There are many different ways to interpret this book. One is to see a Twilight-Zone-type twist: is Dora the hysterical young girl, or is Freud?
I wonde...moreThere are many different ways to interpret this book. One is to see a Twilight-Zone-type twist: is Dora the hysterical young girl, or is Freud?
I wonder if this is a more shocking read now than it was when it was written, and I sincerely have no idea. I don't love it the way I love Civilization and its Discontents, but it is fun. Thinking of teaching it this semester though I do feel a bit intimidated by the prospect...(less)
I'd strongly recommend Fun Home to pretty much everyone, but I wouldn't recommend Are You My Mother? to almost anyone, including my own mother, who I...moreI'd strongly recommend Fun Home to pretty much everyone, but I wouldn't recommend Are You My Mother? to almost anyone, including my own mother, who I see on here tried to read this after loving Fun Home (which I gave her) but then apparently gave up in disgust. And I can totally guess why, as there's a lot in here that it's perfectly reasonable not to like.
That said, I fiercely loved this book and it made me cry and cry. Alison Bechdel is such a genius that I kind of just can't even deal with it, and this book is incredible in so many ways. I'm not sure I would've felt this way if I hadn't read Fun Home first, though; there's an analogy to be made between initially unappealing sex acts and a plotless, ultra-meta comic memoir about object relations theory that is an extremely detailed and specific examination of a woman's relationship with her mother. If this had been my first date with Alison Bechdel I might've jumped up, grabbed my clothes, and run out of her room. As it was, though, we'd had such an amazing time together and I was already sort of in love with her, so I was willing to follow this book to places I otherwise wouldn't have been ready to go.
I'm not particularly interested in psychoanalytic theory, though I'm conversant with its basic ideas as I was forced to study them in social work school. Somehow this book actually made me want to go into analysis, though I think I might be better matched with a frightening Kleinian over a warm fuzzy Winnicott-type. Are You My Mother? represented therapy and Winnicott's ideas in a way that I can see not being interesting to all readers, but that I found compelling. In theory, there are few things I'd rather read than a therapy memoir, but somehow Alison Bechdel is so smart and great and I love her drawings and the way she processes and presents information so much that I got super into this and felt completely swept away by it at several points. It helps that I'm personally interested in some of the material about using her family as comic book fodder, having known at least one tell-all lesbian comic book memoirist myself in my day.
In sum, I loved this book but don't come crying to me if you don't like it. On the other hand, if you read Fun Home and don't like it and can somehow prove to me that you're not a complete fucking idiot and that's the reason why, I will refund any money you paid to buy it.(less)
I really wish the cover to this book were up here; I can't find it anywhere online. It's black with yellow writing, and shows three women standing in...moreI really wish the cover to this book were up here; I can't find it anywhere online. It's black with yellow writing, and shows three women standing in the darkness, two in chador and one unveiled, all three in gigantic 1982-style sunglasses.
So far a really fascinating and helpful book that conveys a sense of what was happening to women's status in revolutionary Iran. It includes articles by leftist, feminist Iranian women (who are understandably freaking out), excerpts from primary documents (such as the new constitution, and comments from Khomeini, Bani Sadr, and Taleghani on the question of the veil and women's rights), and a list of women's organizations in Iran.(less)
Turns out being kidnapped by Muslim fundamentalists can make you get Jesus... Who knew?
If you're not SUPER Christian, you can probably live without at...moreTurns out being kidnapped by Muslim fundamentalists can make you get Jesus... Who knew?
If you're not SUPER Christian, you can probably live without at least 70% of this book. There are some great descriptions of being held hostage, especially earlier on, but the Jesus and home ec details get a little intense. I really liked hearing her take on the young female guards, sort of wish there'd been more of that and fewer hymns, but what can ya do... Koob does seem like a nice, sweet lady, and she does convey a sense of the hostage experience.
To me this book is an interesting illustration of what is good and what's bad about religion. On the one hand, her faith clearly helped Koob immeasurably in getting through her ordeal, and preserving a seemingly upbeat and admirable attitude throughout. On the other hand, religious faith is also much of what created that mess in the first place, and it's also what makes this book something of a slog for the heathens among us. Most of the good parts are repeated elsewhere in more secular accounts, so unless you're specifically after an inspirational religious captivity narrative you might as well just stick with those.(less)
Liked the parts I read, hope to come back later and read more of it. Published in 2001 and so I imagine a lot of the western ad stuff has changed a bi...moreLiked the parts I read, hope to come back later and read more of it. Published in 2001 and so I imagine a lot of the western ad stuff has changed a bit since then.(less)
This is not a good book. Ebtekar comes off pretty much as described in other sources -- a humorless true believer, tiresome and gratingly one-note as...moreThis is not a good book. Ebtekar comes off pretty much as described in other sources -- a humorless true believer, tiresome and gratingly one-note as most extremely political and religious people are. This is more political tract than a participant's account of the Embassy takeover, and moreover it is a badly written one. I'm not sure why that should be, as Ebtekar didn't write the book herself: it's an "as told to" by a journalist named Fred Reed, and so I can't figure out how stuff like this ended up in here: "[In his memoirs hostage Rocky Sickman] comments on the friendly relations that developed between many of the hostages and the students, which gave the lie to the propaganda then circling the globe. Of that label used to malign Swedish humanitarianism, the 'Stockholm Syndrome,' not a trace was to be found" (p. 144). Uh... what? What does that even mean??? There is quite a bit of weird stuff like that in this book, bizarre comments and odd diction that can't be explained away as language barrier issues, as Ebtekar speaks fluent English and presumably Fred Reed does too.
