Little Children

Tom Perrotta's Little Children follows the story of several unhappy suburban families. Sarah, our main focus, is an active feminist who falls into the role of typical housewife, but frees herself from a stifling life when she begins an affair with Todd, the "prom king" of the parents. Kathy, Todd's wife, must wait as she watches the affair unfurl before her, though she continues to remain concerned about Todd's performance on the bar exam. Sarah's husband, Richard, remains constantly un-interested in his life with Sarah, as he is too busy living an internet fantasy life. And the whole town must tip-toe past the fact that they live in the same town as a child molester/murderer.

This book was some hard core realistic fiction. It accurately portrays the dynamic between mothers at a playground--the underlying competative streak follows the mothers throughout their conversations. The unhappy marriages rings true to many real-life couples. The lost feeling many adults share was there, but not as evident as it could have been. It was difficult to tell if Perotta was trying to parody the suburban lifestyle and one-dimensional mothers, or if he was trying to portray it. Quite frankly, the reviews that say this book was "laugh out loud funny" shock me. It was a rather depressing, yet poignant read. The immature, almost caricature-esque parents could have been more fleshed out if Perotta was going for pure realism, but the mothers whom Sarah can bounce off of work perfectly as satire. The dark comedy was so subtle, the book was seemingly satire that didn't realize it was satire.

At times, the book seemed an adult version of the TV show Friday Night Lights. Todd's football practice seemed out of place and unnecessary. The competitive sport, paired with the swimming through miserable--and exciting--relationships seemed to say "sure, it looks ridiculous, but this shit actually happens in life." The predictability of the characters could have been bad writing--or it could have been a statement that sometimes humans seem like paper cut-outs, just waiting as they wade through mistakes they've made, choices they must stick with.

I would have liked to gotten to know the characters a little better. At times, their interactions seemed to convenient, too clean. There were some clever moments, as well as some poignantly sad moments--as satire, I'd give this book a good mark. But as your average realistic fiction, that's just what it was--average and stale.

Night

There are two books that I have encountered so far that have made me bawl. One is The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. The other? Night, by Elie Wiesel. Here, we follow the powerfully devastating journey of a fifteen year old boy who starts in a Ghetto and moves to Auschwitz, barely making it through death marches and injuries. We follow the treacherous work of the SS and the desperate pleas from the Holocaust victims.

While this book is short and can be finished in a matter of an hour or two, its lack of verbosity doesn't take away from the gut-punching reaction one feels after turning the final page. If anything, the staccato nature of the phrases ads power. The sentences that gave the clearest, most horrific shots of death were often the shortest. After witnessing several hangings (many of which were children), Wiesel says "that night the soup tasted of corpses" (62).

Elie Wiesel, still a hopeful, inspired child who wishes to dive into readings on his religion, gives a stark portrayal of the overnight transformation from naive child to desolate adult. The prisoners' indifferent reactions to death show more than just weakness: it shows the reader how monotonous, how normal, death was.

Yet no matter how terrified Wiesel was, his bravery wins over his wishes not to face the horrific turn of events. To remember is to inform, and Wiesel stresses that he certainly cannot forget: "Never shall I forget that nocturnal silence which deprived me, for all eternity, of the desire to live. Never shall I forget those moments which murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to dust. Never shall I forget these things, even if I am condemned to live as long as God himself. Never" (32).

Just as Elie Wiesel never forgets the oppression, the torture, it is difficult to forget the power of his words. It's an upsetting book, but not in a way that makes you wish to turn away from the story. We are able to understand what humans have come through--what they have faced--only to come out stronger. 

Will Grayson, Will Grayson

I'm currently on a mission to watch all of the Vlogbrothers' videos from start to finish--this quite possibly stems from having four days off work inspiration from all things nerdy. Because I've immersed myself in John Green's life via the internet, I wanted my reading to reflect his voice as well. After devouring David Levithan's The Lover's Dictionary, I was thrilled to read a book that Green and Levithan co-wrote.

