Category Archives: Lit–General

Middlesex: Overview

Posted on by Amanda

CaptureBy way of introduction, I’ll say this: the first thing I did upon finishing Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex was buy another book by Jeffrey Eugenides. I mean, the instant I closed the book, that was the very next thing I did.

Tl;Dr Synopsis

An intersex male-identifying protagonist describes a family history from his grandparents up to the present, featuring his current life events.

Wow, I can’t believe that long, winding, beautiful book can be summed up in a single sentence.

Writing Style

Eugenides is funny and easy to read. Yet there’s a literary voice and knowledge of device that differentiates his book from a comedian’s journal. He combines the ancient with the modern (which, incidentally, is a huge theme in the book) by using turns of phrase found in the literature of Greek antiquity to describe his story. And his writing packs a punch right from the beginning. He starts with “I was born twice.” (What!? So good!)

Here’s the introductory sentence in its entirety:

“I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day of January 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974.

Now this is the way to start a book.

Eugenides had something going on in Middlesex that I at first wanted to call a giant hole in his writing abilities, and that was the treatment of a first-person perspective as omniscient. If you can’t quite recall all the terms from your junior high reading courses, that just means that he was writing as an “I” but saying things an “I” couldn’t possibly know–what other characters were thinking, exact conversations that were had while he was in the womb. But he addressed this in the most interesting way. He portrayed himself as actually being the mutation lying dormant in the bodies that came before him, allowing him to be present at all previous events through ancestors. This suits the novel so well, since so much identity comes to him through not just his Greek heritage and family values, but also the gene that makes him who he is.

–And now, a quick break for who he is–

Here’s a quick rundown of the non-cis-gender identities, as best I know. (This was probably the best source I found.) I needed a primer, so maybe you do, too. Please, anyone, correct me if you find these to be wrong, and I’ll update.

Transgender–Umbrella term for those who don’t feel the gender identity assigned to them at birth reflects who they really are. (See Caitlyn Jenner, or better yet, read the awesome letter from Lilly Wachowski of The Matrix fame)

Transsexual–sometimes used to describe a transgender person that has chosen to make biological changes via hormone therapy or surgery. The term is becoming passe and is, frankly, a little personally invasive.

Transvestite–Ye olde term for a transgender person that meant “cross-dresser”: considered offensive today.

Intersex–Formerly “hermaphrodite” (a etymologically misleading word not really used anymore), this means that a person was born with ambiguous anatomy. Cal from Middlesex is intersex. When born, he appeared to his half-blind doctor to fully female and was raised as such. A closer look would have shown some anatomy to be atypical, and he carried an XY chromosome pair–the set used to classify humans as male.  See here for more detail, or just read the book. The narrator is very open about what’s going on.

Note: none of these things have anything to do with what gender an individual is attracted to. That’s something else entirely.

–End break–

Another thing that really makes the writing in this engaging is that the author communicates so well about things that not many people understand. The description of Cal growing up and trying to understand bodies and attraction and identity brings to life a kind of struggle many people could never imagine. I couldn’t.

Eugenides also puts within reach the kind of things that happen slowly and are therefore hard to pinpoint: the development of superstition, the attitudes toward race, the slow decay of love. I feel like I look around at the people around me sometimes and think, “How did you even get to this place?” But after reading Middlesex, I don’t know…it’s just seems easier to understand things that happen even around me, outside of the book’s scope. 

Characters

Cal is a beautiful, empathetic narrator. He’s the perfect person to tell the story of the family. He does so with such humor and compassion, and you never quite forget that it’s him talking, but he never takes you out of the story. Cal himself builds up to his own life–he doesn’t become a major part of the action until the end–but you feel very much as if it’s him telling you a story the whole way through.

Desdemona and Lefty are fleshed out characters that live full lives, though their marriage is kind of sad and their stories are a bit tragic. I don’t know that either is exactly likable, but you feel like you know them and their struggles, especially Desdemona’s old world superstition and Lefty’s pull away from Desdemona and toward the excitements he remembers from youth.

Cal’s parents are less remarkable. Their courtship is, well, interesting. But neither character really seems developed. The mother is especially unmemorable, and if it weren’t for Milton’s notable racism, he wouldn’t stand out, either. The section that focuses on them is the lowlight of the book.

Highlights

The magic of this book is that it deals with so many issues at once without becoming lecture soup. I mean, gender identity, immigration, Greek culture, family dynamics, racism, religion, war, incest–it’s all covered. But none of it is sermonizing. It’s all just part of the story.

My favorite two parts were near the beginning, with Lefty and Desdemona growing up, and near the end, when Callie spends her days with who she calls “the object.” Both parts left me enraptured. The middle of the book is a little bloaty, but nothing that didn’t stop me from going straight for the next book. (I picked up the Virgin Suicides, which is so far wonderfully written but lacks the humor of Middlesex.)

Who Should Read the Book

This is hard. I want to say everyone will like it, but that’s probably naive of me. If you like coming-of-age stories or stories about families, this will probably tickle you. If you like feeling like someone you know is telling you a story when you read a book, this may be up your alley. But if you like fast-moving, action heavy plots, this isn’t probably your speed. It’s long and, at times, slow going.

You will probably know whether or not you like the book in the first few pages. The writing style is clearly established early on, and the type of characters you’ll meet are met quickly.

FWIW (My Opinion)

This was a very bright spot in my Pulitzer journey. I loved the whole experience of reading Middlesex. It’s pretty clear to me that this won the Pulitzer because of its treatment of social issues (being born different, issues of prejudice), it doesn’t hurt that the writing is fantastically entertaining and entirely pleasing.

Gilead and the Hidden Sparklies

Posted on by Amanda

2005’s Pulitzer winner is Gilead, a novel from an author named Marilynne Robinson. Well, it’s more a letter than a novel. A old preacher knows he’s dying, and he’s begun to write to his young son. This book is his letter. A long, long letter.