Okay, but that being said, despite its not being good, I still found this book useful. Ebtekar does seem like an unlikeable ideologue, but she is no dummy, and there are admirable things about her: she is certainly intelligent and courageous. One thing that was interesting to me in reading other hostage crisis accounts was how Ebtekar is inevitably portrayed in them as a chubby, ugly, and unpleasant woman -- in other words, she's insulted not just for her role as a fundamentalist spokesperson for the hostage takers, but for not being sexually attractive. (One source cited by David Harris memorably describes her as "a dour young woman with a horsey face that looked out from under a homely scarf [with a] miserable rabbit-like demeanor" -- mixed animal metaphors I can't recall being applied to male hostage takers.) Although Ebtekar doesn't address this in her book, I think it supports her criticism of women's position in the secular west. To her credit, she doesn't try to pretend that her own culture isn't also demeaning to women, but she feels that Islam itself is not, and argues that it is vastly preferable to western-style feminism.
One thing this book really emphasized is how the students were kids. Unlike American sources who highlight their ignorance and perceived ineptitude, what Ebketar got across most was their somewhat naive idealism. While acknowledging that they were in many ways in over their heads, she has done the math, decades later, on what the students did, and concludes that it was a good thing. Without agreeing with her, I will admit that I can see her point of view, and what was good about this book was that it showed me the students' perspective in a way that I haven't seen in the American-penned accounts I've been reading. I can't really recommend this book, but I guess I'm glad that I read it.(less)
We complain about the religious fanatics in this country, and definitely we should keep an eye on them, because man oh man, things sure could be worse...moreWe complain about the religious fanatics in this country, and definitely we should keep an eye on them, because man oh man, things sure could be worse.
I liked this. It was cute but in a substantial way, interesting, and emotionally compelling. Satrapi made a point of representing her childhood self as kind of an asshole in a realistic and endearing little-kid way, which I thought was cool and served the book well. In a lot of stories about political repression the heroes are saintly people, but she and her family were so much like my own family and people I know that I got a much better sense of what it would be like to have religious wingnuts running my country. The descriptions of growing up amidst the political turmoil and repression and the war of 70s/80s Iran were effective because the characters seemed so real and familiar. I've been reading a lot about Iran during this era, but embarrassingly this is the first thing I've read from an Iranian perspective. Hope to read more and definitely would love some suggestions.(less)
I can't for the life of me figure out what makes this novel so great, but damn it is great. I wish I knew why.
You might protest and cry, "Oh but I hav...moreI can't for the life of me figure out what makes this novel so great, but damn it is great. I wish I knew why.
You might protest and cry, "Oh but I have already read so many novels about repressed twentieth-century housewives!" But that is like being offered a plate of chocolate chip cookies and saying, "No thank you. I've tried those before."
Chocolate chip cookies are delicious and aren't less so for being frequently baked. And anyway, you haven't had a cookie quite like this one before.
Told in a series of 117 titled vignettes, Mrs. Bridge is the story of an affluent woman living in 1930s-ish Kansas City. In a weird way what it reminded me of was Less Than Zero, just in the sense that yes, rich housewives are easy targets in the same way that stoned spoiled LA teenagers are. But both books, for me, really start when you realize that they're not just talking about their subjects, and that what you thought was the floor is actually a flimsy false bottom covering that yawning abyss on the brink of which we all cravenly teeter.
The difference, of course, is that this is an infinitely better book by an immensely gifted writer who possesses heart, nerve, and brains. Really curious to read more by Evan S. Connell; looks like he's written a bunch of crazy looking shit since this came out in the fifties, and still at it! Not sure if I'm as interested in Mr. Bridge as some of his more different stuff. Any thoughts from those who know? The Custer book looks pretty cool...(less)
Man, I really loved this. Memoir might be another one of those things that I think I really hate, but in fact don't. I might just hate the idea of it,...moreMan, I really loved this. Memoir might be another one of those things that I think I really hate, but in fact don't. I might just hate the idea of it, of how rampant it's become and how much memoir embodies this idea that's so pervasive right now about how everyone's individual story is so fascinating and important just because it's true, and how any level of event or emotional pain so significant and unique and worth moaning on about, only because it happened... A lot of the reviews on here took issue with the "emotional purge" quality of this book, which I get because it's the kind of thing that would normally bother me too, but for me it really worked here, not just in spite but because of its endlessly repetitive -- and arguably narcissistic -- exploration of psychic trauma and self.
The Sisters Antipodes passes the My Dark Places memoir test, i.e., it answers with an aggressive "yes" the question "Did anything unique or remarkable happen in your life that is worth exploring in a memoir?" The book is about Alison's family which, while probably not any less happy than your average family is unhappy in a more interesting way. In 1965, when Alison was four, her parents -- an Australian couple in the foreign service -- met another couple -- Americans, also in the foreign service, with two daughters around the same age as Jane and her sister. While the details of what happened next remain a bit unclear, both couples immediately divorced and reconfigured in only slightly altered mirror images of each other, and of what they had just recently been. Jane, her older sister, and their mother moved to the United States with Jane's stepfather, Paul, while her father stayed in Australia with his new wife and her two daughters. None of the four girls saw their biological fathers for the next seven years, acclimating to their new families and countries with the knowledge that on the other side of the globe, there was a shadow family for whom they'd been unceremoniously swapped. The book is about what this experience was like for Alison, and particularly focuses on her relationship with Jenny, her counterpart step-sister down-under, and both girls' serious issues both with each other and with their complex configuration of fathers.
