The Ink Think

The History of Love pt. 3

2010-09-17T19:22:00.000-07:00

I have begun a new tale: The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood. I'm certain that most of my particular set of friends are already seasoned fans of her work. I myself am quite enamored with her short stories yet sheepishly admit that this is my first encounter with one of her novels. And a Booker Prize winner no less. The start of this work indicates the completion of another. The History of Love.

I have cried for only a few stories. Amy Hempel's, The Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Buried (find it free on google books if you haven't read it) and ( I don't care what you say) Little Women. I have sisters (and a dear brother.) Sisters (and brother) with whom I share a holy sacred insanely fierce love. Beth's death scene was unforgettable. I was a wreck. I have one more new story to add to the list. The second to last page of this work left me sobbing. I was snotty and not girly but impressed and achy about the preciousness of interpersonal truth telling. I was elevated by this book and surprised that I was every time that I was.

There is a sort of pseudo obituary which constitutes the last page of this novel. The last paragraph massively oversimplifies the rocking-shattering-life-altering-powers of soul to soul love. The oversimplification itself is the greatest frame for the indescribable truth lying within.

Really, there isn't much to say.
He was a great writer.
He fell in love.
I was his life.

I wish I could express more intelligently the interest this book held for me yet the experience of it was particularly integral to my praise of it. Do pick it up. It will be one you will think of long after you've completed it.

The History of Love pt. 2

2010-09-04T06:47:00.000-07:00

The posting on this novel has been far-between and the single reason is owing to the insanity of my professional life. Starting a business is like having a newborn. All the same, I find that I make time for The History of Love in dedicated and tiny pockets. Reading this book is not unlike buying a bag of "fun-size" Mars bars for the express purpose of controlling your diet only to find (not surprisingly) that you have blown through the entire bag in a single sitting. Who were you fooling? The chapters in this book are mini Mars bars, people. You said you would eat just one and before you know it you've read eighty pages.

My experience of this book can be summed up (I loathe summations for as often as I make them)- my experience can be summed up thus: Krauss wrote the early chapters with such strong and certain characters that I was taken. Mystified. Enchanted. Engaged. As her clever constructs flowed into the second quarter of the book I grew weary of the certainty. I am a writer who likes a good deal of absolutes but I am a reader who prefers the gray areas of humanity. The characters in The History of Love are written to be quite clear. Next, moving into the second half of the novel, something magical occurred. Somehow the entanglement of stories began to reveal themselves. Intertwining. Characters began to bump into each other. Began to inform each others (previously assumed) individual tales. Very clever Ms. Nicole Krauss. Very clever indeed. My appreciation of this novel was re-awakened. I was a renewed reader and up until page no. 205 (where I am presently) I was eating the intelligent words like candy. Fun-size candy.

For your approval I submit a smattering of my favorite entries:

For God's sake, he thought. Where is your head? What in the world could you offer a girl like that, don't be a fool, you've let yourself fall apart, the pieces have gotten lost, and now there's nothing left to give, you can't hide it forever, sooner or later she'll figure out the truth: you're a shell of a man, all she has to do is knock against you to find out you're empty. pg.158

I got out my map and memorized the details of the journey. I used to fantasize about disasters, floods, earthquakes, the world thrown into chaos so that I'd have a reason to go to him and sweep him up under my coat. When I'd given up the hope of extenuating circumstances I started to dream about our being thrown together by chance. I calculated all the ways our lives might casually intersect- finding myself sitting beside him on a train, or in the waiting room of the doctor's office. But in the end, I knew that it was up to me. pg. 163

And if, when he tried a second time to replace her name with another, for the second time his hand froze, perhaps it was because he knew that to remove her name would be like erasing all the punctuation, and the vowels, and every adjective and noun. Because without Alma, there would have been no book.

Be not afraid. Find this book at Half-Price. Or pay full price. Find this book and pick it up and hate yourself for absolutely loving the clever zingers, truths, and half-truths told in this novel.

The History of Love

2010-07-02T14:41:00.000-07:00

My lad and I were displaced from our home for a few days on account of new central air being installed in our 160 year old house. A task like that is more like an undertaking. Though the crew did amazing work of it, my lad and I became temporary nomads. During the work day we were banished from the house (ok, technically we left of our own free will) and were resigned to roam the city (rural) streets (roads) of our hometown. There are a few fall-back standard for those killing time with youngsters: Mc Donald's for one, Target (but two visits in three days is the limit), and the Bookstore. Ah, the Bookstore (and yes, it deserves capitalization.) I caved and at the end of our exile I strapped the child into his seat and made for Half Price like a crazy person. I became convinced (as I often do) that the only thing that would hold us over would be the whiff of a gently used/new-to-me paperback. I would be killing time (and my pocketbook) for a good cause. We arrived firmly adherent to the delusion of "browsing" and within 45 seconds I grew giddy to find a copy of The History of Loveby Nicole Krauss. It is a novel and as such serves to contribute to my ever expanding appreciation for the fictional arts. I was particularly pleased to receive an enthusiastic recommendation from a bookseller passing by. I've worked in a bookstore. It isn't like Nordstrom where the sales clerk will tell you anything you want to hear to get you out that door with that $700 Michael Kors leather wristlet that both you and the clerk know you don't need. A trustworthy bookseller will never try to sell you a bum book. Even if their paycheck depended on it, the true bibliophile respects the word. I bit (it wasn't hard) and bought this curious little novel.

When perusing my next literary purchase I am non-traditional in that I forgo reading the back cover synopsis and determine a book's likability. Instead I evaluate by reading the first page of the story. The way I see it, I could read an entire work with the most peculiar plot and the oddest characters if the writing is technically good. Learning what the publisher wants me to know about the book I hold in my hand does nothing for me but getting my feet wet in a few initial paragraphs could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. This novel should be. May I present for the whetting of your appetite, the first few lines of page one's The Last Words on Earth:

"When they write my obituary. Tomorrow. Or the next day. It will say, LEO GURSKY IS SURVIVED BY AN APARTMENT FULL OF SHIT. I'm surprised I haven't been buried alive."

Wow. Not wow as in yikes but wow as in next line please. You have my attention, Ms. Krauss and for the next few days I shall be your bended ear. If you haven't begun a "Summer read" (really, you should read more than whatever little you are to necessitate a "Summer read") then try this one. I haven't even completed it and I'm interested to discuss. Discuss with me.

The Road

2010-05-29T17:51:00.000-07:00

Ever since I first laid eyes on Cormac McCarthy's The Road I was hungry to dive into it. I first saw the book's minimalist, trade paper cover at a Kroger while attempting a quick browse during a particularly stressful shopping trip. I am a judger of covers. I know it's literarily wrong and proverbially frowned upon but I do it anyhow. I will stand in front of an entire selection of Cranford at Half Price Books before making a choice because despite the same text on the inside I will always pick the one with the most attractive cover. I digress. My point is that the simplicity of the cover of McCarthy's book temporarily assuaged my uneasiness regarding the likelihood of human horror Cormac often peppers into his stories. He doesn't shy away from a bit of blood or mortal peril, never mind how relevant or well crafted every element is.

Frankly speaking, it is a daunting task to offer a review of a bestseller let alone an Oprah's Book Club read. The intimidation is not because gross sales or because the queen of daytime talk have supreme authority in establishing the credibility or quality of a read, but because once a book has earned this type of visibility everyone has an opinion and no one wants to hear another. Oh well. Here goes.

I am a fond admirer of the straight forward style with which The Road unfolds. Technically speaking it is stripped of extravagant descriptives and is instead constructed of the potent and the necessary. Odd as it seems for this lover of 19th century lit, I appreciate the reduction. McCarthy's brilliant posture of just enough information requires the contribution of the reader's imagination be a committed and engrossed one. Cormac constructs using only intentional details and in cloistered contexts much like the rendered intimacy of the fires the man and his son huddle tightly around.

It is a rare thing to blindly accept a story what's context is limited in definition. Is it post-apocalyptic? Was it war? Who are these men on the road? When is this? Why? Cleverly, the element of the unknown keeps the story vibrantly and consistently alive. The reader's own questions inform the unknowns with a personally tailored touch.

Whatever the answers to the questions of What? Where? Why? and How?, survival stories are always dramatic, always personal, and always horrifying. It is a place we all go to in our daydreams. Do we have what it takes to brave death? Do we have it in us to live? What would it require? In describing the setting, McCarthy repeatedly selects from a limited vocabulary (ash, gray, blackness, cold). This begins to grow tired thirty pages in but it's right about that time when the reader adopts an imagined empathy which transforms the annoyingly repetitive into the mantra, the true. This too is our reality.

The pace is hold-your-breath rapid. The adrenaline is consistent. The finish is as tidy as it can get (maybe even too tidy). If you live under a rock or in a post-apocalyptic world of your own and you haven't read it then you must. Reader beware: it will destroy you if you are a parent, it will make you wretch if you are squeamish, it will transport you and teach you if you are willing.

Ages and Eons!

2010-03-07T06:22:00.000-08:00

Friends,

It has been ever so long since I have posted a review and frankly, this leaves me dissatisfied. It isn't for a lack of reading that I have been absent but for a lack of computer from which to publish. I know what you're thinking, "Poor dear! All alone in the 21st Century without a computer! She's almost feral!" Indeed the long months have left me with plenty of time on my hands and for what? Sure the dishes were washed more frequently, the books I've longed to read for years were read, handwritten letters were issued to loved ones. I suppose my absence has allowed me the necessary time to live a little so to write about a good deal more.

Books I have read since last we met:

Little Women, Louisa May Alcott
War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy
My Home is Far Away, Dawn Powell
The Hours, Michael Cunningham (technically I am not yet finished)

A great deal of substance on a great sum of pages.

My lag in updating may be, upon further thought, less about working solely from a mobile device and more that my family and I have spent the last season reading business manuals, kitchen supply catalogs and bank statements in preparation for the bakery we are opening this Spring. Ah yes, that rings truer. The delight and anticipation surrounding such an endeavor has me giddy and totally enraptured. It is my earnest desire to spend countless hours (off the clock of course) in some comfy chair within our establishment, lost in literature. Perhaps after our grand opening I will then have the time to post with reckless abandon, read every single purchase I have made from Half Price Books and finally get to sharing my thoughts here with you. Perhaps ;)

Next Up!

2009-10-23T10:27:00.001-07:00

I finished The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters two weeks ago and frankly haven't compiled the most appropriate words for a review. Or perhaps I was so thoroughly disappointed with the material I haven't had the will to write on it regardless of my opinion. I shall prevail with a review in the days to come!

More interestingly is the piece I have lined up next. A marvel of American literature, The House Behind the Cedars by Mr. Charles W. Chesnutt will most certainly prove a rewarding and rich work. Chesnutt himself had spent his young life a Victorian and was profoundly observant of the changing world (for better or worse) around him as the 20th Century was ushered in. This acclaimed work addresses historic racial culture through the eyes of two courageous young African Americans. I am eagerly anticipating this read.

Follow along and submit your thoughts. You know you have 'em and I want to hear 'em.

A Temporary Matter

2009-10-02T06:37:00.000-07:00

Though I completed Jhumpa Lahiri's Pulitzer Prize winning collection of short stories Interpreter of Maladies over a week ago, I haven't had the guts to begin writing about the pieces until today. It isn't for a lack of response rather I was too moved, too emotionally impacted (and it caught me off guard.) As told through husband Shukumar's voice, "A Temporary Matter" dissects his dying marriage with wife Shoba after the loss of their expected child. My mind readily assigned their falter to the tragedy of this still-birth but as I read on, their impending dissent into depression and fission seemed there all along. There were no bells and whistles or heights of drama in the revelation of their loneliness which affected me more so than if Lahiri had written them to be explosive. Shoba slowly "lets herself go" and Shukumar makes an outlet for himself in domesticity, taking over Shoba's role. Lahiri illustrates Shoba's apathy in describing her typically orderly and abundant pantry as sparse and neglected. The way she carried herself is sloppier, less manicured than she once was. All of this is subtly explained away by memories of Shukumar's own Mother's mournful and odd behavior after the loss of his Father. The Doctor reasons the hormonal and psychological meaning behind Shoba's behavior. As a female reading these details it became almost immediately clear to me that Shoba wasn't sinking in sorrow for a lost child alone but hopeless after the loss of what might have kept her interested in her husband. The baby was gone and she was too. How poignant and honest.

The nuances of their relationship (if nuances can be) are the star of the story. Lahiri is an observer and clearly a writer who dwells in the murky and moody realms of truth. She is subtle and illuminates gradually the depths of her characters through their relationships with insight into their inner reasonings. In this collection these reasonings are sometimes logical and other times delusional. That is what makes the work completely identifiable. I give it a 10 out of 10. Extraordinary.

Next Up!

2009-10-02T06:22:00.001-07:00

Two recent (and very fruitful) trips to Half Price Books have left me with a decent stack of future contenders for review. I feel overwhelmingly unqualified in the face of the titles to come. Thankfully, my literary opinion knows no bounds! As for the next pick I'm tackling The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters by acclaimed play-write Gordon Dahlquist. If you're following along you may find this book has been printed in three volumes for the American audience. It's hefty at nearly 800 pages long but I've found it in one complete volume as it was printed for the UK. Set in Victorian London (I'm salivating) I dearly hope this erotic and action packed mystery delivers!

Top 5 Books to Film

2009-09-21T06:56:00.000-07:00

B-Vanaski posed a great question to me earlier this month

"... what's your top five fiction books made into film?"

The query came about as a follow up to my stated enjoyment of films while disliking most contemporary literature. His questions started me thinking (see response) and below I present my top five works of literature turned movies.

1. Atonement, Ian McEwan
2. Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov. James Mason's voice alone could make any movie.
3. High Fidelity, Nick Hornby. Stephen Frears did a great job directing and John Cusack is a personal fave.
4. The Graduate, Charles Webb. Anne Bancroft is genius.
5. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Ken Kesey

Others include:

Doctor Zhivago, Boris Pasternak
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, John Berendt
Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk
Matchstick Men, Eric Garcia
Gone With the Wind, Margaret Mitchell
Little Women, Louisa May Alcott 1933 for Katharine Hepburn and 1949 for June Allyson, Janet Leigh and Elizabeth Taylor.
Schindler's List, Thomas Keneally
No Country for Old Men, Cormac McCarthy. Those Coen brothers.
Circle of Friends, Maeve Binchy
Wings of the Dove, Henry James
Sleepy Hollow, Washington Irving. The casting was right on.
A Clockwork Orange, Antony Burgess
The Godfather, Mario Puzo
Stardust, Neil Gaiman. Robert De Niro was a kick!
Elegy as adapted from The Dying Animal, Philip Roth. Ben Kingsley is rich and serious.

My cruel heart must mention failures:

The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown and that was an improvement on the book.
Inkheart by Cornelia Funke. I enjoy Funke's writing but regretting watching her story on the big screen. I must state, however, I love Andy Serkis in everything he's been in including this.
Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton. I love Daniel Day Lewis but Michelle Pfeiffer was a flaky Olenska. I always read that character as retaining more prowess.
Cider House Rules by John Irving. Perhaps this fell into the "failure" list because of Toby Maguire. I am the only person in America who didn't like any of the Spiderman movies and I blame him. I might note that I found Michael Caine a perfect Dr. Larch but then again, I find he can do no wrong.

Next Up!

2009-09-19T15:31:00.000-07:00

Midway through Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies. This Pulitzer Prize winning collection will merit individual reviews as each story is its own entity. I loved The Namesake so I'm expecting great things. Read along and share your thoughts!

The Saffron Kitchen

2009-09-14T17:23:00.001-07:00

It's taken a week to get around to this since finishing Yasmin Crowther's The Saffron Kitchen but my review is ripe for the reading. The back-cover reviews speak of themes such as "heritage", "exile", "unbreakable family bonds" and while I agree these construct the plot, I might argue that the characters who drive it are weak.

Maryam Mazar is a reclusive and somewhat neurotic matriarch whose life in England seemingly repulses her. Better put, it isn't so much England itself which agonizes her but the fact that she is not in Iran, her mother country. It's implied that Maryam's cold and fickle nature has historically confused her relationship with both her daughter Sara and her English husband Edward, continuing to do so presently. Her motives remain a mystery and they don't entirely reveal themselves until the final pages of the book.

To Crowther's credit she does an excellent job of painting pictures. Scenes and locations are rendered colorfully, never neglecting to describe textures and flavors. The inclusion of all of the senses is a vital consideration when talking of Iran. Crowther has a clear love for Iran as she treats it as a character of its own, weaving Iran's story more beautifully than the principle cast.

It is possible that the characters and sub-plots could exist but it is the way the characters react and interact with one another that I don't follow. Edward, Maryam's husband, is a contemplative and understanding man. Quite the opposite of his wife. He is attentive and involved with his daughter Sara and is markedly dependable through her own trials. His readiness to forgive would suggest he knows more than the reader about his wife's erratic behavior yet Crowther rather lets Edward down in revealing that he is as much in the dark as we. Edward becomes a push-over of sorts somewhere along the line. I was personally disappointed after relying on him for stability. Perhaps that is realistic but I found it annoying. Maryam herself is torn between a childhood love, Ali (who still resides in Iran) and the covenant she made with her husband. Maryam and Ali's relationship is a hard one to agree with as they have not spoken since their youth yet both continue to regard and desire each other. Somehow, after Maryam abandons her ailing daughter and husband for a return home to Iran, Ali is waiting for her. They pursue a rekindled existence but Maryam insists on honoring the place of her marriage in all of it. Hard to build sympathy for. Crowther gives Maryam's character a boost in the last third of the book by attempts to convince the reader that she is a vastly deep woman who has been caged somehow (I argue by her own will) and therefore her untimely decision to leave her family behind is an courageous one which-surprisingly, her own daughter comes to understand and embrace. The resolution and permissiveness shown by Edward and Sara toward the whole ordeal is sudden and crippling to whatever power they once held. Maryam stays with Ali and the rest of the family retires in England. They are written to be content. The reader, however, will not be.