This letter is filled with thoughts about life and sermons and writing and staying up late and the way water glistens in trees and how language isn’t really sufficient to describe the world. It’s sweet. Introspective. Solemn. The narrator is sad, but he finds such childlike wonder in the world around him. It should be a very nice book, very nice indeed. It’s like a muddy, lazy current running slowly over rocks, and if you’re patient and pan through all the modest, simple prose, you’ll find gold in your pan.

I love to see what it is that works about writing and what doesn’t, and I’ve usually got it down. But this one has utterly turned my head. If someone described it to me, I’d know instantly: Gilead is exactly the kind of novel I would love and everyone else would hate. It’s quiet, thoughtful, deep prodding. It’s full of inner life and psychology, and plot takes a backseat to character. This should be my book. This should be the book that I look at and say “It’s heartbreaking art, beautiful art, and no one will like it but me, and that’s okay.”

The exact opposite has happened. What is the holy alternate universe is going on?

I’ve been reading this one since January, and it’s just been a slog. I don’t care about what’s on the next page, and I never want to pick it up.  I finally said, “Okay, litero-universe. Redeem this book.” And redeem it did.

I looked up the New York Times book review.

Robinson’s words have a spiritual force that’s rare in contemporary fiction…’grace as a sort of ecstatic fire that takes things down to essentials.’

And

Gradually, Robinson’s novel teaches us how we might slow down to walk at its own processional pace, and how we might learn to coddle its many fine details.

Well, that makes me want to keep going.

Okay. On to Slate.

It is as spare, and as spiritual, a novel as I think I have ever encountered. Yet reading it is enough to inspire missionary fervor: You must read this book…What Robinson has written is, in fact, a mystery—not merely a spiritual meditation on the mystery of God’s grace, that “absolute disjunction between our Father’s love and our deserving,” as Ames phrases it at one point, but a literary, and a literal, mystery.

Woah. Okay.

So now here’s the president of the United States on it.

One of my favorite characters in fiction is a pastor in Gilead, Iowa, named John Ames, who is gracious and courtly and a little bit confused about how to reconcile his faith with all the various travails that his family goes through. And I was just—I just fell in love with the character, fell in love with the book,

That’s right, Obama adores this book.

When I read what people had to say about this book, my faith was renewed. There’s something here. Something glittering and golden was in this book, waiting to be discovered, if you just looked. I was going to go after it. I was going to understand the key that made this such a moving experience for everyone. And now, welp, I’m right back to not picking up the book.

Here’s the Struggle…

…and it’s a struggle every high school student that doesn’t want to read Hamlet will deal with. People say a certain book is worth something. People say I will be better if I read it, that it will enhance my experience of life somehow if I can look past my disinterest and really try to engage with it. There are gems to uncover.

Of course, teenage you is like, “naw!”

Great Expectations comes to mind. I read it my sophomore year and thought it a outrageous waste of my time.  But I gave it another go about 10 years later, and I just saw it, saw every moment of brilliance, saw every reason the book had lasted, all the archetypes it had laid out with such cleverness and–OH–the humor. Great Expectations absolutely cracked me up. I should have trusted everyone. It was full of as many treasures as they told me it would be. I just had to be open to it. And now I’m trying to take the lesson to heart.

I want to crack through the shell of this book and understand why people love it with the passion they do. I want to see the depths they see. But I  just don’t think Gilead is going to be my Great Expectations. When should I trust people enough to plug forward, trusting that I’ll find the reward they promise? I don’t know.

I think in situations like this, I’m scared I’m missing something. It isn’t insecurity, I don’t think. It’s the dreaded FOMO. I’m more wondering, “What if there’s some beautiful thing lying in this book that I just can’t get to? Maybe if I just tried harder,  I could unlock that treasure chest that everyone else found here.”

But I think I just have to accept that book-glitter is sometimes–not usually–but sometimes just something that’s in they eye of the beholder.

Anyway, if you want to check out Gilead, be my guest. I want to hear that someone real, not just a president someone or a book reviewer someone, found what I looked for and couldn’t find.

Anticipated Books of 2016

Posted on by Amanda

I was delighted to see an article from The Millions (which, if you don’t follow, you should) that focused on the most anticipated books of this year.

Here’s a link so you can view it in all its glory. Be warned–none of their links open in a new tab, and it will drive you batty.

Though I don’t think anything compares to 2015’s excitement over a new Franzen book, there’s some pretty fun things in the pipeline. For instance, you’ll perhaps remember a woman named Elizabeth Strout, especially if you paid attention to the Emmys last year. Her Pulitzer winner Olive Kitteridge was made into a TV series that fared well, and I wrote about the book a few months ago. (Spoiler alert: loved it.) Well, Strout had a new book come out just last week. It’s called My Name Is Lucy Barton, and it’s another family drama. That’s great, since that’s what Strout does best: family dynamics. An estranged daughter comes back to a sick mother. Hilarity ensues. Kidding, of course–if it’s anything like Olive Kitteridge, it will be probably be quite solemn…and quite good.

–Added to cart.

Wait till you see Fine, Fine, Fine, Fine. I would get this one for the cover alone.
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I’d never heard of this author before. Apparently she writes brilliant microstories. If short story authors are witches, authors who write super tiny stories are voodoo high priestesses.  These are supposed to be raw, funny, and written with great skill. The Millions name-dropped Viktor Shklovsky, who seems to be making the circuit of people who discuss the defamiliarization tactics of short story authors. (Well, by that, I mean I talked about it too.) The description on The Millions article is interesting, more interesting than what I’m saying here, so check it out. And the book’s out in a few days, so you can order it now.

—Added to cart mostly because of book cover.

There’s a book coming out in February called You Should Pity Us Instead.  It has a much less interesting cover, and it’s by another unknown-by-me author. But The Millions’ description of it is awesome:

A debut collection of crisp short stories about people in various forms of extremis — people with kidnapped sons, babies who won’t stop crying, too many cats. The scenarios vary wildly in terms of their objective badness, but that’s how life is, and the writer treats them all with gravity.

—Added to cart because too many cats.

But back to what the people really want. Awesome covers.

Here is Mark Leyner’s Gone With the Mind

Capturez

Fabulous.