As the child of an infinitely more prosaic divorce myself, I found a lot of this story seriously resonated with me. The concept of the book is successful because the premise -- which is, let's face it, far too schematic and contrived and unbelievable for a novel -- really works as a literary device through which to look at common experiences using an exceptionally poetic situation. In our culture, I'd say, the experience of father absence to some degree is far more common than not (see Chodorow, 1979). While this seems to be changing, a very large percentage of women my age and older can probably relate to a lot of Alison's obsessions with her father's attention and approval. A lot of the things she gets into about jealousy and competition in reconfigured families is also very common and is well-treated here. I mention this because I think part of my prejudice against memoir is that it's solipsistic and inherently navel-gazey, and I didn't find The Sisters Antipodes to be because, like good fiction, it was about a lot more than itself.
That said, there are some things in here that I can see not everyone could get into. For one thing, it must be said that Jane Alison is a good-looking blonde who went to Princeton. This fact isn't incidental to her story: it is a crucial point, and necessarily comes up a lot. Rightly or wrongly, some of us might have a very hard time relating to the problems of a good-looking blonde who has had an interesting, and in some ways privileged life, who's endowed with certain natural advantages and talents. Despite the difficulties she's faced at times, Alison is a winner, and the book is about how she wins, not at all in a celebratory inspirational way, but in a fairly ruthless and Darwinian sense that I found both profoundly honest and fascinating. I think there's a tendency in first-person accounts to play down one's winningness, because most readers can relate best to the aw-shucks underdog schmucky type who's more like us. But The Sisters Antipodes isn't about someone like that; it's about a girl who has a lot going for her, and knows it, who is competitive in ways that are difficult and damaging not just to people in her life, but to her. And that's a story that's maybe harder to relate to for a lot of readers than that of the hapless wallflower Jane-next-door, but it's also a lot more interesting, to me anyway.
Another thing about this book is that I really liked the language. It's very lush and descriptive, which is not always my thing, but it's cut with a certain dry cynicism that I think helped tether it to the ground. The environments and eras are so well evoked -- 1960s Australia, 1970s Washington D.C., a perplexingly unnamed South American country, etc. -- that I felt I'd been in them, in particular the author's childhood house. Due to my prejudice against memoir, I haven't read much of it, so I can't really compare this example against others of the genre. However, I was struck by the lucidity of her memories, and of how they triggered my own thoughts of times in my life I haven't remembered in years.
Finally, I sat down and read this book pretty much straight through, neglecting everything else in my life until I had finished. This hasn't happened to me in awhile, and I am really grateful for the experience. The writing was so vivid and immersive that I feel as if I'd inhabited the author's world and mind during the time I was reading. I do feel bad for Alison's family -- I am surprised that all these memoirs haven't inspired more murders of telling-all authors by their pissed-off siblings and parents -- but as a reader I benefited a lot from her candor, and I'd recommend this book to people (especially women, and men interested in specifically female experiences, who are, as noted here on previous occasions, unfortunately a minority) who might get into this kind of thing.(less)
This is one of the places where the star system breaks down, because I loved -- five-star loved -- some of these stories so much that I became obsesse...moreThis is one of the places where the star system breaks down, because I loved -- five-star loved -- some of these stories so much that I became obsessed and thought about them all the time. But then I liked the ones towards the end less and less, and wound up really feeling repelled (in a bad way) by the last two stories, so.... rating books with stars is so stupid anyway. This is all ridiculously subjective and shouldn't be quantified like that, right? I looked at some reviews on here of people who felt the opposite way I did about which stories were good, which I'd guess could have to do with how the reader feels about Gaitskill's take on sex.
As it happens, Gaitskill and I seem to be pretty much on the same page about sex, specifically about (mostly straight) female sexuality, and I loved most of the first half of this book so much because of that. She leads with the forgettable and harmless jab "College Town, 1980," then delivers a crushing right hand with "Folk Song," which knocked the wind out of me. "Folk Song" was my favorite story in here, even though in theory it seems like some dumb intro-fiction exercise: a woman's response to three articles that happen to be on the same page in the newspaper. But this story made me freak out from how good it was and how shatteringly it cut through to all this really intense stuff about sex and being female I almost know and almost think about but haven't ever even considered trying to put into words myself. I felt similarly about "The Agonized Face," a narrator's response to a suspiciously familiar "feminist author" who "had apparently been a prostitute at some point in her colorful youth, and who had gone on record describing prostitutes as fighters against the patriarchy. She would say stupid things like that, but then she would write some good sentences that would make people say, 'Wow, she's kind of intelligent!'"
