Three years after reading this, I'm still pissed off about it. It was educational, but not about not shopping or our consumer culture; rather, it perfThree years after reading this, I'm still pissed off about it. It was educational, but not about not shopping or our consumer culture; rather, it perfectly encapsulates a specific overprivileged mindset.
The idea is fascinating. The book is also fascinating, but only in the way a trainwreck is; the author announces she's only buying necessities, then decrees that everything is a necessity - the New York Times! Expensive haircuts! Basically, she spends the year not buying new clothes or dinners out. (And she manages to save $8000, which - wow, I do not spend 8k a year on new clothes and dinners out.)
That's problematic enough - seriously, I know people who never in their lives have bought even half the things she declared as essential; I know people who live on what she spends on dinners out and clothing in a year - but then there's the whining. Levine considers herself wildly underprivileged despite her two homes and three cars and new wardrobe every year, and she dedicates a lot of this book to explaining a) how she might look privileged, but she's not, because - she has to live in New York City (part of the time)! She'll die without real culture! (Which she refuses to pay for, and whines that the government should pay for, demonstrating a fascinating failure to understand where the government gets its money.) She has to have expensive clothes and glasses! They're part of her style and identity!
I just - especially now, thinking about how many of my friends have lost their jobs, and how they're really not buying it this year - I am so frustrated by this book that I could spit. I would like to see a person like Levine genuinely deconstruct her spending habits - force herself to stick to a tight budget, force herself to evaluate each item she spends. But she didn't have the guts to do it, and I'm only glad I didn't buy her book. ...more
I wanted to like this book. I expected to like this book. And I did like it. I liked about a third of it, to be exact.
In this book, Barbara KingsolverI wanted to like this book. I expected to like this book. And I did like it. I liked about a third of it, to be exact.
In this book, Barbara Kingsolver is preaching to the choir as far as I'm concerned; I agree with the importance of local, sustainable eating. That's one of the big reasons I expected to like this. But let's go back to that word "preaching" - I used it advisedly, because, wow, does she. She spends at least a third of her own part of the book preaching, using a tone anyone who has spent any time with a recent religious convert will recognize only too well, and then she brings in her husband (for more factual, less condescending preaching) and her older daughter (for basic recipes and some of the worst preaching of all, since Camille doesn't quite have her mother's knack for writing), too.
The thing is, that's not what I was expecting from this book. I was expecting the tale of how one family ate locally and off their own land for a year. If the entire book had been like the bits that actually discussed that - ideally, like the part with the turkey breeding, which was truly the highlight of the book for me - I'd have been fine with everything else. I would have been happy with the insane levels of privilege, the sexism-is-alive-and-well-and-living-in-Virginia, the random contradictions, all of it, if she'd just left the lecturing to her husband and daughter.
But she didn't. So I wasn't. And even though I totally agree with her, I really, really wanted to tell her to shut up. Or, more to the point, I wanted her to stop telling and start showing. When she finally does, the book is great. But you have to wade through a huge manure heap of the worst kind of telling to get there. ...more
I've been hearing about a friend's experiences working in Antarctica for more than a year now. The things she's said have made me cringe at the introdI've been hearing about a friend's experiences working in Antarctica for more than a year now. The things she's said have made me cringe at the introductions to most books about the place. This one, though - this sounds exactly like the stories she tells.
So this book is, as far as I can tell, authentic and honest. It's also funny. And it's basically a primer in mismanagement. If you want to laugh helplessly while simultaneously fantasizing about stabbing a bunch of managers in Denver in the face with a clue fork, this is definitely the book for you.
Which isn't to say that it's perfect. The editing and layout are disasters, and the book is somewhat disorganized. None of those was a serious problem for me, though - I even managed to ignore the editing problems, which should indicate just how readable this is.
