Chris Blocker
Oh yeah, I haven't written a review yet for this book. I sort of forgot. Normally I forget to write reviews because I'm super busy. Yes, I have been busy lately, but that's not the only reason I forgot to write a review. Truthfully, I sort of forgot this book.
I like Ian McEwan and I like what he's trying to do in this book. The idea is good. The implementation almost works. But the delivery and the characters—well, they left much to be desired.
To illustrate this point, let me present two graphs. Here is my progress for this book. It is compiled automatically by Goodreads based on data I enter.
Ironically, the chart I compiled for my interest in this book bears similarity to my progress chart, but tipped.
What either of these charts have to do with exactly, I don't know, but since I forgot what this book was even about, I feel like I need some filler.
Truth is, despite McEwan's wonderful use of prose and his ability to form stories out of far-reaching ideas, Sweet Tooth didn't catch my interest. He's a great writer, but this one didn't work for me.
Is it true what some are saying, that this is his most ambitious novel since Atonement? Perhaps. But note that “ambitious” is not synonymous with any of the following words: satisfying, magical, endearing, beautiful, memorable...
I've read many of Ernest Hemingway's most revered short stories, and I've read one of his more acclaimed novels, The Sun Also Rises. I like Hemingway for the most part. He wrote good stories, but the style was very bare. I think Hemingway tried to strip down his stories as much as possible and, though he was good at it, this has always annoyed me a little. When I'm sipping coffee and nibbling on doughnuts with fellow literati, we make jokes about various authors. I often crack jokes on poor Hemingway and his pronoun-leading sentences.
Well, the joke is on me.
A Farewell to Arms is a tremendous novel. It employs Hemingway's signature simplicity, but it is not as simple as I remember Hemingway's other works being. He used elegant language and description more freely, but never more than you'd expect from Hemingway. This blend makes for a wonderful novel, a novel that lets the story and the characters speak for themselves. It is well-casted, well-plotted, and paced perfectly. It is thrilling and heartbreaking. This, for me, was a surprisingly good novel.
Now, I wasn't a big fan of Catherine Barkley and without reading other reviews, I would guess, aside from the ending for some, this is the most griped about element of this book. Hemingway was “a man's writer” and his life story portrays him as machismo, but Hemingway could still write a descent female character, certainly better than some others. Catherine was not one of these. She's weak and annoying and ignorant; yet she's strong, entertaining, and very intelligent. Perhaps Catherine was a bit crazy, a bit damaged. Now if Hemingway wrote all his female characters this way, I would assume he was just an idiot. Since he doesn't, I have to give him the benefit of the doubt. There may be people like Catherine in the world, but with Hemingway's bare style—refusing to explain Catherine—I struggled to understand her and had difficulty getting past her juvenile dialogue. What was it that Frederic saw in her?
Catherine aside, which admittedly is a large part of the book, I thought A Farewell to Arms was spectacular. It's real and it's memorable. Is Hemingway over-hyped by academia? Absolutely, at least in my experience; but that's not to say that he wasn't a really great writer and master of the pared down narrative. So I'll be more careful about the Hemingway jokes. Orwell is easier to poke fun at anyway.
Ah, John Steinbeck.
Travels with Charley is the thirteenth work by Steinbeck that I have had the pleasure to read. Part travelogue and part rant, Travels with Charley is a very conversational piece. It is strengthened by Steinbeck's wit and insight. No matter what he is talking about, Steinbeck is able to pull his readers in and make them interested. I'm by no means a dog person—and definitely not a poodle person—but Steinbeck's words about Charley, and his conversations with Charley (yes, Charley talks once or twice), make me love Charley. I want to hug a dog because of this book. And I will.
Perhaps I'm adding my own hopes, but past all of Steinbeck's sensational insight and humor, I see a story of sadness. It feels as though Steinbeck is saying goodbye. He was in the twilight of life at the time of his travels. When he returns to the place he grew up he finds that many of his friends and associates have died. Goodbye Salinas. Goodbye America.
Steinbeck is at his best the first half of his journey. From New York to his hometown of Salinas, California, every word Steinbeck lays down is golden. He is humorous, philosophical, and genuine (though his story may not have been as we'll discuss in a moment). The second half Steinbeck has run out of steam. He rushes through the South and back to NY in a daze.
Maybe this departure of self and project is because Steinbeck was sickened by what he saw from the moment he reached Salinas and as he continued throughout the South. Salinas was no longer his home. Then he encountered elitism in Texas (which he took part in) and bigotry in Louisiana.
Or it could be he was struggling with his project—a fictionalization of a journey spent largely in the company of his wife and friends throughout America's hotels. Yes, Steinbeck's account in Travels with Charley was exaggerated (if you couldn't tell already). It's not surprising to me. The conversations Steinbeck shares with these people seem too perfect. I wonder if he met any of them. And if he did, he certainly was changing their words around. Plus, this is Steinbeck we're talking about here; despite the popular myth, Steinbeck was far from a realist, he liked to blur lines between fact and fiction.
