Books


Books Bought

Books Read

McSweeney’s 39 Cormac McCarthy The Crossing
Grantland 1 Scott Westerfeld Goliath
N+1 Occupy: Scenes From Occupied America Paul Hendrickson Hemingway’s Boat
Paul Hendrickson Hemingway’s Boat James Dashner The Death Cure

 

People have been telling me for years to read McCarthy. He’s similar enough to Hemingway. Short sentences full of silence and anxiety. An overriding sense of despair that the reader cannot shake. I cannot shake it. I’ve even returned to some Henry Miller as an antidote and it helps some. How does the average Barnes & Noble bottom-feeder shake it?

Not as pretty as Blood Meridian or All The Pretty Horses but it packs a wallop. I was going to attach some of my favorite quotations from the book, but why bother. It’s all nonsense, and yet that is McCarthy’s brilliance. He makes the desolate seem inviting. He’s what Ralph Lauren once had, an affection for the simplicity of the Western.

It’s been a drunk month. It has also been a productive month for writing, but mainly it’s about the drunkenness as that is what most directly trades off with my reading time at the end of the night.

It could also be that I have been reading some heady stuff and I move slowly as a reader, but when given the heady stuff I’m molasses. Sometimes a break is needed and that is what Scott Westerfeld offers. Goliath is third in a series about an alternate account of World War I. These books are written for high school students. There is innocent running-through-daisies kind of boy/girl action. There is some fighting and ultimately there is suspense. It’s odd but the books are really well done. If you are a fan of steampunk, then they are definitely worth a read.

The books use not only steampunk as a vehicle to change history, but it also employs genetic engineering. Imagine if Europe was split into the west as Darwinists who genetically engineer creatures into fantastic beasts of burden, all kinds of burden. And eastern Europe who uses steampunk technology to labor. Now put them against each other in World War I and it’s an interesting premise that Westerfeld’s writing ability adds to.

Break achieved it was back to Hendrickson. To claim this was a bio of Hemingway is inaccurate. I bought it thinking it was precisely that. I read it. Even until the last page I was wondering when it would return to Hemingway. It didn’t, but I wasn’t disappointed. It’s a worthy book in the Hemingway cannon regardless. Let’s qualify it. Instead of a biography it’s a book about how Hemingway broke people and a slight investigation into why he may have done so, especially his son Gigi. Yea, I like that description. For Hemingway fans that will read anything despite the dread of plodding through another bio, this is a change of pace, a breath of fresh air. It’s also a good account of how not to live and how to write.

Another break was needed so I returned to the YA lit field. The final Maze Runner book has been out even though it escaped my attention. The Death Cure was an okay read. Now that I have completed the trilogy I wish I had not started it. The first book was fantastic, but it is impossible to read it and not continue the series. The final book throws out the most basic ethical scenario: lifeboat ethics. Thankfully Dashner does not arrive at a correct answer. But the book is boring and pedantic. Part of my problem is not reading the books consecutively. If I could do it over I would take a week and just read the three back to back and I suspect I would have enjoyed it more. There were too many developments and characters in the first two books that I had forgotten by the time I opened the third. C’est la vie.

 

I hate to admit that I would have never picked up this book at a store. It’s published by the New York Review Books, which is a small publisher and I only see some of their titles in certain pretentious bookstores. Like Verso Books, I love NYRB’s aesthetics, so I joined their book club.

Fatale is a small book, which suited me just fine. I was about to finish A Visit from the Goon Squad (another book I did love, and has won the Pullitzer and the better prize The Tournament of Books) and about to begin Infinite Jest, but I was also about to go to NYC for a weekend and IJ doesn’t travel well. Fatale fit nicely. It’s a crime book written by a mystery writer. It’s also a polemic on capitalism. The woman who does all the killing targets only the monied.

She arrives in a new town only to be greeted by signs everywhere to CLEAN UP YOUR TOWN. So she sets about to do precisely that. There are some arcs that were underdeveloped. There were also some characters that needed more heft to them. The writing is, however, tight. Aimee, the heroine(?), remains entirely consistent in her solitary living. I’d say more, but in case you do pick it up soem will be spoiled. The book is, after all, not quite 100 pages long.

“As I watched Yevgeny’s bout this evening,” Moseh continued, “it came to me that said market is a sort if Invisible Hand that grips us all by the testicles –”

“Hold, hold! Are you babbling soem manner of Cabbalistic superstition now?”