Apparently, you don’t have to worry about misjudging a book by its interesting cover. The plot involves an autobiography reading at a Panda Express. I have to assume such a thing comes from a rare gem of a mind.

—Added to cart for soviet constructivist cover art.

There’s so much more, so check out that article.  More highlights include Sudden Death, Zero K, and Thomas Jefferson Dreams of Sally Hemings. (Definitely read the excerpt of that one. It’s wonderful.)

In other news, I am never writing a blog post on a tablet again. Sorry to anyone who clicked and saw a garble-tastic work in progress instead of a completed post. I also joined the affiliate link program on Amazon, knowing I’d be linking to a ton of things here, so full disclosure on that. Most links won’t make me anything, but the ones to books on Amazon will send a few cents my way if you decide to buy a book about too many cats.

 

March: Overview

Posted on by Amanda

51I8X5w-eeL._SX324_BO1,204,203,200_.jpgIf you were once a child and are female, someone probably gave you Little Women at some point. Whether you read it or not is another thing.

I read it. But I also read every word on cereal boxes as I crunched away at breakfast and was consequently the only eight-year-old to be familiar with terms like “butylated hydroxyanisole” and “red #40.”

I’m much more picky about my books (and my cereal) these days. It’s hard for me to remember Little Women, but if it’s anything like March, it was probably so-so, and it was certainly not Pulitzer-worthy. But let me explain.

Tl;dr Synopsis

“Tl;dr” is a pretty good summary of how you should approach this book. No, I’m sorry, it really isn’t that bad. I’ll get more objective for you.

Here’s some necessary background: Meg, Jo, Beth, Amy, and their mother Marmee were the heroes of the book Little Women, written by 19th century author Louisa May Alcott. Largely absent from the picture is the father’s experience. He went off to take part in the Civil War and returned when Beth fell ill.

March is meant to be an expansion on Little Women, telling the story of that father. It alternates between (a.) documenting his rather brutal and traumatizing experience as a radically abolitionist chaplain in the army and (b.) sharing background material from his younger years. It also includes letters to his wife, which describe mostly the changing of the seasons and the physical surroundings, pointedly leaving out the gruesomeness of the war. The book is written in the first person, from March’s point of view. Except when it switches to Marmee’s point of view, which happens near the end for a few chapters. Yep. Lots of narrative-technique fidgeting going on here.

Sorry, back to objective.

The main themes of the book are war and slavery, with a bit of family sprinkled in.

Writing Style

Here is where I have the most praise for the author. Mid-19th century literature is what I grew up reading (you know, when I wasn’t busy with nutrition labels), and the style of writing feels like home to me. Usually when a contemporary writer tries to mimic the tone of this time period, it’s groan-inducing. But Geraldine Brooks, author of March, did a splendid job of affecting the tone of an 1860s writer. She either grew up on the stuff too, or she did a great job studying the phrasing of the time period.

But tone isn’t exactly the same as language, though naturally word choice is essential to tone. The language surrounding the issue of slavery and race relations didn’t ring authentic. Even the most vehement of abolitionists of the Civil War era would have used different words than were used here. Now, that’s forgivable. No one wants their book to be taken out of context, and if Brooks had decided to be more true to the time, her book could easily be taken not as a period piece but instead as a offensive book written in the 2000s by an ignorant white lady. But I think the word choice here, while judicious, was the tip of the iceberg. There’s a problem with the novel that runs deeper.

Characters

The main character, the patriarch of the March family, is not believable. He can talk the 1860s talk, but he’s clearly a character plucked from 2007 and placed into the time period, modern (educated) sentiments about equality/race and all. It’s as if he’s lived in an absolute vacuum. The treatment of African Americans as “other” never ceases to astound him, even after seeing it over and over. It’s absurd.

Certainly, the nature of the cruelty shown toward an entire race would have shocked insulated people in the north at that time. But no one was going to be surprised that slaves were treated differently than white people. I mean, it’s the sad truth that you can’t even expect that African Americans will be treated with equality today, except for in the most progressive circles.

I don’t want to go into it too much, but feel free to read yourself and see what you think. March expresses ideas that are totally not in keeping with the time, all while being continually shocked when people didn’t feel the same or couldn’t see what he saw. It just isn’t accurate. More than that, it isn’t imaginative to just take what any civilized, modern-day person would think a turn it into the basis for the hero of a Civil War novel.

 

It’s not just him that’s the problem with Brooks’ character writing. She threw in Thoreau and Emerson, for reasons explained at the end: Alcott’s own family was close with the Thoreaus and Emersons. But these giants of American history seemed tossed in as an afterthought, having little to do with the actual book. These historical figures also seemed to be written in with the goal of making them come alive to the reader, and this intention (and not the coordinating desired result) comes through with every word. I can just imagine the author thinking “I am a fiction writer! I shall reveal to the reader not a crusty figure from a textbook but a person with flashing eyes (every amateur fiction writer’s favorite, along with “flowing tresses”) and quirky mannerisms!” ~Holds pen high above paper, descends with flourish.~

All right. I’m being very hard on this book. It wasn’t that bad. I finished it.

Highlights

I liked reading about Rev. March growing up. The first third or so of the book is the best part.

Though I wasn’t crazy about the Emerson and Thoreau characters, John Brown entered the story in an interesting way. I thought that character was pretty well written, and if you know the Little Women backstory about losing a fortune, this was a great integration with the plot.

Who Should Read the Book

If you’re a fan of British writing of this time period and you’re not quite as familiar with American history or don’t mind a little leeway with it, this isn’t a bad book. The writing style is true, and most people probably won’t have as much of an issue with the book as I did, since I know myself to be cantankerous and amazingly picky. Oh, and if you love Little Women, this is probably a great addition to your library. It will be fun for you to see how Brooks filled in some missing pieces.

For What It’s Worth (My Opinion)

The intention behind the book was good, and I’ve largely focused on my complaints. So here’s the positive stuff. I think it portrayed the attitude of most toward slaves and abolitionists quite accurately. It even threw in some of the more nuanced issues, such as why slave owners viewed reading and writing as dangerous. And it certainly portrayed the atrocities of war and slavery in a way that was accurate–upsettingly so. It’s just that March himself, you should know, isn’t really a reflection of the time. Not from what I’ve read, anyway.