For me, it doesn't matter in the least. Yes, I would've appreciated knowing that some of these wonderful characters in Travels with Charley were real, that genuine people actually walked the streets of America, but I know what Steinbeck knew, that they're out there somewhere. Just because he didn't give them rides in his truck in the fall of 1960 doesn't mean they weren't out there somewhere. It doesn't mean Steinbeck hadn't met them at sometime in his life. Or at least wished he had.
People put too much stock in fact or fiction. They've done plenty of damage to contemporary literature, so they've moved back in time, looking for the fiction that masqueraded as non-fiction of our fathers' and grandfathers' eras. Yes, you can do all the research you want and learn that it would've been impossible for Steinbeck to travel some of the distances he claimed to have traveled in a day, or learn that he actually spent the days conspiring with politicians. It doesn't matter. Because in the end, Steinbeck is still insightful and Travels with Charley is still a damn good book.
Steinbeck wanted to see his country, his home, one last time. He wanted to chronicle the nation's people and the times. He wanted to provide the world with insight into a people and offer hope to future generations standing on the threshold of a difficult time. Regardless how he went about it, he was successful with each of his goals.
Goodbye America. Goodbye Charley.
Goodbye John.
Once upon a time I loved short stories. Gradually I began to see how constraining they could be, and my love lessened. The more I fell in love with novels, particularly epic novels, the more I felt the short story was choking me, hoping to drain me of life and passion. I still read the occasional collection of short stories, and I write short pieces once in a long while out of necessity, but I haven't loved short fiction for many years.
Domesticated Wild Things may be the book that changes this for me. Time will tell if it completely shifts me from my bitterness for the form, but I really enjoyed these stories. Who'd have thought such a small volume by a relatively unknown author published by a university press would move me so? In these stories, Aliu has created a bleak world that is foreign to me, yet evident in my everyday life. These are flawed characters in a world desperate to crush them, yet I felt there was always a glimmer of hope. That's what I love about these stories. There's a poetic quality told in simple prose that forces me to see the world in a different light. These aren't feel good stories, yet I felt good reading them. Characters I might have hated under another author's control were made beautiful in Aliu's hands. These are the stories I will recall when I'm in a dark and dirty diner, when I'm in a mildew-infested locker room, when I'm at the auto shop, hoping the mechanic has good news, knowing that he doesn't.
A new-old world may have been opened to me. I find myself once again interested in short stories; my mind is flooded with writing ideas; my bookshelf grows with volumes celebrating the form. Domesticated Wild Things is a book I'd recommend for those who love short stories, or anyone who might have at one time.
These poems didn't move me as I had hoped they would, but Sewell's strong use of language certainly made these poems feel as if they were moving physically. There is a definite strength in the poems of Birth in Storm. The wind roars. The earth moves. Fireworks explode. Even in the poet's weakest moments, she seems strong. And the quietest words still resound. The rubbing of a seed. The exhale of breath. I could hear the energy within them.
What makes these poems so wonderful is their sound, and the poet handles this element masterfully. These poems may have not resonated with me personally, but they will with some; truthfully, I'm almost afraid of what would happen if Sewell's powerful words struck a chord within me.
Good Kings, Bad Kings is aptly titled as it reminded me of a game of chess. In this novel, the pieces have been meticulously laid out—the advocate, the abuser, the scammer, the victim, the lesbian, the bishop, the pawn—and all the moves are predetermined, characters are not allowed to make their own decisions. It's set in a home for adolescents with disabilities. All these elements together make the novel a bit too much like an after-school special for my taste.
I liked the author's choice of using a first-person, rotating point of view. I'm a fan of multiple povs in a work. Unfortunately, it wasn't done all that well here. Each characters sounds nearly the same. No matter their background, they spoke within the same spectrum of street-talking, no-nonsense, WhachootalkinboutWillis speech.
And there was this thing with statements being questions that I didn't understand?
Good Kings, Bad Kings is well-intentioned. The author's passion for the subject and her concern for youths with disabilities is evident. Therefore, I'd recommend the novel to those looking for a feel-good, movie-of-the-week experience. Fans of simple YA will probably enjoy it too. On a bad day, this is the sort of novel I'd probably give two stars, but I've had a good day, so there it is.
Perhaps I should've read Malamud's works in order, because I just jumped through time into a completely different author. I've read Malamud's first two books and loved them; I even loved the crazy debut novel about baseball for crying out loud. Then I stepped over five other books and landed in the 1970s. 1970's Malamud is not the same as 1950's Malamud. Gone is the easygoing, beautiful prose that glimmers; in its place is a noisy, experimental tale that felt more like cocaine on the brain. Hey, it was the seventies.