In this novel, we follow the lives of two Will Graysons. One, the (literally) straight man of the story, plays the sidekick to his enormously enormous and enormously gay friend Tiny. While Tiny makes plans to present the biggest musical of the year, Will Grayson battles his own relationship woes, including mixed feelings about the A side of the GSA, Jane. After an awkward run-in in a porn shop, Will Grayson and Tiny meet the other Will Grayson, an openly gay teen who battles depression and internet personas. The relationship kinks and tears end up in a fabulous (and heartfelt) musical.

The authenticity of adolescence remained consistent throughout the novel. Oftentimes, adult writers see the teenage years as fuzzy around the edges, but Green and Levithan seem to be living adolescence (which, kudos to them, as that cannot be painless), rather than playing it. It is the "living by the hour" motions that teens go through that is most difficult to translate onto paper, but Levithan portrays the gay Will Grayson in such a way that is not a stereotype: "I have this ritual, that when it hits two o'clock, I allow myself to get excited about leaving. It's like if I reach that point, I can take the rest of the day off" (27).

While the authors explore the isolation, and hardships gay couples may face, Will Grayson, Will Grayson doesn't feel like a sexuality-specific book. Yes, Tiny and Will's relationship is often the main focus, but so is Tiny and the other Will's. The romantic relationships are the surface throughout the story, but the underlaying theme is consistently friendship. We see how friendships unravel into romantic relationships with Will and Jane. We see how friendships can often be unjustly put on the backburner when hormones come into play. We see how friendships culminate into something larger after they start simply for convenience purposes. As Tiny wisely observes, "'When you date someone, you have the markers along the way, right: You kiss, you have The Talk, you the Three Little Words, you sit on a swing set and break up. You can plot the points on a graph. And you check up with each other along the way: Can I do this? If I say this, will you say it back? But with friendship, there's nothing like that. Being in a relationship, that's something you choose. Being friends, that's just something you are'" (260).

One of the scary things about being in high school is that you're not only trying to figure out who you are, you're trying to figure out who other people are. Green and Levithan gracefully examine the ways that friendship could be perceived as leading someone on, or desperation to help someone could seem like trickery (although let me just add that if you make up a persona online just to psych someone out, you're kind of a douche). The separation between romantic relationship and platonic relationship is not always distinct. You're still trying to read friends' motivations for doing something. You're still upset when they promise they'll call, and don't. You still love them. Straight man's friend love for Tiny ends up just as powerful as the other Will Grayson's "let's make out in the bushes" love for Tiny.

While most of the book and the characters were quite believable, Tiny was a flat character up until the end. The revelation about his insecurity was certainly more powerful after believing that Tiny was the only teenager in the world who was perfectly okay with himself, but his one-dimensionality makes his story line blend in with those around him--even as he advertises himself as distinct. All of his lines are a little too fabulous. Some more indication that he's a human being would nicely round out his character.

This novel nicely portrays the trial-and-error that is adolescence. It's witty, sometimes sad, sometimes maddening, but mostly, it's very real.

And plenty of interspersed musical numbers make it quite the entertaining read. :)

Story Line: Exploring the Literature of the Appalachian Trail

I'm going to do my best to not go "ohmygosh my father wrote this book and he is just the coolest." We're professional here on blogs that have jelly bean/yoga cat backgrounds. After nearly 20 years of not reading my father's books (but let's excuse the first...5 years, due to lack of reading ability), I decided to take a stab at his first novel: Story Line: Exploring the Literature of the Appalachian Trail.

Here, we live through Marshall's journey through the Appalachian Trail (bet you didn't see that one coming). On each section he analyzes a different nature writer, particularly how geographical placement and historical context influenced each writer. Marshall explores how Native American folklore affected his own spiritual and natural understanding (which often go hand in hand), how transcendentalism, while a sophisticated lens to read and write through, may not be the determinate meaning of nature, and how gender roles affect how someone approaches hiking.