There are some extremely good sentences in Don't Cry, and I'd venture to say that Mary Gaitskill is a bit more than kind of intelligent. I've read her stuff before, but for whatever reason some of stories in this collection affected me in a way that most of her other work hasn't. I do see where people are coming from when they get annoyed with all the sex and masochism and what have you, because that kind of thing is annoying and seems gratuitous when it doesn't come off like it's supposed to, and I've read Gaitskill's eighties-hooker stories in the past and just been like, "Whatever." But sometimes -- here -- when she writes about sex and sexual violence and what it's like having a vagina and being a woman around here, she really nails it and pushes through deep into some very dark and out-of-the-way places. And not to get all gross or cheesy anything -- heaven forbid! -- but a few of these stories touched me in a way that left me feeling really almost violated, but also quite moved.
These stories had another effect on me too, that I think's maybe worth noting. In the most general sense I read fiction to escape from the banal and stupid shitshow that's my life, and successful fiction rescues me from my surroundings in two ways. It either takes me outside of my world, as the sleazy crime fiction I've been reading does, by essentially constructing painted cardboard panels all around me then projecting characters onto them, so I'll be distracted and amused and shielded from the mundane reality still going on, hidden behind the screens. Alternatively -- and okay, this maybe is too silly or snotty a leap, but it might point to a distinction between simple fiction and capital-L-Literature -- books can also bleed out of themselves and wind up coloring the way that I experience my life, so that I'm seeing my same world but in a completely new way. While I was reading this book I was no longer stuck in Jessicaland, and instead found myself living in a Mary Gaitskill story. It's different from the cardboard magic-lantern thing, though, because instead of hiding my real life, the stories left me in it, only the way that I experienced that life had changed. Like I'd be riding the subway or looking around at people on the street, or thinking of people I know (perhaps even in the Biblical sense!) and suddenly they'd all be Mary Gaitskill characters too. Which like, might not seem like a purely good thing, but I appreciate that kind of novelty. I can't just live in my own crappy fiction all the time, and having someone more gifted come along and rewrite things can be refreshing. The stories in here made me think about everything differently, which means they're good, or at least that they were good for me. Although I can see how someone else might just make fun of it, "Mirror Ball" was another one I particularly enjoyed that I think changed how I see things somehow; not just human relationships, but possibilities for how to tell a story. I also really liked "Today I'm Yours" a lot, though as with "Folk Song" if someone had described it to me, I wouldn't have wanted to read it.
I did not like the stories towards the end of the book, which are less explicitly about sex and more about boring short-story people whom I didn't like or care about, only not in a fun way. But even writing about this collection -- especially after reading Greg's take on it, which is the exact opposite of mine -- makes me wonder what the point of any of this Bookfacing is. My response to this book felt very, very personal, and seems irrelevant to anyone considering whether or not to read it.
God, you know, I don't even remember why I used to review books on here all the time, what I thought the compelling reason for doing that was. I do like having a record for myself of books and what I thought at the time, because otherwise three weeks on I have no memory of having read them. What I thought of while reading this book was a time that my friend Kristi's family took me with them on their vacation when I was fifteen. We were someplace, who knows where, and I guess there was a fountain or something that looked kind of like a slit in the concrete. And Kristi and I discovered that while we well knew -- and liberally used -- the word "phallic," we had absolutely no idea what the female equivalent was. At this point Kathy, Kristi's stepmom, helpfully interjected and told us that the word we wanted was "yonic." Which it turns out is not in a lot of dictionaries, but that is in fact what it means.
Anyway, the lady can write, and I hugely admired Gaitskill's use of language even in the stories I didn't like. I bet most people could get into some of these stories, though maybe not too many people would love all of them. I would recommend the first half Don't Cry to men who are curious about what it's like to have a vagina, except that (as noted elsewhere) I've noticed a lot of them would rather not know.(less)
I am here to tell you that I have never read Chekov, and I don't think I've ever read Grace Paley either. Hot damn.
--
Okay, so now I've read some Grace...moreI am here to tell you that I have never read Chekov, and I don't think I've ever read Grace Paley either. Hot damn.
--
Okay, so now I've read some Grace Paley (and a little Chekov too, actually), and I'm not sure what I'd expected, but this wasn't it. I think what surprised me about these stories was that they were so cool. I don't mean measured and even and emotionally restrained, I mean cool, they were cool, they were COOL stories! I mean yeah, of course they're dated I guess, being as they were written in the sixties or whatever, but they're still pretty -- well, edgy, I'd say. Edgy, stylish -- not fancy stylish, but like, thrift-store dress that's unexpectedly tight in all the right places kind of stylish. Cool. I thought a lot of these stories were kind of sexy, in this weird way. I really liked the way she wrote about female sexuality, even though the context was inevitably depressing. These stories are pretty much all about poor single mothers, which I guess isn't much of a pitch, but they were very cool, fresh, weirdly fun stories. I'm sort of surprised I somehow hadn't read them before, since there's so much about them that's exactly the kind of thing that I like. They all take place in New York neighborhoods that I know well (in much later, less cool incarnations, of course), and at least one of them is about a social worker, and another one is about a long-distance runner! Weird, right?! I related really personally to some of the material, and appreciated the stories more than someone who didn't feel that probably would. Still, this is a good book of highly readable, cool short stories, and I'd recommend it to pretty much anyone.
I also have this Thing. That I want to say. Though I doubt most people I need to hear this will actually read it.
I know this is the kind of Thing people get really defensive about, so if you really feel like this doesn't apply to you, rest assured that you're probably not who I mean here. But some of you guys (mostly GUYS) need to take a hard, cold, sobering look at the first names on your bookshelves, and think seriously about why you read so few women writers. Chances are, you probably haven't really noticed this, but if you consider the issue, and you notice that it's true, I really do want you to stop and think about why that is.