Had I not known this was written by Malamud, I wouldn't have had the faintest idea from the writing. Maybe I should pretend it wasn't Malamud and approach it as an unknown author. There's some wonderful conflict in this story. The novel is largely about two writers at war with one another. Now, I roll my eyes almost anytime a story is written about writers, but I'll grant each and every author one token to play the writer card (but only one). The characters themselves are sort of cliché, but I think the author did a wonderful job making them believable and original within their caricatures.
Truth is, this story is all over the place. I couldn't tell what was dreams, what was imagined, what was novel. Did any of this really happen? Was some of what I read the novel that was being written by one of these imagined writers? Were there even two writers, or was this all merely the internal struggle of one writer? The author of The Tenants seems angry, confused, and hopeless, a person with a negative view of the world. And this is not how I remember Malamud.
So back to Malamud: I get the feeling that maybe this was a very personal story for the author. I get a sense that maybe his own personal life and writing life were unraveling. There's a sense that everything is falling apart, not only for these characters, but for the author as well. And maybe that wasn't the case, and if so, Malamud did a wonderful job painting chaos without having to be submersed in it. I don't know, I'm just trying to find the positive. Knowing this is Malamud, it sort of sucked, but even if I didn't have preconceived notions of the author, I still would've found The Tenants to be jarring, strained, and little more than okay. So, that being that case, I have decided to get back in my time machine and journey to the year I left off at: 1958. Maybe by the time I read through the sixties, 1970s Malamud will make complete sense. Or maybe it would be better to skip over the seventies altogether.
In my journey to read all things Steinbeck (I'm well over half way now) I have a brief layover in Russia. Steinbeck visited Soviet Russia in 1947 accompanied by photographer Robert Capa. The fact one of America's most prized writers at the time was allowed into the Soviet Union with an acclaimed photojournalist astonishes me. This was the beginning of the so-called cold war; the United States' challenges toward Russia were growing, Russia's distrust of America was strong. So Steinbeck makes it into Russia and he does what he knows best, he gets amongst the people. He journeys from Moscow to war-torn Stalingrad; he visits the farmers and townsfolk of Ukraine and Georgia. His intention is to get to know the people and report honestly, without making conclusions, without editorial comment. He succeeds. The Russians aren't war-crazy peasants who live in constant fear of Stalin. They're simple, warmhearted, hard-working people who live in fear of another world war brought on by the divide between capitalist nations and communist nations. Of course Steinbeck's efforts only fueled the suspicion that Steinbeck himself was a socialist, a belief that had been running strong since The Grapes of Wrath was first published.
What I found most interesting about A Russian Journal was not so much what Steinbeck said, as what he didn't say. He spends considerable time talking about the food and the work-ethic of Russian people, as well as their pleasant demeanor. But he also spends a lot of time complaining about flights, talking about the beauty of the women, drinking, and seeming uncharacteristically crabby. He never addresses any personal issues in the book, rarely even mentions himself. Having gotten to know the author as well as one can an author from an earlier time, I couldn't help but feel like something was amiss. I suspected problems at home, and I ventured to guess they had something to do with Gwyn, Steinbeck's second wife and the model for Cathy Ames (East of Eden). After finishing A Russian Journal I did a little research and learned that Steinbeck was indeed in his final year of marriage with Gwyn. While I can't say for sure that marital issues may have fueled his temperament—nor can I say for sure Steinbeck was out of character—it seems the logical factor to deduce.
What does any of this have to do with the book? I think it affects the quality greatly. I could be wrong, but I got the feeling that Steinbeck didn't utilize his time in Russia very well. I get the feeling he spent more time brooding about Gwyn and partying with fellow American dignitaries that he didn't have much time in the field. This is a work that could have been immensely eye-opening, but it's rather light in the end. And perhaps none of this has to do with Steinbeck's personal life. Maybe he really was a communist sympathizer, and the lack of material has more to do with his covert training sessions and debriefing meetings. But I could be wrong.
Beyond Heart Mountain is a beautiful collection of poems full of voice. These poems are at their absolute best when they display the two worlds and cultures close to the author's heart. Roripaugh has a wonderful grasp of language and employs it here to create a series of poems that are thought-provoking, fun, and heartbreaking. An excellent debut collection; I look forward to reading more from the author.
Good poetry does one of three things for me. First, it basks the mundane in the brightest of lights. Suddenly I can see all those things I'd never noticed before: the crevices of a freshly made sheet atop a bed, the creases within an outstretched hand, the hopelessness in a can of baked beans. Second, it tells a story. In a mere thirty or forty lines, the rhythm gives way to a tale some prose writers take 100,000 words to tell. Lastly, it moves me. A good poem has the power to reach my soul and make me weep (or occasionally smile). If a poem succeeds in regards to only one of these areas, I consider it a success.