“No, Jack, now I am using a similitude.  For there is no Invisible Hand–but there might as well be.” (25)

Maybe this passage helps sum up why I love Neal Stephenson as much as I do.  Many of his books are not so verbose, but given the timing of this trilogy it all works.  The main reason is because of the subtext.  Each passage has a different subtext.  Stephenson also plays with the sub of subtext.  The passage above is about the ransom markets of the Barbary Pirates and a fight, but the real meaning is about Adam Smith.

videlicet – that is to say; namely (used especially to introduce examples, details)

Everyone imagines that, simply because I own the Biggest Pencil in the World, that my ticket is punched, my affairs settled once and for all… but I tell you, Brother Daniel, that it has been nothing but troubles… if it is a sin to lust after worldly goods, videlicet a horse or a door-knocker, then what have I got myself into now? (Stephenson 2003, 740)

This quotation illustrates why I like Neal Stephenson so much.  Brother Daniel is Daniel Waterhouse, a friend of Isaac Newton’s and a member, hence Brother, of the royal society for science (I forget the actual name of the group and the book is in storage; this is a book I need to keep on the perennial bookshelf I never put into storage).

It’s a deep passage.  It’s also a funny one, although some of the humor of Biggest Pencil is lost when I pull the sentence out of the book.  Trust me, it’s funny.  And my friend Eli, who is much smarter than I am, also finds it funny and erudite.

Notice the page number.  740.  It is a large book and for some reason I love large books.  I especially love large books in series.  Last summer I did Robinson’s Mars trilogy.  It took me about 5 months, but I am a richer person for it.  I need to finish the Baroque Cycle, of which Quicksilver is only the first.

Stephenson, Neal.  (2003).  Quicksilver.  NY: Harper Perennial.

Brandon, John.  (2010).  Citrus county.  San Fransisco: McSweeney’s Rectangulars.

Gordimer, Nadine.  (1982).  Six feet of country. NY: Penguin Books.

Hartwell, David G., ed.  (1989).  The world treasury of science fiction. NY: Little, Brown and Company.

Haug, Frigga.  (1992).  Beyond female masochism. London: Verso Books.

McQuade, Donald and Christine McQuade.  (2006).  Seeing and writing 3.  NY: Bedford/St. Martins.

McSherry, Jr., Frank D., Charles G. Waugh, and Martin H. Greenburg, eds.  (1991).  Great American ghost stories. Nashville: Rutledge Hill Press.

I’m not sure I want to do this anymore.  My reading has taken a hit.  I think it’s because I have strayed from the ground I enjoy.  Exploring is great, but there’s a reason why some of the explored territory is so poorly travelled.  Palahniuk did become tiresome, but I think I am ready to return.  Chabon never became tiresome.  Instead he became established.  I am ready to return to the safety of popular opinion.  Chabon’s popularity is no marketing ploy, unlike The Last - sooooo effing bad - Airbender, his stories are just legitimately good.  In any case, I am disappointed with my June readings and to keep things going I will return to established safe ground.  It is July, and I am clamoring for fireworks.  It is, after all, July.

Too funny, if only because it is so true…

When Mr. Hibma pulled into the lot, he saw a fleet of cars adorned with Citrus Middle School parking stickers.  He stepped around a bush and peeked in a window.  Librarians.  They’d bunched the tables together.  Assistants.  Even volunteers.  There were maybe nine of them, sipping determinedly at pink wine.  Mr. Hibma knew when he was beat.  He leaned against his car, face upturned toward the sky, racking his brain for something else to do, some other way to salvage the night.  (121)

It’s an okay book.  It’s about two disaffected youths and one of their teachers, Mr. Hibma, who identifies with them.  What’s with this new trend of literature capturing the weirdoes and their weird ways and acting as if they are all special and different just because they don’t behave normally.  It smacks of melodrama, the writer proclaiming her yawp so others see how special she is.  I’m just as guilty as the next person (ok, more than the average person) but why do we as a culture now buy into this stuff?  I still like heroes and the average guy acting like a fool in the face of danger.

Brandon, John.  (2010).  Citrus County.  San Francisco: McSweeney’s Rectangulars.

This is the first book in The Rumpus’ Book Club.  I guess I will be sharing my thoughts as I make my way through it.  The back blurb:

There shouldn’t be a Citrus County.  Teenage romance should be difficult, but not this difficult.  Boys like Toby should cause trouble but not this much.  The moon should glow gently over children safe in their beds.  Uncles in their rockers should be kind.  Teachers should guide and inspire.  Manatees should laze and palm trees sway and snakes keep to their shady spots under the azelea thickets.  The air shouldn’t smell like a swamp.  The stars should twinkle.  Shelby should be her own hero, the first hero of Citrus County.  She should rescue her sister from underground, rescue Toby from his life.  Her destiny should be a hero’s destiny.