I wouldn’t read anything else from Brooks, personally. I just can’t forgive the flaws in the book’s namesake character. The book wasn’t awful, but there are too many other things out there.

Sorry for the absence. I’ve got some more things in the pipeline, including a “looking forward to 2016 books” post, and, appropriately, a post on the pains of content creation.

The Road: Overview

Posted on by Amanda

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Post-apocalyptic tales, zombie movies—even the Party Rock Anthem video—none of it is my thing.

Also, you know what’s not on my list of characteristics of good writing? Speaking in fragments, letting fly endless streams of invented portmanteaus, and showing signs of a deep, weirdly personal revulsion for the comma.

With The Road, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if I don’t really like stories like this. It doesn’t matter that McCarthy makes up all his own rules about the construction of an English sentence. That’s because The Road is above personal taste and grammar rules.

Tl;dr Synopsis

An unnamed father and young son are travelling by foot through a cold and barren landscape. At first, all you know is that the father doesn’t want to be seen, which seems a little paranoid, given the desolation. But soon, it becomes clear why they need to stay hidden and why they’re never safe in one spot for too long. In an event that’s never really described, the whole continent (and the whole world, the father assumes) has burned. The years after the disaster have required that the small population of remaining humans fight to survive. The struggle has brought out the worst in some.

The winters have become too harsh, and the father’s vague goal is to get him and his son south to a more sustainable climate. But what will they do once they get there? You share the feelings they must have: there’s an uneasy hope that maybe it will be some improbable paradise of safety. But you don’t want to think about that too much, since what certainly lies in wait is death, one way or another.

The Road chronicles a few months of this pair’s journey. Along the way, you experience all the moments of desperation and horror and soaring relief that accompanies them.

Writing Style

First off, know that McCarthy speaks in fragments. There is no careful crafting of complex sentences, no adherence to anything like rules. Words go on paper, and he’s done. But where as I felt like editing the bejeezus out of the last author I read like this (Junot Diaz), I think putting a hand on McCarthy’s prose would be a mortal sin. You do not touch this man’s writing. It would be like trying to add a vanishing point to a Picasso or something—sure, it would make more visual sense, but you’re messing with the inventiveness of the art.  McCarthy, despite disregarding the rules of written communication, communicates beautifully. His writing is never confusing or unclear, and it’s inventive. His unusual twists on standard English do him a great service, in fact. It’s difficult to make devices like simile and metaphor not sound cliche, no matter how inventive the actual comparisons are. But this syntactical defamiliarization throws the reader off-game enough for McCarthy to use these devices without fear.

No one will accuse him of being a man of too few words, though that’s not to say the writing is simplistic. If you like Hemingway’s style, you will love McCarthy. He never tells us what his pair of protagonists are feeling, only what they say, do, and think. You’re left to fill in the emotional blanks yourself, and boy, do you. You live inside the characters.

I think one of the most moving scenes is when the two finally come upon the ocean. They had been trying to get to the shore for weeks, and you almost feel as much anticipation as they do. For what, you don’t know. You’ve just been living in their bleak world with them, looking forward to anything different that might be awaiting them, starving for some kind of hope. When they come upon the ocean, it’s gray, not blue. The sea is “shifting heavily like a slowly heaving vat of slag and then the gray squall line of ash.” The father apologizes that the ocean is not blue. The boy says, “That’s okay.” Then he insists on going swimming, despite the cold. When he comes out, he’s weeping. When the father asks what’s wrong, the boy says nothing. End scene.

You don’t have to describe the emotions, the disappointment of it all. Just what McCarthy says is enough to rip your heart out. Adding any more would be a sin. It’s minimalism at its most perfect.

That’s McCarthy’s best skill, I think. As a reader, you’re extremely active in the story. He carefully places his blanks, never leaving out so much information that you’re frustrated, but always making you do the work of walking with his characters. I think that’s a kind of respect for your audience.

Characters

You’re very much thrown in medias res into the two character’s lives, so you must form a picture of who they are from what you see of them now, not who they have been. The boy and the man are very different, though you understand why. The man is jaded and always on guard. He is the boy’s protector, and he takes that role very seriously. That causes problems between him and the boy. The son is empathetic and is willing to take risks to make human connections with others. But since that will endanger him, the man overrules all his son’s overtures to make friends with the few people they encounter who may not be savages.

Both the man and the boy are characters you understand, and though the focus of the book appears to be on the journey, it’s largely about what the situation is doing to the characters and their dynamic with one another.

Highlights

I’m not going to give it away, but there’s one shining moment of delight and relief in this book where you can almost feel your whole body relax. Straits were dire, and all of a sudden, a miracle.

At the same time, you understand when McCarthy tells us the man hates the luck. The father had accepted death was coming, and he was looking forward to the relief it would bring. He could have finally rested. Now, it was clear he was meant to keep fighting, and it was almost painful to switch back into that mode.

So, yeah, I guess the highlight is kind of depressing. This is why I don’t really like doomsday scenario books. It’s worth the experience in this case, though.

Who Should Read this Book

A beach read this is not. (Unless you’re like me and like to read Beloved while sipping a daiquiri on a cruise.)

But you’ve got to read it, just to watch McCarthy work. It’s an amazing experience. You absolutely go with these characters on the journey, and it’s nearly impossible to put down.

But, I don’t know…if you’re particularly empathetic (which I am, for what it’s worth) or feeling low these days, you might want to pick the right time in your life to read it. No judgement if that time isn’t now. The book is heavy.

For What It’s Worth (A.K.A. My Opinion)

I’m shocked that I loved this. Like I said in the beginning, it does not have the makings of a book I would even finish. The minimalist prose and the bleak apoco-scape are not on my list of favorite things. But it’s a beautiful, haunting experience, and I give so much props to McCarthy for crafting such a thing. The Picasso reference wasn’t thrown out casually. I feel like this author is an artist.