Amy Fleury's collection Sympathetic Magic is certainly strong in two, if not all three, of these areas. First of all, the language is phenomenal. I'd say this is Fleury's greatest poetic skill. She can reshape those everyday events and make them so beautiful. She can dissect a dead and forgotten object and breathe new life into it. I love the sound of these poems, as well as the colors they paint. As far as story, there are several poems in this collection that not only told a complete story, but a captivating one. I was pulled into these tales. Now, in regards to a poem that moves me, there is certainly considerable heart on display in Sympathetic Magic. I could see it, but unfortunately it never quite struck my emotional chords. The issue was no fault of the authors, but rather a disconnect between myself and the subject; those poems which were truly the most heartfelt regarded the physical and mental deterioration of a parent. I saw the heart beating deep in these poems, but I couldn't personally find the pulse. There's probably a reason for this, but I'll leave this for my psychologist to chew over.
This is a great collection. If you love poetry or just the beauty of words, I highly recommend it.
If you listen to the soundtrack meant to accompany The Northwoods Hymnal, you'll get a feel right away for the tone of the stories. They're bare-boned, original, and crafted with obvious care. There's a raw realism to these tales that reminds me considerably of Flannery O'Connor or Melinda Moustakis. Not only do these stories possess a similar grittiness to those tales of the aforementioned writers, but a strong sense of place, as well. While O'Connor paints the south in its many colors and Moustakis gets dirty in the Alaskan wilderness, Hawley explores the Midwest and the Great Lakes region. These stories show the best and the worst of people in their semi-monotonous lives, all against a backdrop of trees, lakes, and Midwest complacency.
It's hard to read a collection such as this one and not walk away with a favorite. Personally, I loved “The Clinch.” Red Eddie was a wonderfully easy character to hate, and the way Hawley presented the story made him easy to root against. And I certainly recommend you listen to the songs that accompany each story, whether before, during, or after your reading. They add an extra layer to each story that only makes the complete package more enjoyable.
Ann Petry's The Street bears considerable resemblance to Wright's Native Son or Ellison's Invisible Man. All three tell a tale of a young black person and their struggle to achieve more. All three were written in the same era. All three are heartbreaking and haunting. I've loved all three, but each stands out for its own reason. The Street stands apart from the other two because Petry's story is so much more than a story of ethnicity; it's equally a tale about the struggles of women, and more so it's the sad plight of anyone who lives in poverty. Ellison wrote masterful scenes and Wright created a voice impossible to forget, but Petry succeeded writing a story that was immensely universal.
The Street is the story of Lutie Johnson. Lutie worries about money and image, she worries about her young son and dreams about her full potential. Lutie's struggles are ones many of us face, even today. Lutie's very insightful and intelligent, but otherwise she's not much different than your average person struggling to make ends meet. Her tale is tragic not so much because of the complexion of her skin, but because of “the street” and all it entails. Petry had ample opportunity to deride capitalism and make this a political book, but unlike Wright she let the story speak for itself, let the reader decide what is right and wrong with the picture.
Petry wrote wonderfully, and her characters were phenomenal. She expertly developed them, handing out unique voices to each, capturing accurate portrayals regardless of age or gender. Though this is the story of Lutie, Petry rotated through many perspectives, delving into the struggles of others while propelling the primary plot further.
Unfortunately, compared to her contemporaries, Petry is largely unknown today. Both Ellison and Wright are widely taught in high schools and universities, but Petry is not. Her talents did not outweigh her male counterparts, but they certainly rivaled them. And given the more universal message of The Street, I would think it must have more appeal to instructors of young people. I anticipate a Petry renaissance in the coming years; I'd love to read more of her work.
When I have a ho-hum attitude about a well-received book that I expected to like, I have to wonder what I missed. The Color Purple was supposed to be great. Many reviewers I tend to agree with gave the novel their highest accolades. Typically, I agree with these sorts of books–[b:Beloved|6149|Beloved|Toni Morrison|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1347984578s/6149.jpg|736076] and [b:Ruby|24902492|Ruby|Cynthia Bond|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1423586473s/24902492.jpg|25756743] are two books with similar themes that also tackle issues both horrific and relevant. So what did I miss with The Color Purple?
I wonder if much of the praise centers around the original publication of the novel. Was The Color Purple the most honest novel regarding the post-Civil War life of the southern black? Was it the first to focus on primarily women characters? One would have to ignore the four Toni Morrison novels that had already been published by 1982 to assume this fact, not to mention novels that had been published during the Harlem Renaissance and in the subsequent years.
Perhaps the likability is the result of the philosophical musings the story captures. Questions of theology and the African woman's relationship with God abound. Yet, this doesn't seem to be enough to sustain the average reader. What else could it be? The bond between the sisters? The misandry? The happy ending? Frankly, all I can do is guess.