There is no valid reason not to read women writers, but if you've been avoiding them unconsciously, don't beat yourself up about it. Lots of really intelligent people have this problem, and there's a deep prejudice against lady authors which even a lot of us ladies hold. I think this is the reason why Grace Paley's stories surprised me -- I was expecting something else, something less cool, because she's a Woman Writer with two capital Ws, and we're all scared those books are going to be like Little Women or something. Okay, I shouldn't say that, because I actually haven't read Little Women.... Little Women might be really fucking cool and raw and smart and, uh, I don't know, robust? Virile? I don't know exactly what the stereotypes of women writers are, but they're too unacknowledged and extremely powerful, and it sucks. I mean, it really sucks. It's bad for women writers, and it's bad for all the readers who are ignorantly depriving themselves of really prime cut, top-shelf, unmissable literature.
Like, I am not judging you. I get it. But I am asking you to change. I remember when this guy I used to hang out with read Toni Morrison for the first time, and he was just shocked because her writing was nothing like how he'd expected. I bet this is a very common reaction to her. Toni Morrison's books are brutal and nasty and super intense and insane and frightening. But that's not what people who haven't read her are imagining, because her name is Toni-with-an-i and because she's BFFs with Oprah's Book Club.
But similarly, Oprah's Book Club isn't what a lot of people are imagining. Oprah made all those ladies read The Road. You might not relate to most of the material on her show (I don't), but Oprah is a serious person, and she's into real literature. Hey, and newsflash: women write real literature, and they don't just write stuff you need to be female to appreciate.
I think a lot of otherwise intelligent, thoughtful men -- and also many women -- have this unexamined impression that they wouldn't like most books by women. Where does this idea come from? I think it comes mostly from some profoundly misogynistic beliefs that pervade our culture. Maybe it's partly because women writers are more likely to write about women, and traditionally female concerns, and a lot of people (men and women alike) believe on some level that this is a less interesting and important than books that are primarily about men and traditionally male spheres. I think it's also because a lot of us (I speak for myself here, and I used to be more like this), hold very negative ideas about what women's writing is like. Maybe we are afraid that it will be weak prose, or that it will be boring, and probably the reason we think that is that because on some level we believe that women are weak and boring. But women are not like that -- okay, some are, I guess; but most of us are not, and when we are, it's not because we're women. And such is also the case with women writers.
HEY, has anyone else noticed that the profiles on here note the users' gender? I remember some guy in a feedback group a couple years ago saying he wanted to be able to sort users by gender, presumably so that he wouldn't have to be troubled by hysterical Jane Austen reviews. Did the site take him up on it? Because that is so awesome! It makes me love people!!!
But I digress. Dude. Seriously. Please confront your issues, and go read some girls.(less)
Okay, so earlier this summer I was waiting to see The National play Prospect Park ("Of course you were, Jessica...." -- but bear with me, that's my po...moreOkay, so earlier this summer I was waiting to see The National play Prospect Park ("Of course you were, Jessica...." -- but bear with me, that's my point), and I sent a text message to the guy who'd given me the tickets, thanking him again and observing that "White People don't LIKE seeing The National play Prospect Park; White People LOVE seeing The National play Prospect Park." This was a reference, of course, to the oft-quoted blog that holds a very high place on the seemingly endless list it identified, of Stuff White People Like. Now, I've always felt a bit annoyed and repelled by the lazy shorthand of race there, then ashamed when I use it myself -- since really the demographic group in question is, like the crowd at the bandshell, not exclusively white, and since there are millions of white people whom it does not describe -- but the concept's too pricelessly apt to resist frequent citing.
The brilliance of Stuff White People Like is in its identification of a socioeconomic group which is, yes, largely white, but more to the point Obama-voting, liberal arts degree-holding, farmers market-shopping, NPR-listening, irony-appreciating, New Yorker-subscribing, boutique cable show-watching, indie-rock-listening, Clash tee-shirt-wearing baby-rearing, freelance-or-nonprofit-job-working, and neighborhood-gentrifying, but also profoundly self-loathing in a weird and specific way that is a bit hard either to detach from or reconcile with its incredible self-absorption and uncomfortable, only partly ironic smugness and conviction that the stuff it likes is good.
Jonathan Franzen should be on the list of Stuff White People Like, but he should also be on the (perhaps equivalent) list of Stuff White People Don't Want To Like But Do, which reflects the ambivalent discomfort of this particular group. We don't want to like Franzen, because we're supposed to, and that contrarian streak is built into our bones. And to add to all that, Franzen writes about -- and nails -- our very essence. I can't think of another book that so perfectly sums up and explores the attributes and complexities of this particular set.
Okay, enough with all this generalization: did this white person like Freedom? Well okay, the first 190 pages was the most fun I've had in years. And I did really like Freedom, and wish I could give it three-point-five stars. My criterion for the fourth star is that I itch to read it, and I itched like crazy while reading it. Yeah, this book was good.