I’ll tell you what else. Taking a hot shower and feeling your hair dry all fluffy, curling up under a down comforter, throwing a delightful spinach/goat cheese/raspberry vinaigrette salad into your face—none of it will ever feel as good as it does after you finish The Road. Every little luxury in my life I appreciate now as privilege. Considering the season, it might be an appropriate thing. I don’t know the last time I’ve been so thankful for what I have.

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao: Overview

Posted on by Amanda

51wOaYkRSfL._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_I’ve got several bones to pick with Mr. Junot Diaz about the title of his 2008 Pulitzer winner.

1. A spoiler in the title? Really?

2. I’m not sure “wondrous” is the word I’d use. All things considered, “cursed” is more appropriate.

3. You need a comma. But more about that (and how I’m wrong while being technically right) in a bit.

Tl;dr Synopsis

Curse

Writing Style

No, just kidding. I’ll actually give you a Tl:dr.

Tl;dr Synopsis

This book is about much more than Oscar De Leon, though it begins with him and ends with him. Each chapter is a vignette that serves as a puzzle piece. Through it, the story of the De Leon family and their horrifying multigenerational battle with the Fuku come together.

The Fuku was a curse believed to be a brought upon the Dominican Republic by Trujillo, a fearsome (and historically real) dictator in the 20s, 30s, and 40s. And while the author is quick to point out when Dominicans are being superstitious, it’s hard to believe Oscar’s family is just dealing with a few decades of bad luck.

You don’t learn of the initial source-Fuku (“Poor Abelard,” indeed) until a good way into the book, but you’re so distracted by all the stories in between that it doesn’t matter. There’s the story of obese, awkward Oscar and the roommate who wants to help him get it together. There’s the story of Beli, who is easy to hate until you realize she’s perhaps the biggest victim of all. And then there’s Lola, who we find out at the end is the reason the book is written. It’s the narrator’s love for her that causes him to try to counteract the curse by writing down the De Leon story.

Writing Style

Diaz is somewhat difficult to read, though perhaps that’s a failing of mine. If you’ve ever tried to read a Zora Neale Hurston book and plow through the literary attempts to record speech patterns of southern black folks, you’ll have an idea of the difficulty I’m talking about. First, there’s tons of jargon (or, in this case, Spanish). Second, there’s very little concern for grammar or propriety. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is filled with fragments, comma splices, improper capitalization, and speech not offset by quotation marks. That’s why I said maybe it’s a failing of mine. That’s kind of the stuff I focus on for work, and it’s my fault if I can’t look past it. I mean, I looked at the title and didn’t process much except, “huh, wonder who let that missing comma slip by.” If I were Diaz’s editor, I would have spent a year on this book. But I think I may be in the wrong for that. There’s certainly places where his first-draft-feeling book could have benefited from some editing for the sake of clarity. But I have to realize some editor somewhere made a choice to consider these things part of Diaz’s (or the narrator’s, anyway) voice. At times like these, I wonder how to not let myself as a person get in the way of me blogging for others’ sake.

Anyway, I’d sum up the writing style as casual. There’s a lot of strong language and personality in the writing. Those who liked The Catcher in the Rye in high school will probably also like this book. The voices are similar, though the story is less narrator-centered. (And this story is much better than bratty Caulfield’s.) However, if the thing you liked about The Catcher in the Rye was that it’s short, well, this isn’t for you–Oscar is pretty epic.

Also, be prepared to have you current knowledge of Spanish be taken to the next level. You will be able to, ahem, express yourself more fully once you’re done with this one.

Characters

The narrator is the best character, especially when you find out who he is. He’s got a distinct voice, but it doesn’t take you out of the story when he tells you what other characters are thinking and feeling. I think it’s to be understood that the narrator is taking a stab at what they’re going through, but Diaz does a good job of never making you feel confused about perspective. There aren’t constant reminders that your narrator is unreliable, and he so seldom inserts himself into the plot that it’s pretty easy to get lost in the story without being jarred out of it.

Oscar is a morose perpetual virgin who loves games and comic books and science fiction. He is an irredeemable dork, and not in the ironic, hipster way. His life is a major part of the book, but the book is about many others, as well. Lola is his headstrong, beautiful sister who’s there for Oscar whenever she’s needed. Beli is his wretch of a mother, so commanding and so scarred, both literally and psychologically. Yunior is his roommate, who tries and fails to encourage Oscar to be healthy and/or cool. When he fails, Yunior writes him off for as long as he can, but there’s something about Oscar won’t let Yunior’s forget about him. There’s a strong-willed grandmother, a great uncle who struggles to keep his family from the reach of Trujillo, and lots more. They are easy to read about, and they’re believable, though I don’t really find anyone remarkable. Maybe that’s a good thing. We do see how the different characters evolve, but this book is story-driven, not character driven,

Highlights

I really loved the chapter about Oscar and his roommate. I also really loved the ending. It was clear that the book was building to something with Oscar, and when it happened, it seemed right. It made sense. By the way, “it” is him dying. Normally I’d feel bad about telling you that, but, again, the title is a spoiler.

At the time, I was a little annoyed when it kept going after the closure we got with Oscar. it felt a bit like that last Lord of the Rings movie, just fading from one closing scene to the next, ad-seeming-infinitum. But now that I’ve gotten to the very end, I know exactly why it was there. It’s awesome.

Who Should Read this Book

I think that if you like historical fiction, interesting cultural pieces, or, again, The Catcher in the Rye, you will dig this book. It was a good story, and many times, it was a page-turner. It was also quite raw. Oscar is whatever the polar opposite of poetry is. If you like elegant prose or you’re squeamish about vulgarity, this probably isn’t your jam.

For What It’s Worth (A.K.A. My Opinion)

I can see why this won the prize. It’s a fascinating glimpse into Dominican culture and some of the awful things that happened there. In a lot of ways, this book deals with human rights violations, and I appreciate the light that it sheds. Junot Diaz is in the news a lot lately after criticizing the actions of Dominican Republic’s government, with the blowback of being stripped of awards back home. He’s an active advocate for the disenfranchised, and that shows in Oscar.