Personally, I didn't hate the novel, by any means, but I did find it rather uneventful. Perhaps the hype had crushed it for me. Perhaps the warnings of “graphic content” seemed excessive when compared to the likes of Ruby—a novel with truly excessive graphic content. In the end, however, what left me least impressed was the story itself and its delivery: two sisters, divided, telling two different stories through unreceived letters.
The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that what draws people to this story are the joys. Yes, it's a sad story with all kinds of horrors, but the focus is the color purple, the pleasure of the world. It's about a love between sisters that conquers all. Through my many years of reading, I've seen that many readers like to feel a range of emotions throughout a book, but that the feeling they want to be bowled over by in the end is joy. I cannot be counted as one of these readers and that is perhaps why I was underwhelmed by The Color Purple. I felt for Sethe in Beloved. I felt very strongly for Ruby, Ephram, and many characters in Ruby. Yet, for Celie and Nettie, I felt little. They seemed strong enough to not need my pity. They found beauty in the world around them and strength within their selves, and there was nothing anyone could do to completely crush them. As a weak and frail human, I cannot relate; therefore, I surmise, that it is because of my own weakness I could not identify with this story. What a humbling experience.
John Steinbeck found something funny in Monterey, California. The three novels he set in the city make up the author's three most recognized comedies (his only comedies, I believe, with the exception of the satirical ...Pippin IV). In Sweet Thursday, Steinbeck returns to the characters and setting of his earlier novel Cannery Row. Some of the Row's characters have moved on and others have moved in. If you've read Cannery Row or Steinbeck's first visit to Monterey, Tortilla Flat, then you're already aware of the type of story at hand.
Of the three, I enjoyed Sweet Thursday most. In part, I believe this is because of the style of comedy Steinbeck employs in Sweet Thursday. In his earlier novels, much of the hilarity relies on drunken antics. Sure, drunk people can do funny things, but you can only laugh at a village of drunken idiots so long before you begin to feel bad for them and the comedy loses its effect. In Sweet Thursday the laughs are more situational and character driven.
Another reason I think Sweet Thursday succeeded more in reaching me is due to the structure of the novel—it felt more like a complete novel. Although Steinbeck's earlier comedic attempts certainly had an overarching story, they descended into many vignettes that were entertaining, but took me out of the story. With Sweet Thursday the entire story centers on curing the loneliness that ails Doc. There's romance and sacrifice and only the occasional drunken moment. Lastly, Sweet Thursday seemed to me the most simple and profound of the three novels.
Given my dramatic nature, Steinbeck's more comedic novels could never take the place of greats like East of Eden, The Grapes of Wrath, or The Winter of Our Discontent, but I enjoyed my visits to Monterey nonetheless. And I wonder, what is Monterey, California, truly like?
The third book in the Barefoot Gen series, Life After the Bomb continues the horrific tale of post-nuclear Hiroshima and how one boy lived through it all. Trials abound in this third volume, the most memorable of which involves a new character, Seiji, whom Gen is given charge of. Life After the Bomb brings back some of the comic mischief that dominated the first volume and detracts, whether positively or negatively, from the grim story.
Life After... is a welcome addition to the Barefoot Gen storyline, although I did struggle placing this in context with the story's overall timeline. It seems so much time has passed, the family has mourned and roamed the countryside, many nights seemed to have elapsed, and yet, given Japan's announcement of surrender in this volume, only nine days have passed. This doesn't seem remotely possible and leaves me disconnected from the story some.
Also, it just dawned on me how ridiculously happy these covers are. It appears this is a happy tale, doesn't it, the way Gen is full of smile. That smile reflects nothing of the horrific images inside of these books.
I've read about half of this collection before in various places. And I would agree that the best stories in The Long Valley are those which have been heavily anthologized. But reading them again in the context of the whole collection was surprisingly enjoyable. Here you get a wide range of Steinbeck's tone with a single theme throughout: violence.
As with all collections, some stories were weaker than others. In particular, I wasn't a fan of “The Murder,” a story which seemingly justifies the abuse of a wife. Having never seen Steinbeck as a raging misogynist, I chalk this story up to an objective portrayal of the culture at the time. Other stories in this collection may imply I'm wrong, however. We'll leave it at that.
Certainly, Steinbeck was primarily a novelist. He wasn't a masterful short story writer, but that doesn't mean he couldn't write a short story. Obviously, he could. I enjoyed this collection despite its limitations. Steinbeck fans should definitely get around to reading this one. Others may just wish to stick with the more heavily anthologized stories (e.g. “The Chrysanthemums,” “Flight”).
Take one of the most interesting periods in U.S. history. Throw in the facts from a heinous, racially charged hate crime and its cover up by Chicago authorities. Put these in a book by one of today's most entertaining, linguistically gifted authors. The result should be a powerful and interesting tale. Unfortunately, it's not.