This blurb does not excite me.  There is too much nature.  There is too much heroism.  There is too much sentimentality.  Which is why I am excited.  Given the types of books produced by McSweeney’s and the sensibilities of The Rumpus folk, I suspect the book will flip on all of my impressions of the blurb.  As if a blurb for Californication had been

The story of a writer whose taste of success ruined his ability to create.  His career plummets and his relationships tumble.  The show follows the widening gyre of his life in LA.

Something like that.   The book’s design is not appealing either.  The cover is only shades of green.  Trees are intimated all around and in the distance is a small greenhouse with a boy, darkened in green shadows, trying to peer inside.  This is most definitely not a book I’d pick up at a bookstore.  215 pages is not at all daunting.  The typeset renders the 215 to about 170 normally set pages.  The paper is odd though, thick and slick.  I worry about the ability of my pen to mark it up without smudging, can’t see the words for the smudges.  Something like that.

Beghtol, LD.  (2006).  69 Love Songs. NY: Continuum.

Bowden, Mark, ed.  (2007).  The best American crime writing, 2006.  NY: Houghton Mifflin.

Bunyan, John.  (1678).  The Pilgrim’s Progress. NY: Penguin Classics.

Eagleton, Terry.  (1983).  Literary theory.  Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Kois, Dan.  (2010).  Facing Future.  NY: continuum.

Sisario, Ben.  (2006).  Doolittle.  NY: continuum.

Stegner, Wallace.  (1950).  Joe Hill: A biographical novel. NY: Penguin Books.

Terry, Randall A.  (2008).  A humble plea: To bishops, clergy and laymen: Ending the abortion holocaust. Washginton, D.C.: Insurrecta Nex.

The Rumpus book club.

Vida, Vendela, ed.  (2007).  The Believer book of writers talking to writers. San Fransisco: Believer Books.

I am a sucker for the 33 1/3 series.  Each book is about a famous album and as far as I have been exposed each book is great.  Sisario writes about the famous album full of body counts by The Pixies, one of my favorite bands ever.  Kois writes about that song, a staple to weddings and Rom-Coms: Israel Kamakawiwo’s medley of “Over the Rainbow” and “What a Wonderful World”.  I bought them new becuase the books are so hard to find.  Even more difficult to find at a used book store.  In fact, it is this very series that has me contemplating the switch to an ereader.  I can have nearly any book, nearly instantaneously and for less than the cost of an actual book.  I also resent the amount of stuff I own, and an ereader can help cut it.  But, of anything to have as clutter, I do think books are acceptable.  Note the large libraries of smart people whom I respect.  Admittedly they are from a different time.  The library is an anachronism I cannot shake.  Reminds me of the scene in Good Will Hunting (Gus Van Sant: Finding Forrester) , when Will (Matt Damon: Ocean’s Eleven)is scrutinizing the library of Sean Maguire (Robin Williams: Jumanji).

At the end of April I was in a wedding in Charlotte, and it was easily the best wedding I have ever been to.  I was in one the next weekend and that wedding was ruined by the Charlotte one.  Of course, the Indian (dot, not feather) colors and traditins helped to spoil it, but the dancing and the music is what put it over the top.  Notably, the Kamakawiwo song was not played.  The occasional Indian pop music helped, but it was the absence of the traditional that was really telling.

Am I spendng enough to justify a B&N membership?  I don’t think so.  But, I am unsure enough that I should begin tracking.  Of course, then I will become aware of the horror that is the amount I spend at B&N.  Ugh, to save or to live in blissful ignorance?

One of the few magazines I read dutifully, even though I subscribe dutifully to many more, is The Believer.  I think Tin House might better suit my interests, but The Believer carries a monthly column by Greil Marcus.  In any case, the reason Tin House might be a better match than The Believer is because of its focus on writing.  This book by Believer Books seems to cater specifically to me.  Even though I read these interviews in their initial publications.  But they are great to revisit, not only because I forget things but because they are the epitome of how a rereading is a different reading altogether.  And… The Believer is where I first discovered the Nick Hornby series I have modelled this post after.

Wallace Stegner is a stud.  Good writer too.  Joe Hill was an important labor organizer.  Stud too.  All of this despite my IWW affiliations.

The Beghtol books is another in the 33 1/3 series.  This time the album is 69 Love Songs by The Magnetic Fields.  Ursa raved about this album.  The critics at Slate’s Cultural Gabfest rave about it.  I hear people on the street talk about in intimate terms unfamiliar to an album.  It’s a great album.  Here’s hoping this book serves it well.

