Tagged: fiction
The Book of Hours
The Book of Hours by Davis Bunn, 2/5
I don’t think I’d ever read a “Christian romance” before, but now I feel as if I’ve read every single one ever written. Almost everything about this book was cliched, from the handsome widower trying to escape his grief to the beautiful and independent female doctor who develops an immediate (and spoiler temporary) disliking for him. To be fair, the archetypes were intrinsically appealing, it was a lot less preachy than could be expected, and there were even some artistic touches: an insightful sentiment here and there, or a deft description. But ultimately, nothing could compensate for deficiencies of plot and characterization, which were contrived, worn-out and predictable all around. The plot was especially lame–a Nancy Drew take on National Treasure with some “Touched by an Angel” thrown in; however, as an antidote to my last read, Kafka, it was not entirely unwelcome.
[Why I read it: my brother’s mother-in-law thought I might enjoy it and thoughtfully gave me a copy. There was no dust cover, so I thought it was historical fiction…]
The Metamorphosis and Other Stories
The Metamorphosis and Other Stories by Franz Kafka, translated by Stanley Appelbaum, 2/5
I’m not sure which of these five short stories were worse, the three that made some sort of sense or the two that didn’t. The first piece, “The Judgement,” initially impressed me with Kafka’s more than competent writing skill and eye for detail. However, the end of what could only be loosely termed a “story” left me bewildered. Still trusting, I reread the main bits carefully, thinking that perhaps I’d missed some important detail or was simply not smart enough to understand. Finally, I resorted to the relevant Wikipedia article. Now I have a pretty good nose for bullshit and my eyes started watering with the stench almost immediately. Is the story a commentary on the conflict between a world of “vital existence in which probability and reservation rule” and a world “in which every step has an incalculable importance because it is taken under the horizon of an absolute summons to the road,” or is it a load of old bollocks imparting nothing but the vague flavour of some unspecified psychosis? Since I’ve cleverly managed to include my answer to that question inside the question itself, we’ll move right along to the other “chocolate chips” in this raisin cookie.
“The Metamorphosis” was the most readable piece–a miserably surreal little tale that left me feeling depressed and wondering why the author even bothered with it. “In the Penal Colony” was even more unpleasant, but the hint of deep psychological meaning and political commentary made it feel less pointless, at least. “A Report to an Academy,” the story of an ape who became a man, was almost funny and probably the least off-putting work in the collection, though nothing that would make an author famous. Finally that nonsensical nightmare “A Country Doctor,” which might as well have been included in its original German for all the sense it made.
Nothing makes one feel quite like an ignoramus as much as not “getting” a famous literary work. However, my first exposure to Kafka gives me the distinct sense that his fame comes from the self-congratulation of literary critics, psychologists and scholars who find endless theses in his tangled writings, only brought to the public eye through tireless promotion (one could almost say, exploitation) by his rather sketchy friend, Max Brod.
[Why I read it: Another one of those classics that didn’t make it onto my reading list until I came across it in the thrift store. I actually started reading it while in the middle of Forrest Griffin’s Be Ready When the Sh*t Goes Down because I needed something else (for obvious reasons) to fill the hour between doors opening and the start of Ax Fighting #51 (featuring martial artists, not crazed lumberjacks, unfortunately).]
Robinson Crusoe
Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe, 2/5
I have been familiar with the story of Robinson Crusoe since childhood, thanks to one of those tiny children’s abridgments that is equal parts text and illustrations, so I was pretty excited to finally get around to reading the real thing. Surprisingly, I did not much enjoy this famous novel.
I was irritated, first off, to learn from the introduction that the author’s main talent lay in the believability of his straightforward writing style, which he used indiscriminately in the creation of propaganda for countless political pamphlets. Now, I don’t expect authors of adventure stories to have SAS training, but I do have other criteria for fictional survival tales than “seems true.” Because Defoe’s writing style is so very factual (which is a nice way of saying dry and prosaically detailed) and his preface to the book claims the title of nonfiction outright, I felt lied-to throughout. Now this might not seem like a big deal; after all, isn’t all fiction basically a lie and all novelists liars? But I feel that literature which attempts to coerce suspension of disbelief from its readers through deception lacks the authenticity and magic of literature that facilitates a willing suspension of disbelief.