Hemon's usually rich language feels commonplace in this book. The story is slow and doesn't tie together in a way I found to be worthwhile. Throughout the novel, I felt like Hemon was trying his hand at something huge, something brilliant, but it never comes together. The three worlds of The Lazarus Project–the historical, the semi-autobiographical present, and the photographic–all are moving in a whirlwind of passion, but to what aim? How do they relate in a life changing way? Unfortunately, for me they did not.
I imagine this may have been a very personal project for Hemon; perhaps it was meaningful to him and the novel's purpose was fulfilled. I'm glad for him if this is the case. As a reader, however, I was really disappointed with The Lazarus Project–and to think, it had so much potential.
Nevertheless, I look forward to my next meeting with Aleksandar Hemon. I have no doubts it will be a delight.
This book is a beast. With over a thousand pages detailing the life of a very private man, this biography truly tells one everything they could possibly know about John Steinbeck. Perhaps a more accurate title would've been: John Steinbeck, Writer, Reader, Lover, Joker, Explorer, Worrier, Drinker, Traveler, Inventor, Researcher, Father, Sailor, Eater....
As a writer with a great love for Steinbeck's work, I was interested in the man behind the pages. As I haven't quite finished Steinbeck's entire bibliography (I'm at 66%), I felt some hesitation about reading this tome. Would knowing the inner life of Steinbeck alter my perspective of his creative work? I don't think it did, positively or negatively. My feelings about the works I've read remained unchanged, but my desire to read those I haven't yet read was greatly increased. (In the coming months, expect a considerable amount of Steinbeck in my feed.)
The sheer amount of work Benson must have put into this biography is impressive. It is with little doubt that I say this is the most extensive biography that will ever be written about Steinbeck. The research and the interviews are comprehensive. Having read John Steinbeck, Writer, I have few remaining questions about its subject, but many about its biographer. What kind of person sets out to write such a thorough work about an author? How long did he obsess over the subject? Does he have any regrets about how he spent his years? Does he dream about the Salinas Valley? Does he confuse events in the life of Steinbeck with his own? Was he sick of all things Steinbeck by the time of publication?
Some readers will perhaps be irritated with the length of John Steinbeck, Writer. Personally, though the work was longer than it needed to be, I was happy that Benson included as much as he did, allowing the reader to decide what facts are and are not important. What I appreciated less about this volume was the intrusion of Benson, the author (ironically, Steinbeck was sometimes criticized for intrusions, especially in later works). John Steinbeck, Writer is marred by the opinions of its author. Benson criticizes the critics, agents, editors, and publishers who continually begged Steinbeck to rehash The Grapes of Wrath; they were annoyed that the writer always wanted to try his hand at something new. Despite his criticism of these literary elites, Benson falls into the same trap, declaring The Grapes... as Steinbeck's masterpiece and declaring all subsequent works as inferior mistakes (the only possible exception being Travels with Charley). This is Benson's opinion and certainly unwanted. (Besides, these days we all know that East of Eden was Steinbeck's true masterpiece and y'all were just too close-minded to recognize it in the first forty years after its publication.) Less directly, it seems that maybe Benson has glossed over some known facts to paint Steinbeck in the most positive light possible. The picture painted here is of a genius who, because of fame and pressure, became slightly out of touch with his fellow man. I would argue that Steinbeck, especially after winning that cursed Nobel prize, was so incredibly far from the imaginative writer he set out to be forty years earlier that he probably wouldn't have recognized himself. At the hands of Steinbeck himself, Steinbeck probably would've been more honest about his mistakes than Benson was. And while Steinbeck toyed with the idea of writing an autobiography of sorts, a fact I learned from this work, he never got around to it. Thus, aside from what we can garner from Steinbeck's own writing, the most complete picture we have of the author comes from John Steinbeck, Writer, (because Steinbeck didn't use Facebook and you've always wanted to know what was on his dinner plate—and Benson went to great trouble to find out for you.)
Ugghhh. Put in comic form, The X-Files seems ridiculous. Are the episodes and movies really this outlandish? Hmmmppf. “Season 10, Volume 1” is a rushed story which contradicts previously established canon whenever convenient. Kind of like the show actually. Hmmmm... I think if I want to continue living in denial and actually enjoying the series, I'll need to avoid these comics.
One almost needs a map to make sense of this novel. It's not that the story is convoluted; it's more the way the story is told. At its core, Maps is exquisitely written with a story that is perhaps a bit too drawn out, but is interesting nonetheless. The language Farah uses to craft this story is phenomenal. There is beauty in the simple construction of many sentences, philosophy in the placing of others. If Maps is any indication, Farah is a very talented writer with a particular knack for the English language (Farah writes in English despite it not being his first language).
For a reader such as myself, I wonder if Farah isn't too clever. I have a feeling this book offered more profound statements than I was able to take away from it. Particularly, what was the reason behind all the shifts in Maps? There are shifts in time, place, reality, and, most distracting, in point-of-view. Farah heavily utilizes first, second, and third person in Maps, switching at the end of nearly every chapter. Also, there seem to be questions of gender and gender identity at the heart of the novel, but I never spent enough time on the text to decipher what message I was supposed to walk away with.