John Bunyan.  I thought I was going to read about Minnesota and how its lakes were made.  Was Mille Lacs made by Babe’s hoof or by Paul Bunyan scooping it out with a spoon.  But… John Bunyan is not Paul Bunyan.  Sadly.  It’s an old, important, and oft-cited book.  I’ve never read it.  It was only $2.  It’ll look good on my shelf.  Which is the reason, I am ashamed to admit, that I have not yet bought an ereader.

My addictions are not just for Verso books and 33 1/3 books.  I also love The Best American [Crime, Science, Mystery, etc...] Writing series.  Bowden’s Black Hawk Down was so magnificent that this entry into the series has to be good.

Terry.  I found it on an airplane.  Sometimes I need a good laugh.  Sometimes I need to inflict some pain.  Most of all, I am curious about theology.  I am also curious about hearing the other side’s argument.

Terry Eagleton’s book has constantly been on my list of books I need.  I need to read it because of its importance.  I also need it to hunt down footnotes.  This was one of the books that was leading the charge for an ereader, so I could constantly have it on my person.  I folded.   The anniversary edition is just too damned pretty.  And I have so much time on my hands right now that I am delusional, thinking I can actually make it through this.  Through all of these books actually, this has probably been my most active month of book acquisition.  And I am moving.  I don’t have the space for all the books.  Sigh.

She [the Minerva] floats only because boys mind her pumps all the time, she remains upright and intact only because highly intelligent men never stop watching the sky and the seas around her.  Every line and sail decays with visible speed, like snow in daylight, and men must work ceaselessly worming, parceling, serving, tarring, and splicing her infinite network of hempen lines in order to prevent her from falling apart in mid-ocean with what Daniel imagines would be explosive suddenness.  (Stephenson 2002, 217)

That’s a marvelous passage and needed applause.  Only one adverb to detract from its beauty.  Few adjectives.  Plenty of descriptive verbs.  It also acknowledges the infinite struggle against nature for technological stasis.  More importantly, it does not chalk up the struggle to labor, but highlights the labor intensiveness of the struggle.

I am reminded recently of a talk by Alan Weisman, author of The world without us, where he remarked about the popularity of his book among conservative talk shows.  He had anticipated being lumped into the tree-hugging environmentalist camps, but was instead surprised that the conservatives glommed onto his praise of the common laborers.  The book does, after all, read like the show Dirty Jobs would.  Not that Stephenson has never been suspected of not being a friend to labor.  But why is labor friendly to the conservatives?  A question I have yet to find a satisfactory answer for.  False ideology, sure.  But how does it work?

What is also interesting about Quicksilver is that much of the beginning is set aboard the Minerva.  At the same time I started this tome I also started and finished another book which involves the Minerva. Only a few chapters of Linebaugh and Rediker’s The many-headed hydra were assigned, but I had to read the whole thing.  It is about the role of sailors, slaves and commoners in the revolutionary Atlantic.  Tracing labor through the major struggles, it was a fascinating read.  Its dovetails with Quicksilver were too odd.  Nearly sublime.

While I am speaking of sublimity, I am really excited about the latest book I just started reading to-day: Massumi’s Parables for the virtual. All four of these writers are extremely gifted and I have no doubt that had their interests changed any, had their body-sites been repositioned slightly on the grids of identity, then they all could have been best of friends.  Or competitors.

This clearly was not labelled as a post about reading and yet I can do nothing but think about what a strange confluence these three books have created for me.  Especially in such a short period of time.  I know I will be speaking more about the Massumi book as I already have some ideas to knock around before I take them to the faculty.

And…notice the comment Stephenson makes about the snow melting in the sunlight?  I have never really seen it at work until to-day.  The past few days were spent in delirious moments of waking between naps as I slept off illness.  Watching the icicles dissolve was fascinating.  But seeing the snow on the ground recede to the shade line was doubly amazing to-day as I trounced around the city celebrating the new warmth. It was a good day to be alive and in Minneapolis.

Linebaugh, Peter & Marcus Rediker.  (2000).  The many-headed hydra: Sailor, slaves, commoners, and the hidden history of the revolutionary Atlantic. Boston: Beacon Press.

Massumi, Brian.  (2002).  Parables of the virtual: Movement, affect, sensation. Durham, NC: Duke UP.

Stephenson, Neal.  (2003).  Quicksilver. NY: Harper Perennial.

A marvelous sentence that needs to be shared.  A review of Houllebecq’s HP Lovecraft biography contains this marvelous insight:

It doesn’t take a Freud to recognize that a man who writes constantly about decay, pestilence, and a fishy-smelling menace continually emerging from the sea has more than a little sex on his brain, and a lifetime of insisting otherwise is a terror that begs unpacking.

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