It is not difficult to imagine that Robinson Crusoe was unprecedented when it was written back in 1719 and inspired a genre to some extent, but I found very little in it to admire and even littler to enjoy.
[Why I read it: Another one of those classics that just never made it onto my list until I found a nice vintage copy at the thrift store.]
The Island of Sheep
The Island of Sheep by John Buchan, 3/5
This charming little story about a simple Norlander who, persecuted by a gang of ruthless criminals, enlists the aid of Richard Hannay and Co. is the last in the series, though why it was not included in The Four Adventures of Richard Hannay collection beats me. There was much to like about the tale, but it was noticeably rife with clumsy references to Buchan’s other works and suffered from an extremely contrived plot.
[Why I read it: I meant to read it ever since reading the first four books in the Hannay series last year, but we didn’t own a copy then. My sister got her hands on one somehow, but I wasn’t motivated to read it until she pulled it out recently for my mom, who enjoyed it a lot.]
The Best of Medical Humor
The Best of Medical Humor: A Collection of Articles, Essays, Poetry, and Letters Published in the Medical Literature, compiled and edited by Howard J. Bennett, M.D., 1/5
This relentlessly unfunny book was a chore to read and there were a couple of times I almost gave up (in retrospect, I wish I had). Doubtless, having a medical background would have made it more enjoyable, but that does not completely explain the lack of laughs; after all, I’ve largely found that quality humor transcends topic and is recognizable even when it is not entirely understandable (why else would Scottish sitcoms be so enjoyable?). In this case, though, most of the pieces reminded me of mediocre speech-openers, whose appeal lies mainly in stating the obvious and evoking half-hearted laughs of recognition from an audience who has steeled itself for the extremely boring lecture that is to follow. The rest of the book mostly contains stuffy parodies of medical writing, which I imagine would seem most funny if you came across them unexpectedly in a serious medical journal.
In addition, it seems cheap that no single author is more represented in the collection than the compiler himself. The fact that so much of his own work made it through the rigorous sorting process he describes in the introduction (he read over 800 articles, only choosing ones that could “make him laugh” and were “the best”) is very off-putting. Things that are more entertaining than someone who fancies himself a comedian include getting a popcorn kernel stuck in your teeth, driving around a corner while holding a very full cup of coffee in one hand and stepping into the shower with a new sunburn.
[Why I read it: found while browsing in the thrift store.]
Tom Jones
The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding, 4/5
This charmingly scandalous novel follows the escapades of one Tom Jones, whose good heart and good looks get him into rather more trouble than he seems to deserve. The author’s moral point of view is unusual and surprisingly modern in that his most spiteful commentary is reserved for those characters that appear saintly on the surface but are truly hypocritical, selfish and devious. Sins that have historically attracted more outspoken condemnation, such as sexual immorality, dishonesty, and theft, are all tolerantly chalked up to the imperfections of human nature in a manner that, while not condoning such behaviour, does seem surprisingly nonchalant. Despite its length and the sordidness of some episodes, the book is a light and entertaining read, thanks to the very short chapters, the author’s outspoken [often hilariously so] commitment to not boring the reader, and the artful ease with which the reader is transported between scenes. Perhaps because I have not read much 18th-century literature, Tom Jones reminds me a good deal of Tristram Shandy (written only 10 years later), but in much the same way that a beautiful rainbow might remind you of an oil puddle.
[Why I read it: It came up in conversation with Tom, a fellow choir member.]