I liked Maps sufficiently, but Farah isn't the kind of author I'd run to again. Linguistically, he reminds me of a more philosophical, more poetic Aleksandar Hemon (another author who wrote in a secondary language), but I found it difficult to stay engaged in the story. Perhaps it was just me and where I was at the moment in life.
Merchants of Death, Volume 8 of the Barefoot Gen series, is the weakest in the series, so far. New characters and plot points are thrown in at this late stage just to create new tension and it's really not necessary. I want resolution to the story that has been built up to this point. I'm not going to develop a heart for some conveniently-placed character thrown into the mix. I barely know enough about some of those who have made appearances in the last few volumes and I'd like to have their stories resolved before even thinking about anybody new. Not only are the new characters a distraction, but Volume 8 meanders quite a bit. The author seemingly was trying to address everything that happened in the years following the bombing and, for the sake of the story, some things were probably best omitted. Though I like this series overall, I can't think of anything that happened in this volume that was absolutely necessary.
Any music fan can probably tell you a story about how they first fell in love with music. For me, it was 1988. I was nine years old and my music collection was comprised of four cassettes: Purple Rain, Thriller, Bad, and “Weird Al” Yankovic in 3-D. I enjoyed each of these albums and many of their songs, but I hadn't fallen in love. Then I heard “My Prerogative” on the radio. It wasn't that exact moment that I became a die-hard fan of Bobby Brown, but I was certainly headed that way. Within months, Brown's hit single was followed by “Roni” and “Every Little Step.” (I don't recall “Don't Be Cruel” ever playing on the radio, even though it was the first single. It may have been too rappy for conservative Kansas radio at the time.) I don't remember exactly when my parents finally let me buy the cassette, but I think it was around the time “On Our Own” hit the airwaves, because that's when I remember becoming Bobby Brown's number one fan. I sang the songs everywhere I went (though I couldn't sing). I attempted the dance moves (though my dancing was embarrassingly bad). I wrote out the lyrics as I understood them (though half the time my ten-year-old mind was humorously far from correct). I played that tape out. Around that time, I began to invest more heavily in other music—Mr. Big, Milli Vanilli, Vanilla Ice, Boyz II Men—but I was devoted solely to Bobby until the next big wave in my musical evolution (Shai, 1992).
So I read Every Little Step not so much because I read celebrity bios (I don't) or because I'm a huge fan of Brown today (though I still play the CD at least once a year) or because I need to know the “truth” about Whitney (because I could care less)—I read Every Little Step because I'm nostalgic. For four-plus years—very impressionable years at that—Brown was my god. I wanted to relive some of that childhood magic.
In Every Little Step, Brown wants you to know a few things about him. These points are stressed and reiterated nearly every chapter.
First and foremost, Brown is a performer. From his early days, Brown put great importance on performing. He thoroughly practiced his moves and routines. He continued to do so through his rise and fall. He admits he's not the greatest singer or the most creative individual, but he wants it to be known that he was a great performer.
Brown was the baddest non-bad-boy bad-boy of R&B. Maybe. Brown stresses that his image of being a bad boy came largely from his rejection of candy-pop New Edition. His break was seen as rebellion, but in truth had more to do with Brown's unwillingness to be screwed over by industry execs. He accepted this image, but didn't feel it was accurate. Except when it was ... because it's not like Brown wasn't involved in several altercations where people were shot, or he wasn't arrested for a DUI, or he didn't go on and on about all his sexual exploits.
(Which brings me to the question of why these has-been stars feel the need to air their soiled sheets. I understand, you used to be a big star and you had sex with lots of people, including lots and lots of fellow celebrities. And a ghost??? Ewwww... shocking. Frankly, former stars, I don't need to know about your orgies and other exploits. Nor do I need to know about your spouse's exploits. Just say you had a lot of sex and we'll fill in the rest.)
The media lied about everything. Personally, I think there is a lot of truth to this. I always have. From day one, Whitney Houston was portrayed as some kind of saint. Brown was portrayed as a thug. The truth likely lies more in the middle. Brown has been by no means perfect, but those who insist that all the negativity that followed was his fault—especially the drugs and Whitney's “downfall”—are clearly ignoring obvious facts or are simply racist, projecting their views of thuggery on any young black male who fits the mold.
And that sums up the core of this book. Brown clearly has a few issues he wants to clear up with everyone, but his readership is probably already on one side of the fence or the other. He's not going to convince either camp of his innocence and so, for all intents and purposes, Every Little Step fails. Strip away Brown's agenda, however, and you have a biography that is intelligent and mostly well told. Sure, Brown focuses way too much on the “Whitney Years,” wanting to clear his name, but there's enough about the early years to satisfy fans.
