain Jack Sparrow, but then I felt exceptionally annoyed when the end of the movie unashamedly prepped audiences for a third, and have avoided subsequent installments. That said, novels aren't movies, and I like both Katniss and the idea of supporting entertainment of any variety that features kick-ass girls. So I'll be buying the second book soon.