Mockingbird
Mockingbird by Walter Tevis, 5/5
In this touching story, set in an eerily believable dystopian future, Tevis explores what it means to be human–a well-worn topic that somehow finds fresh, new life under his sensitive but sure hand. I quite liked how the story unfolded when approached with rather less preknowledge than could be gained from the previous sentence, so I will leave this review suitably sparse. Suffice it to say that the author’s insight into the human condition combines with the book’s accessibility, immediacy and artistic merit to outshine, in my opinion, other novels in the genre, such as Brave New World and 1984.
[Why I read it: A recommendation from my friend, Alison.]
Daniel Deronda
Daniel Deronda by George Eliot, 4/5
This novel is unexpectedly strange and deeply psychological–not at all your typical 19th-century fare. The author flouts expectations in almost all aspects of the book, from the construction and flow of the plot, to the characters, their motivations and their relationships with each other. Most immediately noticeable is the relative absence of the eponymous Daniel Deronda throughout the first half of the story; instead, the author focuses extensively on Gwendolen Harleth, a flawed character who is as beautiful and vivacious as she is small-minded and self-centred. Many of the character traits that a more romantic author, such as Jane Austen, would employ in the creation of a heroine are used by Eliot to create an anti-heroine whose faults are unsettling in their similarity to the virtues of, say, Eliza Bennet from Pride and Prejudice. Likewise, Deronda, when he does make an appearance, is not at all the dashing hero you might expect but rather introspective, reserved and overly-conscientious. His moral influence on Gwendolen makes for a uniquely uneasy relationship that is at once intensely meaningful and unusually platonic. Other interesting characters abound, many possessing well-developed psyches that render them as complicated yet predictable as real life.
Another unusual aspect of this book is the author’s increasing focus on Jewish culture and Judaism in the second half. Perhaps my general lack of interest in the topic made me more easily bored, but several of the theological and philosophical sections were difficult to get through with a good attitude and I found the Jewish characters to be a little flat and uncharacteristically (for the author) stereotypical. Eliot seemed too eager to incorporate her extensive studies on the topic into the story, which came off as a bit academic and unnatural. Also, the concept that an innate sense of national identity can survive in someone, independent of their upbringing, does not seem plausible to me and I felt the story suffered as a result of the author’s reliance on this idea. All in all, though, this book is well worth reading and truly stands alone in its genre, though some of the unusual aspects that constitute its strengths also contribute to its weaknesses.
[Why I read it: I watched the BBC miniseries (because it had Edward Fox in it) and enjoyed it enough to want to check the book out.]
One More Thing
One More Thing: Stories and Other Stories by B.J. Novak, 4/5
A great sense of comedic timing, a keen eye for observation and a healthy appreciation for the potential absurdity of the ordinary combine to make this collection of short stories, poems and miscellanea an entertaining and thought-provoking (but mostly entertaining) experience. My favourite story was probably “The Man Who Invented the Calendar” though “The Girl Who Gave Great Advice” was also hilarious. If Novak writes more, I will definitely read more.
[Why I read it: Book Guy Reviews’ enthusiastic write-up of this book was convincing.]
Inherent Vice
Inherent Vice: A Novel by Thomas Pynchon, 4/5
Late 1960s Los Angeles provides an atmospheric setting for the investigations of pot-smoking private eye Larry “Doc” Sportello. Kidnapping, murder, organized crime, a host of unsavory characters, a lot of sex and drugs, and a wise-ass protaganist (think the “The Dude” crossed with Sam Spade), are all part of a convoluted plot that might have been written by Dashiell Hammett if he hadn’t died right as the 60s were spooling up. Pynchon’s writing style is witty and dense, at times requiring (and rewarding) a pause and a bit of deciphering on the part of the reader. I enjoyed his portrayals of speech patterns and slang through creative spelling and sentence structure. Unsurprisingly, there was a heck of a lot more vice in this book than I am comfortable with, but I hope I can recognize good writing even if the content makes me uncomfortable.
[Why I read it: I saw the movie trailer and though it looked interesting, but my friend AJ recommended I read the book before watching the film.]
OmniRambles 