The analysis of each work was strong. Marshall never failed to bring the piece of literature he was currently reading back to his own experiences on the AT. Through his own solitude, he reflects how a myriad of writers bond over that seemingly desolate feeling of loneliness. Marshall recognizes and sympathizes with Wendell Berry's sentiments about isolation:

Always in big woods, when you leave familiar ground and step off alone to a new place, there will be, along with feelings of curiosity and excitement, a little nagging of dread. It is the ancient fear of the unknown, and it is your first bond with the wilderness you are going into. What you are doing is exploring; you are understanding the first experience, not of the place, but of yourself in that place. But it is an experience of our essential loneliness, for nobody can discover the world for anybody else. It is only after we have discovered it for ourselves that it becomes a common ground and a common bond and we cease to be alone.

While Marshall has plenty of company kudos to several trail-goers (my favorite being Wolverine, seeing as it rhymes with Evergreen--Marshall's trail name), his self-understanding, playful wit and analysis worthy of any English professor's envy grow no less weak. If anything, Marshall spent too much time analyzing other writers' stories before we are allowed to marinate in his own stories from the trail. The personal narrative captures the audience instantly, and Marshall gives us such a vivid picture of rhododendron coated trail, rocky overhangs and battles with porcupines, that we aren't ready to let go of the scene.

Marshall's strongest self reflection results from his thoughts on ecofeminism: Here, Marshall examines the theory that it is feminine nature to not stray too far from interpersonal relationships--women may be drawn towards the connection one feels in nature--the bond with other creatures. However, it's typically more masculine to experience the natural world in order to escape. Basically, the woman's motivation to explore nature is mental, and the man's is physical. The feminine is to understand, the masculine is to keep going, keep going, until far away from societal concerns.

Perhaps this is where the bias draws in. While Marshall admits that he mainly dreamed of his son taking on the Appalachian trail alongside him--and that he's not an adamant ecofeminist--he admits "surely my daughter could stand to gain something from that sort of adventure, too...to devote herself for a few months to the project of clarifying for herself who she is, to show herself and the world that she has the wherewithal to accomplish whatever task she sets for herself" (69).

Aw, shucks. Spoiler alert: The ecofeminist AT hike doesn't exactly happen. Oops.

Later in the book, Marshall allows himself to really dive in the philosophical part of nature writings. He examines what phenomena exists solely because society has a name for it, versus what we can venture to understand outside of language, outside of societal construct. While it's difficult to seek to understand something outside of the spoken/written word, Marshall acknowledges that nature doesn't cease to exist if we stopped giving a name to it. Just as the events in nature rarely come from any spiritual shift in human nature, nature isn't something humans create. The river isn't rocky because our lives are unstable--if anything, our lives are unstable because the river is rocky.

Marshall's writing voice is personable yet sophisticated. Each great feat is told humbly, yet with graceful wit. For nature-readers and city goers alike, I highly recommend this book

 

Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith

You'd think after having studied Hinduism for a month, people might look at me funny after diving into a book about a woman purely devoted to her Christian faith. But as far as I can tell, Plan B: Farther Thoughts on Faith is less about religion and more about humanity, parenting, and a reminder of how relieving it is that George W. Bush's second term is over.

In her novel, Anne Lamott talks of her relationship with her aging body and a teenage son whose body sometimes gets taken over by a rather unpleasant alien, affectionately known as "Phil." Her perceptions on parent/child relationships are so dauntingly similar to my own, it's as though she reached into my life, pulled out the worst arguments from my childhood, and stuck them onto a page. But while she expresses her frustrations for having to care for someone who constantly tests her limits and makes her want to scream, she doesn't at all exude hopelessness; if anything, Lamott's words indicate how much stronger parenting has made her and Sam: "Sam has come through so many trials, and has already tested me to the limits of my faith and patience--without even having gotten his driver's license yet. So while his current ride on earth is thrilling and important, what he has lived through and has been loved through is what helps him stay more or less balanced on the whale" (202). She acknowledges that her son is not what causes her outbursts; rather, he's the last straw before the purple-faced monster takes over Lamott's body.