More of a problem for me was the, shall we say, rugged and faithful recreation of Antarctic conversation, complete with a lot of racism, homophobia, and sexism (just a given in that environment, although most of the time the author reported it without seeming to condone it), plus a really disturbing focus on animal harm and death. The latter made me skim a number of pages, and took this book from four to three stars. (I'm not saying it shouldn't be in there, but wow did it affect my enjoyment of the book.)
However. Even though I cringed away from some of the pages, and even though there were stories that actually raised my blood pressure in sheer fury, I really enjoyed this book. Just, you know. With caveats, enough of them that I'd hesitate to recommend the book to just anyone. (But for anyone considering a season in Antarctica, this should be mandatory reading.)...more
Someone needs to write a book called How to Turn Your Blog into a Real Book, because a lot of the people who get blog-to-book contracts just...can't.Someone needs to write a book called How to Turn Your Blog into a Real Book, because a lot of the people who get blog-to-book contracts just...can't. Which is not really surprising, and yet. It's sad to read a book and think, "Huh. This would be better as a blog. Oh, wait." Obviously, that's what happened here. This book has all the usual blog-to-book flaws - it's structureless and vaguely empty, without much focus or discussion of events.
Plaut kind of wanders between the chronological structure that probably made sense to her because that's how the blog worked and some thematic groupings of stories sort of at random. In other words, this has structure only in the sense that it has chapters.
There's also not quite enough material here for a book - again, super common in blogs-to-books. She doesn't really relate anything she discusses to larger issues, which is optional in real books but often rather nice, especially if there's not enough story to go around. And Plaut can't quite decide whether or not she should include discussion of her non-cab-driving personal life, so she sometimes does and sometimes does not. The result is that I, at least, ended up knowing too little to care about her personal life and yet way more than I wanted to.
But my biggest problem was that I finished this and wished I'd read it in small chunks in Google Reader, where I would really have enjoyed it. As it was, it was just a null reading experience: not pleasant, not unpleasant, just something to kill time with while nursing. Not every blog should be a book. This one, even though it's a great idea, shouldn't have been. ...more
This book is kind of an unholy union. Half of it is an interesting memoir about Allen Shawn's family, his life, and his phobias (and the intersectionsThis book is kind of an unholy union. Half of it is an interesting memoir about Allen Shawn's family, his life, and his phobias (and the intersections of the three). The other half is a relatively boring summary of neurological and psychological aspects of phobias.
The memoir part of it is, well, like I said: really interesting. Shawn's family background is fascinating. That's a little disingenuous, because I honestly think that almost anyone could write a good book about their family and childhood if they wrote honestly and well. But. Still. The family stuff was good. Even better, though, was Shawn's description of the development of his phobias and how they affect his life. He does a fabulous job of describing what phobias feel like and how he, as what we might call a high-functioning agoraphobic, lives and copes.
Unfortunately, there's not a lot of that, because much of the book is dedicated to the science side of things. If he'd been writing in depth about that, it would also have been interesting, but as it was, he kind of skims along the surface. He doesn't go into a lot of depth, and what he does cover is the stuff most people already know. There's nothing new in this information, and he's not a science writer, so it's not presented particularly well, either. A lot of the time I felt like he was using the science portion more as filler than as content, which was a pity, because he could have said a lot more about his family and his life (or a lot more interesting things about neurology and psychology, if he was more of that kind of person).
So the melding of the two types of book was unsuccessful. Still - the parts that were personal were good enough to make me glad I'd read the whole book. ...more
I read this one because kristiinthedark made me. (Okay, she made me by saying, "Well, I liked it." But she said it in a very coercive way, trust me.)I read this one because kristiinthedark made me. (Okay, she made me by saying, "Well, I liked it." But she said it in a very coercive way, trust me.) And I did like this better than the last two books I read by Notaro. This one was truly funny in places, and not nearly so cringe-inducing in the places where it wasn't funny, and if I didn't exactly love it, I'm still giving it four stars because a) hey, it was funny, what more can I want? and b) my problems with it were more idiosyncrasies of mine than they were actual flaws inherent in the book.