While I’m not squeamish (see above) or addicted to Victorian-style pomp and circumstance in language (see also above), this wasn’t my favorite. I respect it; I even like it. But it didn’t capture me quite the way other books have. I probably wouldn’t read something of Diaz’s again unless it was strongly recommended to me. I have too many other possible reads and only one life in which to read them. But this will be some people’s favorite book, and I understand why. To each his/her own.

Purity: A Quick Note From Captain Obvious

Posted on by Amanda

This will be short.

Hamlet. Andreas. Go.

hamletWhat Franzen is doing with Hamlet is pretty smack-you-in-the-face, if you’re looking for it. So I’m not going to go into too much detail. I’m just here let you know to look for it.

If you remember anything from high school English, then you’ll be alarmed that Andreas and his mother’s biggest point of bonding is Hamlet. That’s what I mean about smack-you-in-the-face. But if you don’t remember Hamlet, it’s worth knowing a few things as you read Purity:

  1. Hamlet likes his mom. I mean, he really likes his mom.
  2. His dad is a ghost.
  3. What defines Hamlet’s life is his relationship with murder.
  4. He destroys the girl he loves–but does he love her? Can he love her, being as self-absorbed as he is?

The parallels aren’t perfect, but they’re there, and they’re fun and easy to find. If you are new to looking at literature for themes and uncovering hidden mysteries within a book, this is a enjoyable softball lobbed your way.

So if Purity‘s on your list, take your knowledge of Hamlet (and if it’s just the SparkNotes you scanned, good enough), and look at Andreas’ life when you read Purity.

To Level Up…

Now, if you really want to do a psychoanalytic criticism of Purity, get a basic grasp of Freud and read this thing. Oh boy. Pretty sure Franzen himself was reading a lot of Freud as he wrote this. Some of the most powerful phrases in the book come more from the mouth of Freud than Franzen.

But looking at the book on this level, if you’re a psych newbie, will take a bit more dedication. Freud has a pretty impressive body of work. Hamlet, on the other hand, is just, well, Hamlet.

***

Hey, here’s a fun fact! T.S. Eliot, writer of “The Wasteland,” “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” (my favorite poem), and the collection of poems that would inspire the musical Cats (yes, google it), thought Hamlet was awful and Shakespeare was a total literary mess when he wrote it. The more you know…

Purity: The Trouble with Gender

Posted on by Amanda

Here I am, just hanging out on the internet, about to be the four-billionth person here to talk about how Franzen is white and male. But I hope to avoid polemics-as-usual and be sensitive while remaining true to feminist roots.

The Criticism

Franzen’s biggest critics are women, and one of his biggest criticisms is his need to check that male privilege/mansplaining at the door:

Article 1: “Awwww, poor victimized famous bestselling author Jonathan Franzen!”

Article 2:  “The charge of misogyny, like the charge of racism, is a serious one, and I shy away from making it. But …Franzen continues to indict himself with gender theorizing that panders to the worst instincts of the male intellectual.” “Franzen can do better.”

Article 3 (and this is both legit AND hilarious): “He sounds like he’s just observing the patriarchal dictate that before we can talk about any woman artist or intellectual or politician or activist, we must first rank her on Hot or Not.”

Article 4 (by Roxane Gay, one of my favorite people. Follow her on Twitter; she’s a blast.): “He is offering up an earnest, albeit rather narrow and privileged assessment of the world we live in,” noting that, in Franzen’s world, feminism equals “angry womenfolk.”

Criticism Justified?

Oh, totally. Something you’ll see over and over in these articles is a reference to the part in Purity where the radically feminist (and radically unhinged) Anabel miserably guilts Tom into only peeing sitting down because the expression of inequality–standing up to pee–hurts her. You’ll also see that the extremist, separatist feminists that grab ahold of Annagret are not unlike the German Stasi in the book. They’re a totalitarian, police-like force of harpies. Franzen puts feminist in his books, and they are all life-crushing shrews.

Also to be noted is the phallocentrism of Purity, which is probably my biggest complaint about the book. You can look forward to hearing alllllll about the state of every male character’s penis, allllll the time. Is it disappointingly at half mast? Is it a throbbing beast ready to bust a hole in space time? Is it tentatively pushing on something, asking permission? Don’t worry. You’ll get to hear all about it. ALL. ABOUT. IT. And I don’t mean to be prude, but it takes away from my experience of the book. I can’t imagine why Franzen’s brain is just a nonstop flow of “penispenispenispenis.” Why are all these characters so obsessed with the state of their genitalia? Why is Franzen so obsessed?

But then, here’s where my sympathy may set me apart from the rest of the angry readers. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in Franzen’s head, and I accept that this phallocentrism is his thing and it’s not mine. My experience has made me who I am, and he’s been shaped the same way.

For instance, if I wrote fiction, my real-life experiences with men would no doubt show up via my male characters, and considering that feelings I’ve taken away from many of those experiences, that might draw accusations of misandry from critics. (You know, the myriad of critics who would read my best-selling book.) I personally wouldn’t feel that assessment justified, but there would likely be evidence for that argument from my writing.

Going back to Franzen…yes, there is evidence of male-centric, anti-feminist, super-privileged writing here. Some of the articles I linked objectively point out these problems, which are worth noting. But others are outrage-seekers, trying to tear apart the overdog just because no one likes the overdog.

Take Article 1’s (above) comment. Let me put it in context. This is the paragraph before, quoting a fascinating Guardian interview with Franzen.

“In his Guardian interview, Franzen says that ‘I’m not a sexist. I am not somebody who goes around saying men are superior, or that male writers are superior. In fact, I really go out of my way to champion women’s work that I think is not getting enough attention. None of that is ever enough. Because a villain is needed. It’s like there’s no way to make myself not male. And one of the running jokes in the Tom and Anabel section [of ‘Purity.’] is that he’s really trying to not be male…. There’s a sense that there is really nothing I can do except die – or, I suppose, retire and never write again.’

Awwww, poor victimized famous bestselling author Jonathan Franzen! Why are feminists so meaaaaaan?

I understand where the sarcasm and lack of sympathy comes from here. But I don’t lack that sympathy.

Franzen’s a human being. He’s trying to write stories about how human beings hurt each other and make each other’s lives worth living. I don’t think he’s on a woman-hating mission. I think he’s expressing a lot of himself through Tom, who really wants to be a good feminist and just can’t do it without decoupling himself from crippling guilt, so he’s just given up. And wouldn’t you, if the idea of male privilege had seeped into your bones? If it seemed like the only thing you can do to be rid of this original sin is to never say anything again, lest your inherently poisoned point of view seeps through and victimizes all these people you’re unknowingly oppressing?

“There is No Way to Make Myself Not Male”

The subtitle of this Guardian interview is “there is no way to make myself not male,” and I think there’s an evolution of thinking behind it. I imagine that, once upon a time, he felt ashamed in realizing it, as if there was some essential thing wrong with him.

But now, I think Franzen is saying “there is no way to make myself not male” in a different way. He has been attacked for being male by critics for a long time, and sometimes with good reason. He’s made a couple of boneheaded PR moves (see comments on Edith Wharton). But I think he’s given up carrying that cross of guilt the way anyone with good intentions faced with constant attacks might.

I say he has good intentions because I think he portrays all characters, both male and female, with incredible empathy and nuance. I think Franzen isn’t lying in that Guardian interview when he says he loves people. And if you love people and are constantly attacked as a hate-filled bigot, well, I think there’s good reason to be bitter about it.

As for me, I see the male-centrism, but I like his books too much to think he should be silent. Though I do hope he’ll keep the state-of-the-phallus alerts to a minimum next time.

Purity: Overview

Posted on by Amanda

I’ve been waiting for this.

Tl;dr Synopsis

This story is about lives coming together and ripping apart, but it’s done in a calculated way that builds to a crescendo and…well, kind of ends on a crescendo.

We’re introduced to Pip Tyler, a young girl with a lot of student debt and daddy issues. Andreas Wolf is a German Julian Assange, except he’s super cute and less rapey. Well, publically. Privately, he’s a troubled narcissist with mommy issues. Pip and Andreas come together and rip apart.

Andreas falls wholeheartedly, frighteningly in love with a teenage girl, and that teenage girl can’t ever get over the terrible thing they did out of desperation. Their lives come together and rip apart.

Tom Aberant and Anabel Laird (a journalist and an artist/psychotic mess, respectively) meet in college. Like being electrocuted, they’re locked together by a seemingly unbreakable force, both being psychologically fried to a crisp, until the current abates long enough for their lives to rip apart.

There’s little Purity airtime given to Tom and Andreas’s relationship. Their lives come together and rip apart in a matter of days. Then again, much later—this time for only one day—there’s another coming together and ripping apart. But I think this relationship might be the most important one in the book.

There is a plot to this story, but (1) to tell it here would fill this post with spoilers, and this is not a book I want to spoil for you, and (2) I think that this ebb and flow of relationships and the nature of how people come together and tear apart is the real heart of the story.

Writing Style

Franzen writes with clarity and frankness. He is an extremely accessible writer, but that’s not what makes him remarkable. What’s really incredible is how he keeps it accessible without sacrificing intelligence. Sometimes his passages take on a “literary” or “psychological” affect in a way that seems stilted, but that’s really the only complaint I have about the writing style. It is wonderfully modern, page-turn-y, and easy to read, but it’s also full of inventive simile and heart-gripping insight. I feel like this is best exemplified by passages, so let me throw some at you.

Right on one of the first pages, Franzen tosses out an analogy that’s perfect. Pip understands that she can get away with nearly anything, as far as her mother is concerned, because “she was like a bank too big in her mother’s economy to fail.” Pip’s mother (who, by the way, reads the news “for the small daily pleasure of being appalled by the world”) is just one character that demonstrates Franzen’s fascination with mothers and children. I suspect he’d been reading a good amount of Freud during the creation of this book because ol’ Sigmund is everywhere in Purity. It’s worth an entire separate post. Anyway, Pip’s mother is like Andreas’s mother, which is to say they are inevitably creators of victims. It’s discussed in this passage (and close your eyes if you don’t like profanity):

An accident of brain development stacked the deck against children: the mother had two or three years to fuck with your head before your hippocampus began recording lasting memories…you couldn’t remember a single word of what you or she had said before your hippocampus kicked into gear.

This is what I mean about Franzen being easy to read but never lacking intelligence.

Characters

Franzen’s character niche is “people totally out of control.” If they’re torn or distressed or confused or flailing, Franzen is all about them. You know who he really doesn’t do? Healthy, sane people with a complete sense of self. Maybe that’s what he’s trying to get at. None of us are.

Commentary aside, Franzen’s characters are almost always conflicted and, consequently, readers are almost always sympathetic. We’re in the heads of all the characters, and it’s hard not to feel for them, even if they’re the self-absorbed borderline Andreas or the self-martyred basket case Anabel. How they struggle, every one.

These characters are complex, and Franzen goes the extra mile by showing us how they got there. They aren’t always likeable, but you feel like you really see them for who they are, and it’s hard not to be invested in them.

That being said, some of the characters are totally ridiculous. Anabel, for example, is so over the top that it’s hard to see her as real. But I’ll just say this: I am a very character-centric reader, and this small complaint did not stop me from loving every second of this book.

Highlights

Oh, it’s so hard to choose between the endless highlights.

  • Any of the more innocent, pure-hearted interactions Andreas has with the only two women (no, neither his mother) he truly loves more than himself
  • The passages that follow Leila on her interviews in Texas
  • Andreas’s childhood, though the experience is not entirely pleasant
  • Pip’s time in South America

Really, most of the book is a highlight. I have a hard time going through Tom’s narrative, just because it’s such a long time of waiting for him to escape. You always sense it coming and are frustrated when page after page go by without any action. I also found Andreas’s relationship with Annagret after pining after her for years to be immensely unsatisfying, including the description of why it couldn’t work.

Who Should Read this Book

Everyone. I would recommend the book to absolutely anyone.*

*Except maybe those in the literary community who are predisposed to vehemently hating the overdog without leaving room for nuance in their opinion. Or, you know what, maybe you’re not and still won’t like it. Google Purity and check out the polarized titles on the first page. No, you know what, let me do it for you.

 

Capture

Sycophants and haters. Everyone seems to be one or the other

For What It’s Worth (A.K.A. My Opinion)

Out of all the books I’ve read in the last month, this is the one that has haunted my dreams and made dreamscapes out my days. It’s like I’m lovesick. It’s taken me to another world, and it’s a world I haven’t been able to leave.

Let me be clear—Purity is not without its flaws (and I’m going to tackle the main flaw in a future post). Let me also be clear about this, though. Its flaws do nothing to stand in the way of how much I loved this book, loved the experience of reading the book, and love remembering the book.

And that’s really the difference between how I’ve felt about the other books I’ve been reading lately, even maybe in the last year. I’ve admired the craftsmanship of other books. I’ve been entertained and charmed and filled with respect. But I just flat out LOVE Purity. It hits something deep inside of me—the part that likes to get lost in stories and be swept up by the romance of a narrative completely separate from your own life, the part that likes to completely lose myself in a magnetic world that runs deep.

Creating Character Depth Through Confounding

Posted on by Amanda

The other day, I had lunch with a colleague, and he described an idea. He wanted to write a book with his wife, but with a fun twist. He would write one chapter, his wife would write the next, and so on, back and forth. Neither would get to see what the other wrote until it was his/her turn to take over the book.

Beautiful sugar skull woman illustration. Day of dead vector illustration.That got us talking about the genre of the progressive novel. If you haven’t heard of things like round robin writing and the exquisite corpse (see left for what I picture when I say that), well, they’re essentially vehicles for people to collaborate on a story or work of art.

Check them out. They’re fun, and as I’m seeing, they can be useful projects to use as inspiration in solo writing later. But first, creative writing class.

Confound It!

Our lunch conversation led to me remember one of my creative writing workshops. This one was called “Confound It!” or something like that. I might just be making that up. Whatever. If I am, I’m doing a good job because it sounds cool.

It was a collaborative writing exercise in which everyone would write a paragraph, pair up with someone, and switch papers. You would read your partner’s paragraph and write their next one. Except you weren’t supposed to be nice. Your goal was to confound your partner. You were to give them a paragraph that utterly changed the course of what they were writing and forced them to try to recover from whatever disasters you created.

So in “Confound It!,” paragraph one goes like this:

A young man sits and has a heart-to-heart with his estranged, dying father. They hash out old demons from the young man’s childhood. The son finally had the courage to tell his father he had felt abandoned by the old man his whole life.

Paragraph two goes like this:

Not far from the hospital, the abominable snowman, like the young man, was tired of a lifetime of rejection. So, using methods not described in this paragraph, he procured a cache of enriched uranium, and now we’re in the midst of a nuclear winter only he–and for some unspecified scientific reason, also flamingos–could survive.

Paragraph three goes like this:

Dude, come on.

Or maybe it goes like this:

Even the flamingos rejected the abominable snowman, and he learned that extracting revenge through violence was never going to fix the pain he felt inside. The young man at least died, albeit in a mushroom cloud, with a clear conscious after attempting to reconcile through conversation.

This is also kind of the plot of Frankenstein. See, I’m not a very good creative writer even when I’m plagiarizing.

But Confounding Yourself…

The last few Pulitzer-journey books that have graced my bedside table have reminded me of this exercise. These authors’ technique isn’t collaborative in nature, though. Thier goal seems to be to confound themselves. They carefully set up character development in one chapter and then completely undo their work in the next. But this isn’t bad writing. Or rather, it’s bad writing like a fox. (I’m not very good with simile, either.)

The first book that reveals this technique is Olive Kitteridge. In chapter one, we see a harpy wife nagging her sweet, mild mannered husband, berating him in front of guests and drowning him in a sea of “I cook for you, I clean for you, and what thanks do I get?” Olive is extremely unlikeable in this chapter. But in the very next chapter, author Strout undoes all that hard character work–or rather, she complicates it. Olive is a strong woman who knows exactly when people are in trouble. There’s a man in a truck who’s contemplating suicide, and Olive sees him and invites herself into the car. Even though he’s largely silent, she perceives what’s going on. What’s more, she deals with it in just the right way. She’s solemn and strong and doesn’t sugarcoat things. There are few words exchanged, but her curt observations about the world and his family were exactly what he needed to hear to feel less alone. We see that Olive has a soul, and it’s a soul capable of reaching out to others in a deep way. We can also sense that Olive has scars herself.

The author keeps this up. Olive vacillates between being awful and understandable and human and cruel, depending on the chapter. And, the way Strout does it, you don’t feel like it’s that the character isn’t well formed. As I said in my overview on the book, it seems like she’s known every character in the book for years.*

I’m reading the 2008 winner now, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. It’s happening here, too. Oscar and Lola’s mother, Beli, is pure evil in the second chapter. She’s abusive and manipulative in ways that turn your stomach. And when Lola understands she’ll never be perfect enough to make her mother’s abuse stop–and, besides, she doesn’t have the energy to try–the house gets dangerously hostile. Lola has to run. Junot Diaz, the author, has clearly made this character the villain of the book.

Just kidding! He doubles back on chapter two’s character work in the very next chapter. There, we meet Beli as a child, and we understand that she’s a broken little orphan, shattered by the world and with the same impulses we saw in her daughter in chapter two–the need to run. In fact, the author uses the unusual technique of calling her “our” Beli, burdening the reader with responsibility for who she becomes, forcing kinship with her in an insidious way.

When I think of what the authors are doing here, it could very easily backfire. The characters could appear inconsistent, confusing, ungraspable. But when handled right, this act of confounding themselves helps authors use each twist to turn the screw deeper into the wall, anchoring the character as an individual with complexities that reflect real humans. It’s a fascinating technique.

 

*Guys. Guys. I thought of the best pickup line for Elizabeth Strout. I forgot to put it in my overview post.

Setting: Bar
Me: Hey girl. Are you Zeus, because your characters spring from your head fully formed
Strout: ~Asks bartender for the check, excuses herself~

I’m not good at pickup lines, either.