A confession: my behavior while traveling in public, and especially on mass transit, can best be described as sociopathic. If you live in this city -- and perhaps even more likely if you don't, but have visited -- there's a fair chance I've harmed you physically while I ran for the train. Sorry, but you probably don't walk fast enough, and I was trying to get to the platform. The TRAIN might be coming, and I GOT to be on it!!! Understand that I am in a great hurry to arrive in short order wherever I'm going, which is somewhat inexplicable since once I'm there I don't have much to do, and will probably just sit there, dicking around on the Internet; but while I'm en route, I'm a terror, and slow old ladies be damned! I'll hit them with my umbrella! I'll give them all flat tires! But while reading Freedom the number of citywide subway station stair assaults must have dropped; I was in no particular hurry to get where I was headed, and often took the local train or waited for the next less-crowded car. I took crosstown buses where normally I motor on foot, and rode elevators instead of my usual mad running up the stairs. Over the past week, I honestly looked forward to my commute, and to deadtime at work waiting in a courtroom, because these moments gave me another opportunity to read. This is one of two of the most important tests of a book: it was so entertaining and so fabulously engaging that I wanted to pick it up at actually all times.
The other test, though, Freedom didn't really pass. I did vastly enjoy a lot of this book, but it didn't give me the more rare and elusive experience that's the other main thing that I want when I'm reading. I didn't ultimately feel moved, not emotionally or ontologically. I didn't see the world, or my life, in an earthshaking new way (I did start wondering briefly about how my parents might've fucked me up, but not in a fruitful way, so I don't think that counts). And while I did definitely like it, and got involved with the characters, by the end I felt disappointed, and also pretty bored.
Sorry, this is already pretty long and not much of a review. Let's see, Freedom is a novel about a family, the Berglunds, and if you want to read a good review of it, I defer to Mike Reynolds. I myself was instantly hooked from the beginning chapter, which is a description of the family from the perspective of the community where they live, and I loved -- loved -- the next portion, an "autobiography" (wonderfully titled "Mistakes Were Made") by the wife, Patty Berglund, which takes us up to page 187. But I'm afraid that for me, things did peak there, and I'm a bit baffled by all the buzz about "greatest living American writer" and "genius." I did like this book. But it wasn't that great.
So but like, I really don't follow these things, but full disclosure, I couldn't free myself while reading from thoughts about the Author, and I really don't think that this was just me. Other reviews on this site have noted that the characters are all a lot the same, but I don't really see that as a problem, and that's kind of what I liked about it. For me, the only character that never really came off was daughter Jessica, which I maybe took too personally, as that is my name (I did like the part where Jessica agonizes over the impossibility of finding a decent New York guy to go out with, though I liked it more in the abstract, and wanted its execution to be more amazing). I felt a bit shortchanged when it came to the son's relationship with his lady; there were all the seeds to be sown, and then we just stopped hearing about them. But my point partly, with the Franzenness, was that the two parents did feel very real, maybe the more so for seeming like two only slightly varying manifestations of the same certain guy.
Here's my beef about Jonathan Franzen, and I know I should do some more google research before I start on with this, but I'm feeling kind of lazy, and I doubt anyone's still reading this.... See, I associate him, like a lot of people, with that Oprah thing in the nineties, when he withdrew from being in the Oprah bookclub, got lots of shit, and as a result (maybe) became wildly popular. Franzen's Wikipedia article has a quotation from him at that time, in which he explains that he didn't want people thinking The Corrections was a women's book (by "people" I mean men, of course) and therefore not reading it. Now again, I'm only dimly aware of what's been going on recently, but I've heard lady authors are bitching (like we do) about all the press and blowjobs Franzen's been getting, and suggesting that this is really all because of that Y-chromosome he has. And honestly, I was distracted while reading this by my conviction that it's true.
I don't want to plagiarize, though I can't remember who said it, but some upset woman I read at some point was complaining about the "chick lit" ghetto and said that Franzen writes what are essentially domestic novels, and that if he weren't a man they'd be considered women's fiction. And that, friend, is true. It is painfully true. Especially the better, earlier, female-perspectived portion of this novel is all about relationships and a marriage and family, and all those lady things. And if Jonathan were Jessica Franzen, at least half the readers he has (except Mike Reynolds, boy wonder, who actually reads stuff by chicks!) would never have touched it and it would've had some dumb pinky cover, but because he's a man, it's a Serious Novel. Yeah, actually I do really think that. Without all the male masturbation and the obviously male author, this could've so easily been written off as chick lit. And it makes me -- perhaps unjustly -- hate Jonathan Franzen to think that he might not recognize that. It might not seem this way, but I'm not one of those people who carries on endlessly about WhiteMalePrivilege, but I actually do want to with him. Because he gets the kind of attention that similarly talented women wouldn't get, while writing about topics that aren't considered Serious when women write about them.
Okay, I'm sorry, I'm rambling again (really bad day at work, srsly, sorry). This book, hm, well what more can I say? Franzen is a terrific writer, and I loved the addictive easiness of his prose style, which can unfortunately come back and bite an author because it makes any glitch seem egregious. I hated the partial sentences that seemed to creep in more as the novel progressed, though I might not have noticed them if his writing weren't otherwise so perfect. He writes sentences as readable as the most digestible best-seller, but good. The problem is that being that good makes people angrier if you let them down. (Especially if those people are me, and apply ridiculously high standards to anything they have great hopes for, while giving tons of social work sympathy to the obvious losers. You guys should hope that I never have children! I'll criticize and neglect the good kid, while coddling the fuck-up.)