But this is my review; I'm going to list those problems.
First, I've seriously, seriously overdosed on Notaro now. I'm DONE with her uneven narrative voice and her incredible self-loathing. I mean, I'm glad I read this, but, seriously: she's told me she's dumb so many times that I now totally and completely believe her, which makes me wonder why I'm bothering to read her books.
Second - um. I'm trying to think of a nice way to put this, but I can't, so I'll just go with it. Notaro's twenties looked just like my early teens: stupid. Filled with drugs (although I drank less and smoked entirely different things), random sex, bad bad choices, and stupid stupid friends. But, well, I grew up and stopped that shit. And we all know that no one judges you more harshly than someone who has been there but isn't anymore. So I had some judgment I had to get over before I could enjoy this book. (Like, a great desire to shriek, "STOP BEING STUPID.") It really helped, though, that this was not the first book of hers I read; I knew while I was reading this that she also grew up. (Thank god. Stupidsville is not somewhere you want to settle.)
Besides those two things - which, again, the problem is all me - this was about as good and about as funny as The Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death. Which is the book that got me reading her in the first place. So I thank kristiinthedark for her encouragement/coercion. And I'm really, really, truly done with Laurie Notaro now. ...more
Previously, my rule has been that if a book makes me laugh out loud, it gets four stars, period. I value laughter, and comedy is hard. This book made me change that rule, because it was such a weird blend of laughing and, well, cringing. While reading these essays, I found myself really, really hoping this was all an exaggeration, that she was claiming to have said things she only thought, that she didn't really act that way. And even though I mostly think that's true, some of these stories still hit a squick I didn't even know I had, some close kin to my embarrassment squick. "You're an adult!" I kept wanting to say. "You have a job and major debt and a husband! Stop acting like a junior varsity football player who has a really good steroids connection!"
Still. I did laugh out loud from time to time, when I wasn't wincing away from the page. And I probably will buy another book by Notaro; her work is basically the print equivalent of cotton candy, which is, as it happens, exactly what I'm in the mood for right now.
I just wish it was cotton candy that didn't make me flinch every other chapter, that's all....more
Bill Bryson is always fun, and his switch from travel memoirs to autobiography isn't really much of a switch at all - this book is a natural for him.Bill Bryson is always fun, and his switch from travel memoirs to autobiography isn't really much of a switch at all - this book is a natural for him. But it will never be my favorite of his works.
That said, the book is good. Bryson's work is all about the narrative voice, and he's right at the peak of his ability here; he's honed and developed his voice and his style, but he hasn't reached what we might call the Dave Barry point, the place where a writer's current work becomes a caricature of his older, better work. So, for the sheer craft of it, this book is a great read. It's funny, it's light, it's fast.
Unfortunately, Bryson falls into basically every trap that waits for an autobiographer. He persistently mourns all the changes that have taken place since the '50s - oh noes! The world is different! And I remember liking the old things, therefore all this change is bad! He doesn't get that he remembers things as being shiny and golden because he had a happy childhood. Things look fabulous through a nostalgic lens, and it's the lens that matters, not the things themselves. If he'd had that same happy childhood in the 1900s, he'd be mourning the introduction of cars and women's suffrage.
Which is the other problem. Bryson was privileged, and he seems to have missed that - sure, he writes about McCarthyism and racism, but he doesn't seem to understand that his own perfect, shiny childhood was largely a result of his own privilege - and other people's lack of privilege.
Just in general, the section dealing with race is painful to read; he says he never heard anyone say anything racist (except his grandmother) even as he spouts every possible racist stereotype about the blacks who attended his high school. It's pretty clear that he doesn't really understand that racism is more than shooting blacks who try to vote. (And I'm not going to go into the sexism, largely because I suspect any honest memoir of a teenaged boy is going to be, well, hugely sexist.)
So, while this is a fun book to read, it's also uncomfortable in places - the places where Bryson exposes much more of himself than he intended to....more