September 30, 2011 · 3:07 am

The Lovely Bones: So. bad.

      I feel like this one might an “emperor’s new clothes” kind of case. I mean, it can’t be that so many reviewers out there got it so. wrong. It must be instead that someone wrote a glowing review (maybe as a joke? maybe for cash money?) and then rather than admit that they couldn’t see that there was nothing but a terrible, awful, no good, very bad book, everyone sort of shrugged and said, yeah, well, okay, it’s worth a read. No, no it’s not.

I’m feeling so scathing I think it might be time for another itemized list of the bad (I know, you’ve been waiting and hoping):

1. Little white girls: The book opens with an preface/acknowledgement (sort of) that girls of all colours get kidnapped and killed. And then begins a (very) uncomfortable foray into the fetishization of little white girls. Cue the “daughter-daddy” creepiness of Purity Balls.

2. Characterization: I do not care for characters because I know what kind of shampoo they use, or what drink they like after dinner. The novel reads like an endless exercise in character sketches with characters routinely brushing hair from their eyes and holding ceramic mugs of tea. I care for characters when I’m privy – through thought or action – to their motivations, not simply their thoughts or actions. “I felt sad,” is not character development.

3. Similes. With the (only) exception of Tom Robbins, authors who write purposefully vague or unusual similes (like the chestnut sun, like the tired watermelon) should have a firm and persuasive editor remind them that no reader wants to read those similes, and especially not for pages and pages on end.

4. A cliche conclusion to a trite and cliche novel is alas, cliche. I just have to say it: an icicle?! Are you kidding?! An icicle?!

5. “Buckley” is not an endearing name for a little boy. I kept confusing him with the dog. Maybe because he and the dog had the same level of character development?

6. I’ve had a glass of wine and feel like I may be being unfair. And then I think again about the icicle, and realize I’m not.

But I do think I’ll stop there. I’m not out of reasons I don’t like the book, but I am out of patience for thinking about it. For once I’m pleased I have a terrible memory, here’s hoping this one disappears quickly.

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September 28, 2011 · 4:07 pm

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian: So. good.

        Sherman Alexie’s The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian belongs in several categories of 10-10-12: banned books, books with illustrations, and young adult fiction. It’s also made it’s way on to the (yet undisclosed and unfinished) list of best books I’ve read in 2011. The first person narrator’s honesty coupled with his humour make for a totally captivating tone, which quickly and effectively secures the readers’ concern and care for the brave, fragile and fierce protagonist. Such was this readers’ concern that as the story begins a gradual, but escalating, revelation of grief, I found myself a little weepy, but more than that, a little in awe of a story that so quickly and so honestly invites reader sympathy/empathy.

I should comment on the illustrations not just because this book is categorized (for me) in books with illustrations, but because the cartoons that pepper the pages serve Junior/Arnold as an outlet for emotions he doesn’t understand, and allow the reader yet another window into the complicated and fraught emotional life of a teenage boy.

I admit to being a little floored by how much and how quickly I came to care about Junior/Arnold.

It’s scandalous to me that this one appears on the ALA list of most frequently banned at schools in the US – a tragedy of its own kind that some readers will be prevented or hindered from finding their way to this remarkable story, when really, it ought to be put in the hands of every teenager  reader who has ever felt weird, or felt like they didn’t know how to feel (so… all of us).

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September 27, 2011 · 12:05 pm

The Night Circus: Magic(al setting)

                    I read The Night Circus on the recommendation of a glowing review in The Globe and Mail and because Erin Morgenstern is coming to read from it tomorrow night (!). The Globe review suggested the book reminded her of reading the best novels of her life – the experience to be savoured and indulged like so much rich food. And while I enjoyed The Night Circus I’m not yet prepared to say it’s in the same room with the best books of my life (what are these books?).

So what are my problems? The story relies too heavily on the magic of the setting. An odd complaint perhaps from a book about magicians, a magical duel, a magical midnight circus, but the setting is just so. well. done. that when the characters remain somewhat flat and unpredictable (when do the two protagonists fall in love? you don’t know either? neither does the novel…), the plot holds inexplicable (and not ‘magic realism’ inexplicable, but just perplexing) elements and the writing is unremarkable. In a a tone that recalls Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, or the tv show Carnivale the story feels like it’s missing a certain authenticity that I’m having trouble explaining or justifying, but is there nonetheless.

That said, I lack the range of synonyms for “incredible” and “awesome” with which to praise the setting. The circus is so enjoyable to wander, so full of surprises, creativity and, well, magic that I loved the book despite my other concerns. It’s well worth the read if you care at all about magicians or, if you’re like E. the circus.

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September 25, 2011 · 5:34 pm

The Book Thief: Devasting (and beautiful)

Mark Zusak’s The Book Thief hurts to read. In the most straightforward way it’s the story of a young German girl and the town that raises her before and during World War Two. It is also the story of the power of words to save people from the insanity of isolation and the power of words to ignite and fuel beliefs that argue for dominance and destruction.

I have had over the course of this latest reading project opportunities to consider why I read, what effects reading has on me and what reading cannot accomplish. The Book Thief adds to this ongoing conversation I’m having with myself about the utility and responsibility of reading by arguing that it is in sharing stories – reading to others; showing others the painful and glorious experiences we’ve had; giving away, stealing and borrowing stories – that something like a common humanity emerges. I know that will sound trite, and perhaps it is, but on finishing The Book Thief I feel, well, simply overwhelmed with a kind of reverence for story-telling. And so if I fall into cliche I do so out of a helplessness for other words that might convey the power of this story in particular, but of stories – for me, at least – entirely.

I need not give anything away about this book – not comments on the at first irritating, but later endearing narrator, nor comments on the unexpected setting; neither comments on the pace of plot or the fully realized characters – because the narrator routinely tells the reader what is coming. And maybe it is this foreknowledge, this preparation, that makes the story so devastating. The recognition as you lie, sobbing your way through the final chapters, that the story, to be true, could only end this way. But that knowing the outcome doesn’t affect the imperative to read and hear the whole story. That you read because you must know not what happened, but how and why. And that the justifications and explanations will never be satisfactory, that you will want to write another, a happier, ending, even while you recognize that a neater ending would be somehow worse. 

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