Okay, I did feel let down by this book; again, I really liked it. But by the end I felt bored by the characters, especially by depression (which is deadly boring; note my biases, as a reader who was unable to make it all the way through David Foster Wallace's short story "The Depressed Person" despite thinking it brilliant), and I really thought the plot and characters ran off the road at later points into melodrama. At a certain early juncture I felt sure our Berglunds' marriage would survive, though I wasn't sure I cared that it did, or what that had to do with me.
But don't get me wrong! This was a very fine novel. Frazen's ability to create characters is wonderful, and the whole thing's pretty zeitgeisty, which is nice in this dying form. No, sorry Jonathan: it's not War and Peace. But in its mostly successful efforts to link the narcissistic and eerily familiar concerns of individuals to the larger events and forces of our time, it is a lot closer than anything recent I can think of.
Best of all, now I have something to fall back on, the next time I'm at a Brooklyn party and the White People are all talking about True Blood. "Haven't seen it," I'll admit, as I swig a microbrew. "But have you read Freedom?"
Thick, THICK description, very tangible scenes that she puts you in and really makes you see and feel and smell, etc. Great writing. Subject matter of...moreThick, THICK description, very tangible scenes that she puts you in and really makes you see and feel and smell, etc. Great writing. Subject matter of some a bit wearying, in that dramatic life's-just-oh-so-tragic short story kind of way, but that might just be me and my personal hangups. I'm so tired of everyone and their literary fucking drug addictions and fatal car crashes and dead parents and what have you! But then, what is it I want people to be writing about instead? I have no idea. Winning contests? Vacuuming? Playing with a puppy? Anyway, Orringer's a very good writer and I'm extremely jealous of her because she's around my age and I'd prefer if if good writers would always be substantially older.... Or at least weird-looking? I hate it when people are prettier than me and also very talented. Oh well, such is life. I should be used to it by now.(less)
So after reading this, I'm no more clear on the Man Question than I was when I started. One thing I did learn is that good editors are necessary. And...moreSo after reading this, I'm no more clear on the Man Question than I was when I started. One thing I did learn is that good editors are necessary. And Maureen Dowd, unfortunately, did not seem to have one.
This book just did not work. I gave it two stars because I did wolf it down quickly, and because the experience of reading it wasn't actually painful. There were definitely parts in here that I enjoyed quite a lot. But the book -- with its stylized, beguiling cover -- was a huge disappointment, and I guess basically felt like a big waste of time. Not just my time, either, but also Ms. Dowd's. I feel like she could've written a much better book, but she needed an editor, someone to help structure things. This wasn't really what I think of when I think of a book, it was more a 338-page stream of consciousness. To her credit, Dowd is reasonably entertaining and does get off a few truly great lines (not for nothing, I did laugh out loud a few times), and I felt like she would be a pretty great person to hang out with. I'd love to shoot the shit with Maureen Dowd, but I would not read another one of her books, unless I was assured that she'd gotten herself together.
I really don't think this book had to be the failure that it was. The biggest problem might be its title, Are Men Necessary? "Wow!" the potential reader thinks. "ARE men necessary? Is she really going to argue here that they're NOT?" See, this is a very provocative title that really makes the book seem like it's going to be ABOUT something, and not just about anything, but a new and controversial idea. There's a part in the book where Dowd's describing the confusion of men in bars who try to pick up women dressed like slutty porn stars, only the women turn out not to be slutty porn stars at all, but nice girls who just dress like that because everyone does now. The men are disappointed and annoyed by the false advertising, and I really do think that this is what's happened here. If I had opened this book not expecting any coherent point or specific argument or pronouncement about gender roles, I probably would have enjoyed it a lot more. If Dowd had packaged it more as just a sampler of her thoughts on various issues somehow related to gender, and then figured out a way to add a little bit of structure, I definitely wouldn't have been so frustrated with it. But thinking I was going to get some biting feminist treatise then being left with a rambling, if sometimes amusing cruise through various battles in the gender wars of the past twenty years was.... well, it was like finding out the girl with the silver miniskirt, no underwear, and visible Brazilian is actually saving herself for marriage, and just wants to hold hands. There's nothing inherently wrong with holding hands, I guess, it's just not where I expected this date was going.
I think this is a good warning about books and covers: your book will be judged by its cover, whether it's on the library shelf or lined up on Friday night at the bar. So if your content doesn't match up, you should get a good editor/put on a longer skirt, or the horny fratboy/gentle reader will be sorely disappointed.(less)
So I've been having a pretty spectacular summer full of excellent beach days and trips out of town, but even with all the sweating and skin-showing, s...moreSo I've been having a pretty spectacular summer full of excellent beach days and trips out of town, but even with all the sweating and skin-showing, something does seem a bit off. So I sat down and did some thinking as I sipped a very tall glass of black iced tea cut with mint. Through the haze and humidity, the thought slowly dawned that the fly in my tanning oil might just be my reading list. Naomi Klein? Coetzee? With these temperatures?? I settled back in my deck chair, nibbled some homemade ice cream, and I thought a little more (it wasn't easy). Finally I realized what -- besides the endless heat wave -- would make Summer 2010 truly one for the record books: a little summer Love Machine! Yeah, we'll make out under the dock.... we'll stay out 'til ten o'clock.... yeah, that's right: Jackie S and I sunbathing in matching Pucci bikinis. Could there possibly be a more scorching vision?