Lamott, through her struggles with unconditional love, uses faith to relate to her own relationships, her own need to love everybody equally. But instead of blindly accepting that Jesus loves everybody, she takes us through her thought process and debates about how Jesus could love an opposing political party just as much as his politicians of choice. Lamott takes her own ideas of love, and brings them to a religious level without sounding too preachy. She takes her reader through a light mental debate before explaining the conclusion--starting at the beginning...that's a thing. Lamott admits that "Jesus ate with sinners--but of course, they ended up killing him. So there's that. Still, I know he would eat with my president, even if he knew that the White House would probably call the police or the Justice Department on him later for his radical positions. He'd do it, because he is available to everyone...I know the world is loved by God, as are all of its people, but it is much easier to believe that God hates or disapproves of or punishes the same people I do, because these thoughts are what is going on inside me much of the time" (221). Lamott's unequivocal...humanness is what makes her so readable, so wise.

As someone who doesn't have one set religion, I never felt like Lamott was trying to convert me to Christianity. Her words advocate believing in others, believing in love. Through her own trial and error, Lamott's readers can reflect on their own...and perhaps be more accepting of the human race by the end. 

The 13.5 Lives of Captain Bluebear

I know, I know. I'm already late on my first book review. Egads! Guys, I just wanted a chance to say "egads."

But anyway.

The 13 1/2 Lives of Captain Bluebear is one of those books I didn't want to see end. If Captain Bluebear had had fifty lives, I probably would have been enthralled by every single one.

Walter Moers novel follows a young blue bear's adventure. An "unborn" creature, Captain Bluebear found himself floating on a walnut shell, only to meet his first boisterous family: a bunch of mini pirates. As Blue bear grows older, he also grows smarter, using his seven-brained teacher, Professor Nightingale as a mental encyclopedia to help him through a myriad of sticky situations. Whether it's a giant bollog's brain, or a natural born liar, Blue bear is sure to make the acquaintance of these creatures throughout his journey through labyrinths and paradises.

Moers' writing style is both perceptive and playful. A kid's book for adults, The 13 1/2 Lives of Captain Bluebear is bound to please Harry Potter fans, as well as adults yearning for their relentlessly playful childhoods. Even the evil creatures often end up being quite personable and we care about each character that makes an appearance in Blue Bear's life. Even the obsessive liar, the Troglotrol, gains our sympathy when his lying skills seem far from impressive compared to other professional Congladiators (liars). 

Mores' writing is not only fantastical and freeing, but it is highly perceptive of our own nature. As Blue Bear meets a group entitled "The Muggs," he observes "they didn't take a vote on the matter because a vote would have betokened a conflict; they compromised by adopting a zigzag course" (282). Having been to a Quaker school, I immediately see the resemblance to a hard-core democracy; Blue Bear's sentiments that "The Muggs had rules like every community; but they were so refreshingly different from traditional rules and regulations that it was almost a pleasure to obey them" (283) also resonate with the Quaker/ashram lifestyle. We all know that person that's "too peaceful" to defend himself against an attacker; Moers expresses that personality through play and wit.

Moers' societal commentary and frustration is subtle--as the reader becomes engrossed in the mythical creature, he may fail to see the parallels with our own planet--but as Blue Bear searches for employment in Atlantis, his frustrations about lack of qualification/privilege are akin to many post-grads in this generation: "I should have liked to do job that made the most of my comprehensive Nocturnal Academy education, but this was harder than I had thought.
To obtain a teaching post you had to have spent years working your way up through Atlantis's intricate educational system, and nearly every learned profession required hard-to-get permits from mysterious government departments. You could get nowhere without a Norselander rubber stamp, and that was available only to those who queued up for months on end, paid bribes to the competent authority, or had a Norselander in the family."

Sounds a bit like grad school, does it not?

This book makes you think about our society's ethical dilemma--but it doesn't force you to. This works a fun bedtime read, that whisks you away from your current world and takes you into 13.5 others.

Juliet, Naked

My video review of Nick Hornby's Juliet, Naked: