I actually own the third edition of this fine book, by which time Ricardo Navas-Ruiz had added a co-author, someone called Covadonga Llorente. The titI actually own the third edition of this fine book, by which time Ricardo Navas-Ruiz had added a co-author, someone called Covadonga Llorente. The title has also changed, as the book now incorporates a section on La Voz Pasiva.
Not to minimize Covadonga's contribution, but the passive voice is the least of your worries as far as the whole ser/estar morass is concerned. The two chapters it gets at the end of the book run to only 9 of the book's 90 pages.
The problem with the whole ser/estar problem is that there's really no getting away from it. If you want to speak Spanish that's even remotely idiomatic, you will have to wrestle with both forms of the verb to be. How hideous you find it may vary, depending on your familiarity with other languages, many of which find even more complicated ways of expressing the state of being (Irish comes to mind).
Anyway, this is a decent little book, focusing on examples and exercise drills rather than theory. Which is exactly what this kind of book should do. It does, of course, sneak in two chapters about prepositions (para, con, sin, a, de, en, & por), but that's unavoidable, as they are essential in the formation of various modismos and expresiones especiales using ser & estar.
There's no effort to liven things up, say with humor, drawings, or any concession to decent graphic design. The approach is charmless, but efficient.
Thomas Mallon's previous book about people and their diaries ("A Book of One's Own") was extraordinary - it set the standard by which any other books Thomas Mallon's previous book about people and their diaries ("A Book of One's Own") was extraordinary - it set the standard by which any other books on the topic should be judged. It didn't seem possible for his subsequent book on plagiarism ("Stolen Words") to reach the same level of excellence, but it did.
It's perhaps not altogether surprising that this latest book didn't match the brilliance of the earlier two (if nothing else, the statistical phenomenon of regression toward the mean would be expected to take effect at some point). It's not that this is a bad book - it's just not particularly interesting. Mallon appears to have dragged out the writing over a period of 15 years, which conveys the definite impression that he just lost interest. It's unclear why he would think the reader's reaction would be any different. In fact, the lukewarm nature of his introduction (to his own book ) suggests that he knows that the book fails to reach his earlier standards.
The book's content is roughly one third direct quotation from various letters, flanked by Mallon's introduction and commentary. The 300 or so pages of text are divided into nine thematic groupings: Absence, Friendship, Advice, Complaint, Love, Spirit, Confession, War, and Prison.
In general, the book would have benefitted had Mallon opted for more extensive quotation from fewer correspondents. Many of the people from whose letters he quotes are just not all that interesting, and his bridging text does not make it adequately clear why they have been chosen for inclusion. The inevitable result is that the reader is left wishing that the witless had been sacrificed to make room for more material from those with genuine wit and insight.
I find it hard to summon up more than two stars. An infinitely better book is the collection edited by Andrew Carroll, "Letters of a Nation", published in 1997. It's interesting to note that this is the year that Mallon had targeted for initial publication of this book. He just plain missed the boat. ...more
Specifically, the reader is invited to imagine a conversation between two reviewers, both of whom live inWARNING: THIS REVIEW STOOPS TO LOW GIMMICKRY!
Specifically, the reader is invited to imagine a conversation between two reviewers, both of whom live inside my head. As will become evident, one is infinitely more crotchety than the other, possibly to the extent of bloody-mindedness. To keep guesswork to a minimum, I will alternate between regular and italic fonts.
This exploration of American English by Bill Bryson contains a wealth of entertaining anecdotal material that is unfortunately often buried in a welter of undisciplined, self-indulgent blather, expressed in breathless, eighth-grade level prose that cries out to be edited and brought under control. In considering the development of the language in the U.S., Bryson casts a wide net, with the first nine chapters covering various stages of American history from the Mayflower to the various waves of immigration that characterized the late 19th and early 20th centuries. "Casts a wide net" is a good one. To say that this book is 'about' American English is a bit like saying "A Tale of two Cities" is 'about' knitting. Subsequent chapters are organized thematically, dealing with such subjects as shopping, travel, advertising, eating, sports, the movies, sex, politics and war, and the state of American English at the time the book was written (the mid 1990s). It seems fair to say that the author's scholarship is characterized more by the breadth of his curiosity than its depth. Isn't that just another way of saying that sloppiness abounds in this dog's breakfast of a book? That seems a little harsh. Sure, his style is sometimes a bit discursive, and the author has a fondness for tangents... 'Discursive' is an understatement. Whole chunks of this book give you the feeling of being stuck in an airplane next to a garrulous midwestern drunk with an unending supply of anecdotes and no sense of pacing.
The first 17 or so sonnets in the series left me taken aback. It's right there in the first line of Sonnet #1:
1. FrSHAKESPEARE WANTS YOU TO BREED!!!!
The first 17 or so sonnets in the series left me taken aback. It's right there in the first line of Sonnet #1:
1. From fairest creatures we desire increase That thereby beauty's Rose might never die But as the riper should be time decease His tender heir might bear his memory
There's this obsession with propagating the species. This concern about breeding dominates the first 17 sonnets in the series, something I had not been aware of before.
2. ... How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use If thou couldst answer, 'This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse'
3. Look in the glass, and tell the face thou viewest Now is the time this face should form another
4. .... Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone, What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
6. .... That's for thyself to breed another thee
7. ..... So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon, Unlooked on diest, unless thou get a son.
8. ... mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Strikes each in each by mutual ordering; Resembling sire and child and happy mother, ... Sings this to thee, "Thou single will prove none".
9. ... Ah if thou issueless shalt hap to die, the world will wail thee, like a makeless wife .. No love towards others in that bosom sits That on himself such murd'rous shame commits.
10. ... Make thee another self, for love of me, that beauty still may live in thine or thee.
11. ... Let those whom nature hath not made for store, Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish. ... She carv'd thee for her seal, and mean thereby Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
Actually, as a gay man, I find that "harsh, featureless, and rude" pretty offensive. It continues:
12. ... And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
13. ... Against this coming end you should prepare, And your sweet semblance to some other give.
14. ... If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert; Or else of thee this I prognosticate: Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
17. ... But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice, in it and in my rime.
Fortunately, #18 is the glorious "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?", and from here on out it appears to be smooth sailing.
But that battery of breeder-boosting that opens this collection was a little off-putting, to say the least. It seems so dismissive of those of us who were put on earth to carry out some other purpose, somehow.
But this is neither here nor there. This book contains some of the most awesome language in the entire body of English literature. To assign it a rating seems entirely presumptuous; nothing but 5 stars seems even conceivable.
My favorite, if forced to choose, is a conventional one:
#29. When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, ... Haply I think on thee --- and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
Quite apart from the theme of the poem, how he changes mood with just that single line "like to the lark at break of day arising" astonishes me every time I read it.
This fine, darkly funny, collection by Roald Dahl contains all the stories previously published in the two volumes "Tales of the Unexpected" and "MoreThis fine, darkly funny, collection by Roald Dahl contains all the stories previously published in the two volumes "Tales of the Unexpected" and "More Tales of the Unexpected". The back cover of my edition describes it as a "superb compendium of vengeance, surprise, and dark delight" and that's as good a characterization as any I can come up with. Continuing with my shameless plagiarization of the cover blurb, it describes the recipe for a typical Dahl tale:
Take a pinch of unease. Stir in a large dollop of the macabre, add a generous helping of dark and stylish wit, and garnish with the bizarre
Again, that gives you a pretty good sense of what you will find in this terrific collection of 25 stories. Though it perhaps fails to convey just how funny they are. Not to mention well-constructed and well-written. Dahl has a particular knack for knowing just which detail to include - and just as important - knowing what to leave out. Many of the best stories in tbis book stop just on the threshold of the truly dark, because the author knows that it's far more effective to leave the details unfold and reverberate in the reader's imagination.
These tales may remind some readers of the stories of Patricia Highsmith. My sense is that they are not as dark as Highsmith's, nor meant to be, because where one feels that Highsmith's misanthropism ran through to the bone, Dahl's is worn lighter. You can almost feel him winking to the reader, as one nasty character after another meets a suitably macabre fate "it's only a yarn, chum". I suspect Dahl actually liked other people quite a bit more than Highsmith. Upon reflection, a better comparison for these tales might be the stories of Saki (H.H. Munro).
Either way, it's a hugely enjoyable, often hilarious collection, which I consider the best of Dahl's work. (I may be one of the few people on the planet who doesn't "get" Charlie and the Chocolate Factory , which I find excessively weird, both the book and - pace, Gene Wilder and Johnny Depp fans - both film versions. And some of Dahl's other work, e.g. the frankly misogynistic "My Uncle Oswald", doesn't do it for me either. Though you gotta love "Matilda", and I've never read the story on which the "Fantastic Mr Fox" movie is based).
Almost all of these stories have been adapted for TV, by directors ranging from Hitchcock to Tarantino. Even if you've seen the series "Tales of the Unexpected", the stories themselves are well worth reading. My personal favorite is probably the little old lady taxidermy story, though the one about Liszt reincarnated as a kitty has to be a close runner-up. Or "Royal Jelly". Or "Lamb to the Slaughter". or "Parson's Pleasure". But this way madness lies, because really, there's not a dud in the bunch. ...more
In its favor, this was compulsively readable, enjoyable in its way, and pretty amusing. The clever plot probably doesn't hold up under any kind of carIn its favor, this was compulsively readable, enjoyable in its way, and pretty amusing. The clever plot probably doesn't hold up under any kind of careful scrutiny, though McEwan's writing is skillful enough to paper over some of the more glaring improbabilities.
Booker prizeworthy? I'm not so sure. But then the Booker jury is more or less famous for making odd choices.
I give it three solid stars, but no more. And I think the Dutch have a right to be pissed off about McEwan's imagined denouement.
It's hard to say much more without veering into spoiler territory. An amusing trifle, skillfully executed. A bagatelle. But if you are looking for great literature, move along folks. Nothing to see here....more
OK, OK. I will be the first to admit it. This gorgeous book is a complete indulgence on my part. I'm here in Madrid, having studied my butt off for thOK, OK. I will be the first to admit it. This gorgeous book is a complete indulgence on my part. I'm here in Madrid, having studied my butt off for the last three weeks for the Cervantes Institute's big Thpanish exam, which took place yesterday and today. After the test (about which I will make no predictions, except to say I am cautiously optimistic) I hit the bookstore on the way home, and this book was my present to myself, as a reward for the last three weeks of work. (Yes, I miss my kitties, Boris and Natasha. So sue me.)
I don't use the word "gorgeous" lightly. This is a handsome book, with excellent production values (is that the phrase I'm looking for?). The conceit is slight, but charming. Paraphrasing the jacket cover:
"One day in February 1747 Horace Walpole's cat Selima fell into a large Chinese porcelain goldfish tub and drowned. Walpole was naturally upset and his close friend Thomas Gray wrote a (gently mocking) elegy to console him, ending with the famous moral lesson All that glisters is not gold . Gray's much-loved poem conferred immortality on the unfortunate Selima.
Christopher Frayling has made her fate the focus of a piece of literary research that involves Walpole, Gray, Richard Bentley, Doctor Johnson, cat-lovers Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Christopher Smart, cat-hater James Boswell, William Blake and finally Kathleen Hale (of Orlando the marmalade cat fame). All contribute to this book of charm and erudition lightly worn, that adds seriously to our appreciation of 18th century, and our understanding of people and their household animals.
With 32 illustrations, 15 in colour, by Richard Bentley (1753), William Blake (1797) and Kathleen Hale's drawings, created in 1944 and published here for the first time".
What's not to love?
I.
'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima reclined, Gazed on the lake below.
......
VII
From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived, Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters, gold.
It almost feels as if I'm abusing my "unexpectedly terrific" shelf these days, but this book, another in the Penguin "Great Ideas" series, which I disIt almost feels as if I'm abusing my "unexpectedly terrific" shelf these days, but this book, another in the Penguin "Great Ideas" series, which I discovered recently in the local foreign language bookstore here in Madrid, really does merit its place. Like all the books in the series, it is (appealingly?) short* (100 pages), but the quality of the writing more than compensates for its brevity.
Perhaps shamefully, I had never heard of John Berger before stumbling across this collection of his work. A little googling points to a fairly extensive body of work, which I look forward to exploring further. The book comprises eight essays, one poem, and a concluding vignette of the philosopher Ernst Fischer, a personal friend of the author. As the title essay suggests, most of the pieces deal with the relationship between humans and animals; they range from the gently playful "A Mouse Story" (a man, a mousetrap, and several murine protagonists), to more elegaic pieces such as "The White Bird" and "Field", both of which use the commonplace (a wooden bird carved by a peasant of the Haute Savoie, a field near the author's home) as starting point for more general rumination on aesthetics. The poem "They are the Last" is a surprisingly moving appreciation of cows. Perhaps because of the quality of the writing, each of these pieces has a low-key charm which I enjoyed thoroughly.
But the meat of the book (no pun intended) lies in the three longer essays: "Why Look at Animals?", "Ape Theatre", and "The Eaters and the Eaten", which, taken together, provide a thoughtful, unexpectedly engrossing, investigation of the relationship between humans and animals. Although Berger's purpose is undoubtedly didactic, precisely what I found appealing about these essays is the lack of any kind of preaching tone. In contrast to, say, someone like Peter Singer, whose general air of moral superiority I personally find completely offputting, and whose preachy tone diminishes the cogency of his arguments, Berger's approach is far more low-key. And because of that, more effective, at least for this reader. Whereas the extremity of some of Singer's arguments just makes me fling him aside after a while, Berger writes with a sly charm that is beguiling, with the result that I found these essays thought-provoking, and not easily dismissed.
Which, I imagine, would please the author. I did not expect to like this collection of essays nearly as much as I did. Try them for yourself - you might feel the same way.
*: I think the marketing folks at Penguin are quite smart - they know full well that a 300-page volume that advertised itself as containing "great ideas" would be a tough sell. Whereas the slim volumes that they have assembled are actually pretty appealing, even if some (Orwell's essay on "Books v Cigarettes" or on "The Decline of the English Murder", for example), though not without a certain charm, seem to stretch the definition of "great ideas" more than a little ...more
This slim collection (roughly 100 pages) of ten essays by Virgina Woolf, published as part of the "Penguin Great Ideas" series may be the best book I'This slim collection (roughly 100 pages) of ten essays by Virgina Woolf, published as part of the "Penguin Great Ideas" series may be the best book I've read in the past ten years. It's also one of the hardest to review. The explanation is straightforward - every time I try, the review just devolves into tired cliches ("shimmering prose", "scintillating wit", "a writer at the height of her powers", anyone?) or fills up with direct quotes from the work itself. Not just skimpy little quotelets either, but huge, copyright-infringing, chunks of text. Pagesfull. I want to share every genius-soaked paragraph with you, and once I start, I just can't stop.
So, how to proceed? Why not implement a little self-restraint by resorting to that tired old device of listing the individual essay titles (easy) and - for a selected few - giving a few brief comments on wherein I think their genius lies (hard).
Well, duh, the genius lies in Virginia, of course. It pains me to acknowledge that, until about 6 months ago, I had this image of VW that was pretty much completely at odds with her warmth, wit, and ability to write prose that sparkles and enchants. (I'm sorry - that sounds so ridiculously pretentiously critspeak, but it's bloody well true. I will try to avoid the words "limpid" and "limn" in this review, if that's any consolation). How could I have been so wrong - she's smart as a whip, she's funny, and writes as if taking dictation from on high. Boy, can this woman write. I really, really, really hope that you will beg, borrow, or steal this collection to experience it for yourself.
So what does she write about here?
1. Thoughts on Peace in an Air Raid. 2. Street Haunting. 3. Oxford Street Tide. 4. Craftsmanship. 5. The Art of Biography. 6. How it Strikes a Contemporary. 7. Why? 8. The Patron and the Crocus. 9. Modern Fiction. 10. How Should One Read a Book?
Each of the 9 essays I've read so far has blown me away, either because it contains one or more flashes of pure insight, or because of the incomparable quality of the writing, and - in most cases - some combination of the two. In six pages, the title essay contains some of the sanest observations about war in anything I've read outside of Orwell. The second two essays capture the quotidian pleasures of walking the streets of London with a wit and perspicacity that leaves me slack-jawed in admiration. Essay #4, one of my favorites (together with the final essay, which is simply perfect) is a spellbinding discourse on the slippery charm of words. Essays 6, 8, and 9 contain some of the most cogent remarks about writing that I have ever read. #7 is a hilarious takedown of those who would write or lecture about literature. But it's the final essay in this book that raises the whole collection to my top 5 books of all time list (there's going to be some ugly rearranging that will have to take place on my "top 20" shelf, and a difficult choice lies ahead).
"How Should One Read a Book?" is where my self-discipline breaks down. This is an essay that demands to be quoted from. In whole chunks. With difficulty, I will confine myself to three:
The only advice, indeed, that one person can give another about reading is to take no advice, to follow your own instincts, to use your own reason, to come to your own conclusions. ... To admit authorities, however heavily furred and gowned, into our libraries and let them tell us how to read, what to read, what value to place upon what we read, is to destroy the spirit of freedom which is the breath of those sanctuaries. Everywhere else we may be bound by laws and conventions - there we have none.
In your face, Harold Bloom!
Perhaps the quickest way to understand the elements of what a novelist is doing is not to read, but to write; to make your own experiment with the dangers and difficulties of words.
I have sometimes dreamt, at least, that when the Day of Judgment dawns ... the Almighty will turn to Peter and will say, not without a certain envy, as He sees us coming with our books under our arms: "Look, these need no reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved reading."
By the time the title essay of this collection was published, Virgina Woolf had already filled her pockets with stones and walked into the river Ouse. I find her suicide enormously saddening, particularly given the brilliance of these essays. Subsequent deaths, such as those of Sylvia Plath and David Foster Wallace, suggests that such brilliance comes at a price.
But the work lives on. You have to read these essays! They are astonishing, in the best possible way....more
So at various stages in the mid-70's Sir Vidia took it upon himself to visit Argentina. Almost half this book is given over to his impressions of the So at various stages in the mid-70's Sir Vidia took it upon himself to visit Argentina. Almost half this book is given over to his impressions of the country during the second phase of Peronism, and the aftermath, during the beginning of the military dictatorship that followed. (Other essays in the book deal with post-colonialism in Trinidad and Zaire, with a brief meditation on Conrad's "Heart of Darkness").
It's not that I can find factual fault with anything that Sir V writes about Argentina. It's just that it all seems so ... mean-spirited ... In particular, his characterization of Borges (who was his host on at least more than one occasion) smacks of biting the hand that fed him.
The main essay does give one a fairly jaundiced, but probably fairly accurate, view of the unique political situation in Argentina as it was in the mid-70's. However, several times while I read it, the words "cheap shot' crossed my mind. It may leave you, as it did me, with a distinctly bad taste in your mouth. The overarching impression one retains has less to do with the unfortunate Argentines and much more to do with thinking that Sir Vidia, for all his brilliance was definitely NOT A NICE HUMAN BEING.
I suspect that I am not the first to make this particular observation. Whether or not you feel it is relevant is entirely up to you....more
This year's volume confirms the status of this collection as my perennial favorite in the whole "Best American" series of anthologies. Whatever you miThis year's volume confirms the status of this collection as my perennial favorite in the whole "Best American" series of anthologies. Whatever you might think of Dave Eggers, he redeems himself on an annual basis with this collection (this year, IMO, he has doubly redeemed himself, with the publication of the extraordinary "Zeitoun", but that's material for a whole 'nother post).
This collection is hard to sum up in a single sentence - one might think of it as an edgier - and more entertaining - version of the "Best American Essays". But a far better collection, because Eggers (and this year's guest editor, Marjane Satrapi) are savvy enough to cast a far broader net. So, for instance, in addition to standbys like "best craigslist ads", "best police blotter items", "best kids' letters to Obama", "best book titles published in 2008 (Baboon Metaphysics? Excrement in the late Middle Ages? anyone?), "best poem titles of 2008" (A Plea for the Cessation of Fruit Metaphors, I need more Cowbell, What your Dad's Underpants have to do with Space Travel, If my Life were a Radio, lately I would Prefer another Station, Why not Oysters?...), there are such fine contributions as Phillip Connors's "diary of a Fire Lookout", Anne Gisleson's "Your exhausted Heart" (about the Saturn Bar in new Orleans), Denis Johnson's "Boomtown Iraq", Jonathan Franzen's tribute to david Foster Wallace, excellent pieces by Rivka Galchen, Rebekah Bliss, Eula Biss, and Susan Breen.
This partial list doesn't include the three or four charming picture essays, nor the five or six other equally good pieces by authors like Nick Flynn, David Grann and Amelia Kahaney.
I can do no better than to paraphrase what I wrote about the 2008 volume - this is writing that informs me about stuff that I would otherwise not encounter, brilliantly executed by authors whose worldview extends - praise the lord - beyond their own navels. Like a bunch of exotically flavored Dove bars - unfamiliar at first, but reliably delicious. material that takes you outside of your comfort zone, in the best possible way.
4.5 stars, which I think deserve to be rounded up to 5, because the percentage of dross in this collection is very low indeed. As always, if you find yourself in the bookstore, faced with the entire gamut of the "best American XXX 2009" series, and you have only $14 to spend, there's no question about it - this is the one you should pick.
I don't know what it is we have against Dave Eggers anyway. With this series alone, he has surely exonerated himself from any residual blame that might result from the youthful indiscretion that was - well, you know the one I'm talking about. That staggering book .... ...more
Addendum to original review, explaining why I have downgraded this to two stars - (italicized material below):
My second criticism is probably more a Addendum to original review, explaining why I have downgraded this to two stars - (italicized material below):
My second criticism is probably more a reflection of my personal taste, and may not be shared by other readers. But I felt that Mary Oliver's background as a poet shone through, with the result that many of the pieces had a kind of "writerly" quality that might appeal to other writers, but was a bit precious for a general reader like me. This was particularly true of pieces like Chris Arthur's "(En)trance", Patricia Hampl's "The Dark Art of Description", Brian Doyle's "The Greatest nature Essay Ever", Cynthia Ozick's "Ghost writers", John Updike's "The Writer in Winter", any of which might be of interest to someone attending a writer's workshop, but none of which seemed to me to hold much interest for a general reader.
And, of course, it didn't help my evaluation that one of the longest pieces in the collection is by Richard Rodriguez, a writer whose self-indulgent posturing and whining gets on my last nerve. In a slim collection that doesn't even exceed 200 pages, the 21 pages devoted to his contribution "the God of the Desert" could surely have been put to better use.
Not to end on too sour a note, honorable mention is surely due to;
Sue Allison's "Taking a Reading" Jill Mc Corkle's "Cuss Time" David James Duncan's soaring "Cherish this Ecstasy" and Kathryn Miles's wonderful "Dog is our Copilot"
But these amount to no more than 25 pages of 190, or - if you prefer - 4 essays out of 22. a disappointing batting average.
original review starts below:
Definitely an improvement over last year's woeful selection (courtesy of pretentious assmarmot Adam Gopnik), this year's pretty slim collection still doesn't manage to rise above 3 stars. truth be told, it's a solid 2.5 star effort, but I'm willing to round up solely on the basis of Jill McCorkle's delightful "Cuss Time".
What to say? Well, this year's editor is a poet, so that shines through in many of the essays. A lot of writerly writing, if that floats your boat (personally I found many of the pieces more than a little precious). My other criticism, which seems to be a recurring one for this particular collection, is that you, the reader, may not find the navel-gazing of many of the contributors nearly as interesting as they evidently find it.
But if *the travails of Michael Lewis living in a mansion beyond his means, *a ten-page account of Garret Lewis's ongoing fight with deer in his backyard, *10 pages about the personal health and fainting history of someone called James Marcus, (each of the above delivered in prose that is at best adequate, and with no apparent irony) is the kind of thing that fascinates you, you may well enjoy this particular selection.
Personally, I am beginning to think that this particular volume in the "Best American" series is about ready to be put on the chopping block.
Back down to two stars - the dross really outweighs the few decent contributions yet again.
I'm confused. All the educational programs I see on my local public TV channel about the brain, or aging, or the aging brain (oh, boomer generation, yI'm confused. All the educational programs I see on my local public TV channel about the brain, or aging, or the aging brain (oh, boomer generation, you have a lot to answer for!), are unanimous: one of the few consolations of the whole built-in obsolescence that lies ahead is that our judgement should improve with age.
Apparently not in every case. Last year, the onset of late middle age spooked the normally sensible Julian Barnes into publishing the eructation of fatuously narcissistic bloviation titled (quite inaccurately) "Nothing to be Afraid Of". And now, one of my favorite British authors, the eminently sane David Lodge, comes out with this unfortunate book. Though it comes nowhere close to matching the self-important narcissism of Barnes's mistake, it is nevertheless a regrettable lapse of judgement from an author who is smart enough to know better.
I'm sure we can all empathize, Professor Lodge - it must have been a real bummer when you submitted the final manuscript of your Henry James book "Author, Author" only to learn that another author had just finished a similar book, scheduled to be published six months ahead of yours. Particularly when the competition was the ultra-talented Colm Toibin. You have every right to feel bad. But you really didn't need to write a book about it. No matter what you write, it will be perceived as whining. Believe me, nobody else cares about this as much as you do. And the more you write, the less the reader cares. This is how one alienates one's fanbase. Next time, consider the dignified silence option.
To be fair, only 100 pages of the book are given over to snivelling about being beaten to the punch by Colm Toibin and, objectively speaking, Professor Lodge doesn't actually snivel - it just seems that way. But after ploughing through those 100 pages, the reader is unlikely to be favorably disposed towards the remaining essays (on works by H.G. Wells, Graham Greene, George Eliot among others). I found the remarks on Nabokov's "Pnin" and on writers who influenced Graham Greene interesting - the other essays were readable, if a little dull; Professor Lodge's apparent awe for Umberto Eco renders that essay a little mushy.
There is no real reason for anyone outside of Professor Lodge's immediate family to read this book....more
Not completely dreadful, but not particularly worthwhile either. The characters that form the tawdry little love triangle at the center of this story Not completely dreadful, but not particularly worthwhile either. The characters that form the tawdry little love triangle at the center of this story are malevolent narcissists. Nick Laird writes well enough to keep one reading, but ultimately it's hard to care much about the poseurs in this book. Other reviewers have praised the deftness of Laird's satire - it seemed fairly heavy-handed to me.
Although this particular story seemed like a miss to me, Laird did strike me as being smart and talented, so I am interested in reading more of his work. ...more
This was compulsively readable, yet oddly unsatisfying. Like many readers, I find Lorrie Moore's short stories excellent, so it may be that this book This was compulsively readable, yet oddly unsatisfying. Like many readers, I find Lorrie Moore's short stories excellent, so it may be that this book suffered from the high expectations with which I approached it.
The story just didn't seem to warrant a full-length treatment as a novel - the characters, other than the narrator, were oddly two-dimensional. Actually, make that "including the narrator". Which is probably what sinks the book in the end, because the whole novel is written, to a claustrophobic extent, from the point of view of its coming-of-age college freshman main protagonist, Tassie. Moore tries hard to convey Tassie's confusion and alienation, and also seems to want to make some serious commentary about life in post 9/11 America, but somehow the whole thing never gels successfully. As other reviewers have pointed out, many of the plot elements - in particular, Tassie's relative isolation - don't ring true. I also found the adoption subplot overwrought - ultimately the whole story just sank under the weight of its own good intentions.
Given that Moore is the author, the book is well-written, but the exaggerated detachment of the narrator, and the failure of the various plot strands to add up to a coherent whole, made the novel an ambitious failure, in my opinion.
So, a bit of a letdown, from an author whose previous collections of short stories I enjoyed far more....more
So far, this is an extraordinary book. It seems unimaginable that someone could write about their experience of being tortured for their political belSo far, this is an extraordinary book. It seems unimaginable that someone could write about their experience of being tortured for their political beliefs during the Pinochet regime in a way that is side-splittingly funny, but Sepulveda pulls it off....more
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