Technically, Yasmin Crowther is a poetic writer sparing no descriptives. At times this left me over-indulged but admittedly made for many memorable lines. However it is possible, I am at once annoyed by this story and impressed by it. It has a quality which stays with you long after you've finished it and I rather prefer a story that challenges you than one unmemorable and not worth discussing. I give it a 6 out of 10.

Next Up!

2009-09-06T10:11:00.000-07:00

My soon-to-be sister-in-law Melissa is an avid reader and brilliantly recommended what are to be my next two books. I'm quite excited! If you want to read along I'm beginning with the acclaimed The Saffron Kitchen by Yasmin Crowther. Based on the back cover if you enjoy the themes found in Amy Tan's works you'll probably enjoy this.

Join in with the conversation and post your opinions!

Arthur & George

2009-09-06T08:20:00.000-07:00

It was slightly after midnight this morning that I reached the finish of Julian Barnes' Arthur&George. This was the second time I had picked up this book and the first time I had finished it. I received an Advance Reader's Edition nearly four years ago and as it happens I was distracted by some other book and lost this one to the stacks. This time around there was no possibility of putting it down.

Barnes unfolds this mystery by alternating vignettes of a select few characters, most importantly those of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Solicitor Mr. George Edalji. I call the work a mystery yet the thrust of this book isn't to glorify such a plot (albeit a marvelous one) but to paint portraits of two fascinating characters in the context of unusual circumstances. Arthur, a figure widely generalized by the success of his most famous character of Sherlock Holmes, is indeed portrayed as a man struggling against the very character whose fame has opened the doors for Doyle's maneuverability in society. Without Holmes, Doyle would not have had the visibility and therefore opportunity to change the life of Mr. George Edalji.

The solicitor Edalji is hardly a charity case as a clever, studious son of a Vicar. He is plainly the victim of small-minded prejudice whereby a suspicious judicial system poorly dictates the fate of this private man. Wrongfully accused of a string of crimes, Barnes writes Edalji to rise as a hero by self-control and deliberate considerateness though his societal liberation comes from the assistance of Arthur. Though Arthur jumps at his chance to charitably affect change and take on "the system" he is hardly a fairy-godmother but searching for answers of his own. Though George is in clear need of help, inwardly Arthur is arguably more effected by their relationship. George is a destination man (contented by the quiet and dependable) and Arthur is a journey man (stoked by curious introspection).

Julian Barnes is a master at his craft. Barnes saves the story's tidy conclusion for the Author's Note, divulging the answer to the question of "whodunit?" Cleverly, he chose to keep this information out of the main body of the text as it becomes an almost afterthought by the time the story reaches its close. He thereby maintained the tone and integrity through the end. It was a pleasure to read and delivered on intelligent character development. I give it an 8 out of 10.

From the Getgo

2009-08-28T07:21:00.000-07:00

In 2003 the BBC ran a program searching for the best-loved novel amongst the nation's readers. The list includes 100 titles (or 99 runners-up). Facebook, ever the clever waste of time (I am admittedly addicted), ran a poll asking how many of those top 100 books the facebooker had read. Depending on the company I was keeping I was either proud of my score (63 by the way) or embarrassed by my score. In an investigation of the list I must admit expressed disgust for some of the titles which made the cut. Confusingly Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones's Diary pulled in at #75 and Meg Cabot managed (just barely) at #99 with The Princess Diaries beating out (in my opinion a more deserving) Salman Rushdie with Midnight's Children bottoming at #100. Granted the examples above rank in the bottom 25 yet the sheer fact that they manage as "favorites" is irksome. It is at this point in my thinking when I realize that the majority of fair-weather readers stick to the best-sellers rack at Barnes & Noble when it comes to their literary repertoire. It would then make sense that Meg Cabot is prized above someone like Ian McEwan (who didn't make the list.) Or perhaps my regrettable elitism stems from the fact that I honestly don't read a lot of contemporary fiction. I am a reader of histories and varied sciences. I prefer poems and to be fair I've read and enjoyed "the classics." I am fanatical about the majority of literature dating between the 17th and 19th centuries and find myself revisiting these novels over and over again. So what is my problem with contemporary literature? To solve this question I'm beginning an investigation. This blog is going to tackle old and the new works of literature alike. I'm anticipating studying what commonalities span time in these works and what they might tell me about my place in the literary culture.