What most impressed me about this memoir was the realization of how young Brown was when he rocketed to fame. For me, it always seemed like New Edition was childhood Bobby and Bobby Brown was the adult version. But Brown's first solo album was recorded when he was sixteen. His breakthrough album when he was eighteen. Brown was a teenager when he became one of the hottest stars on the planet, scoring the number one album of 1989. To think that even in the years prior to this, Brown (with New Edition) was doing world tours and was his large family's “breadwinner.” It's an impressive feat, but it also shows how much pressure was on Brown at an early age. It cannot be easy to be fourteen, to have groupies, drugs, and adventures at the drop of a hat, and to be expected to turn out “normal.” Brown's made some mistakes in his life, but he probably should be cut some slack. When it comes to other childhood stars that have made poor choices later in life, people often point out the pressures of fame. Brown should not be treated harsher than other child stars simply because he's a black man from the projects.
There's so much passionate rage in this seventh volume of the Barefoot Gen series. The narrative is really coming together and losses this late in the story are so much more heartfelt. Though I'm sure there are more struggles in store for Gen, as well as his family and friends, I have hopes that in the last three volumes, trials will be broken up by a growing display of hope and love.
Sometimes the story about the story is much more interesting than the tale itself. Take for example the story of Ralph Ellison's second novel. Following his award-winning debut, Invisible Man, there was undoubtedly intense pressure on Ellison to triumph. Before he'd even finished Invisible Man in 1952, Ellison was working on his second novel. He hoped to create an intense and epic story, one he imagined would be a thousand pages, possibly split into three volumes. He worked on this second novel throughout much of the next decade. The contract with his publisher stipulated a completion date in 1967. Though he was behind, Ellison had much of the novel completed, but his manuscript was the victim of a house fire that same year. Some of the manuscript survived (perhaps Ellison had a copy or it was at a different location), but nearly four hundred pages had been destroyed. Immediately, Ellison set to work, trying to put the broken pieces back together. Decade after decade, he worked on his second novel, but he never finished the task. For whatever reason, Ellison was unable to recreate the work he'd once nearly finished.
By the time of his death in 1994, Ellison had amassed thousands of pages of the manuscript, notes, and various scraps of paper. Though a heavily daunting task, it was only a matter of time before someone tried to put these pieces together and posthumously publish Ellison's much anticipated second novel. The first attempt came in 1999, just five years after Ellison's death, with Juneteenth. Juneteenth encompasses the few hundred pages of Ellison's novel that were most intact. The second attempt, published in 2010, entitled Three Days Before the Shooting..., was intended to be a more complete work, borrowing from Ellison's notes, trying to build the novel that he'd intended to create.
As with any posthumous work, it's difficult to have an opinion about Juneteenth. In part, I did not want to read it as I hated to tarnish my strong feelings for Ellison's literary reputation. Yet, I was curious. Curious enough that I promised myself I would read both adaptations before the year's end.
Juneteenth is a meandering mess of stream of conciousness. While Ellison certainly dabbled with the form in Invisible Man, the influence of Faulkner and company saturate the pages of Juneteenth. It's difficult to follow. And yet, there's the possibility of so much brilliance beneath the confusing string of words. With a complete novel as Ellison intended, or tougher editing, perhaps the poetry and inventiveness of thought would've been abundantly clear. Unfortunately, as presented here, it's not. There are so many layers in this selection, and without the full picture, these layers add to the mess. It's never quite clear where Ellison intended to go with his creature and how it might have been orchestrated.
It's unfortunate that fire destroyed Ellison's novel, yet one has to wonder if Ellison wasn't privately struggling before the disastrous event. Surely, one can imagine a world where fire did not destroy the original manuscript, but the author still combated with self in his attempt to create perfection. Invisible Man may have been impossible to follow. Though I offer no rating for this posthumous work by an author I greatly admire, let it be known that I struggled greatly with this novel. It is not a pleasant or memorable read. Even so, I still intend to follow through with my promise to read Three Days Before the Shooting.... Given the extra time and resources, it's possible a hint of Ellison's intentions will be evident.
Theodore Wheeler's Bad Faith is an extraordinary collection. Each story is articulately rendered and full of simple wonder. Sentences are crafted with care, joining to form a sonorous selection of prose. With the exception of maybe only one title, each story is of equal caliber. Also, the way the first and last stories are connected, and each story in the collection is separated by a vignette that also fits into the larger story, keeps the reader invested in a way other collections sometimes fail to do.
If there's one complaint to be made about Bad Faith, it's the abruptness of the stories' conclusions. I'm not a reader who feels the need to wrap up a story, by any means, but even I felt that the endings could be a bit jarring. It's a small thing, but some readers will make it a big thing. If you don't mind open-ended stories, there's nothing less than stellar about this collection. Having a taste of what Wheeler is capable of, I look forward to his forthcoming novel, Kings of Broken Things, due to arrive in August.