So far this book is amazing, and the horrifying plight of its beautiful heroine finally a tragedy I can relate to. Enough with the torture chambers and violence and geopolitical horrorshow. Bring on 1960 network television executives and their slutty secretaries! Then please hold my calls, cancel my table at "21," and just have the pharmacist send my scrips over. I'll be out by the pool if anyone needs me!
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THE REVIEW:
Okay, so this was no Valley of the Dolls, but honestly, what is? The Love Machine isn't a timeless classic of Western Literature like Dolls, but it was sure a lot of fun. The main character here is hunky, emotionally crippled Robin Stone, who epitomizes Susann's image of masculinity. Women love him, men fear him, etc., etc., rinse and repeat.... The "structure" (if I may) of the novel is that it's divided into three parts, each named for one of the many women who madly love Robin. And madly love him tragically because, being as he is the Übermensch-with-Mommy-Issues, Robin sure can screw, but he cannot Love Back. So it is with great irony that he is known as "The Love Machine," which also refers in this book to television, the industry of which dominates the characters' lives.
As my mother's comment below suggests, it's almost impossible to review this book today without mentioning Mad Men. This book is to Mad Men as the authentic, stained, and unflattering but brainshakingly awesome 60s housedress you found at the Goodwill Bins is to a three-digit-price-tagged designer retro-chic sixties-inspired skirt selling at a Soho boutique. In other words, friends, The Love Machine is the real deal, and it's dreadfully hideous, but it's just so much fun. My favorite thing about this book was all the insane period details, which I fervently hope describe a culture that actually existed, even though that's pretty hard to believe. Even though it's not overtly about the despair of substance abuse like Dolls was, the people in this book just drink and smoke constantly, and when it's time to go to sleep, they always take sleeping pills. Like that was just what you did when it was time to go to sleep in this era, you took a pill (or some pills) and then lay down in your bed. Also the only thing anyone ever eats in this book is a steak. When a girl's really in love with the guy and is trying to get him to marry her, instead of going out to "21" she has the guy over and cooks him a steak. And then they hold hands and watch television and drink a beer, which in this book is not considered an alcoholic beverage (vodka and scotch are alcohol, and people drink beer when they're "on the wagon"). The girls are all always putting in their diaphragms or taking them out, depending on their intentions and the demands of the situation. From what I could tell, "making love to him" is lingo here for a blowjob. I believe that cold cream is employed as a lubricant. When the girls cry about something, as they do pretty frequently, it takes them literally an hour to fix their makeup because they're all wearing false eyelashes and pancake. Occasionally if they're sad or casual (in light makeup) they'll have a hamburger instead of a steak. When the girls get dressed up, they have to put on a FALL! All these bizarre period details were my favorite thing here.
My other favorite thing was the deranged, unabashed, over-the-top inventive silliness of the plot. This is one of those no-holds-barred books: out-of-the-blue medical drama? Of course. Orgies? Why not? There is a ton of gay sex in this book, which was fun. Psychotherapy? Amnesia? Plastic surgery? Italian villas? Graphic violence? Check, check, check, check, CHECK! Yeah, basically every soap opera cliche and insane, shameless plot turn you can think of is crammed into this baby, to wonderful effect. For me, one of the more memorable parts of Barbara Seaman's underwhelming biography Lovely Me: The Life of Jacqueline Susann was her portrait of the author as a young girl. I seem to recall her playmates describing Jackie as a loud, sex-obsessed child who always craved attention and had no shame in pursuing it. And I remember remembering the kids like that that I knew -- larger than life children who just said and did and thought the most insanely filthy and creative things, who told bizarre, outlandish lies that no one would believe but which were fascinating, and who never toned it down or were shy or afraid of consequences. Jacqueline Susann was obviously one of those kids, and she never grew out of it. That's what makes this book so much fun: there's no sense of restraint or effort at anything more elevated than purely pleasurable entertainment. It's just wild, and out there, and she never stopped typing to ask, "Is this really believable?"; "Is it offensive?"; "Is this dumb?". No, she just kept probably popping Dexedrine and letting her imagination go wild. No distracting thoughtfulness, no inhibitions.... like a regular love machine.
Reminiscent of some monstrous creamsicle nearly too big for one's mouth, this was the ultimate summer novel, and I truly did relish it.(less)
A lot of people seem to have a negative reaction to this book, which I totally get. I didn't find Jamison a particularly likable person, and this wasn...moreA lot of people seem to have a negative reaction to this book, which I totally get. I didn't find Jamison a particularly likable person, and this wasn't great literature, though it did go down fast and smooth.
Be that as it may, I've strongly recommended An Unquiet Mind several times, and I can't judge it by the normal standards that I apply to most books. I see An Unquiet Mind as performing a specific and vital function, at which I think it succeeds extremely well: that is, Jamison's memoir does a spectacular job of demonstrating that a) severe mental illness can and does affect intelligent, high-functioning people who periodically struggle with symptoms but are able to manage their illness and live full, meaningful lives; and (more uniquely and importantly, I think) b) An Unquiet Mind does an AMAZING job of demonstrating how powerful one's lack of true insight into one's mental illness can be. Jamison is a psychologist, and it's just incredible to hear her describe how her vast stores of knowledge about psychiatric symptoms, and about her own illness, were useless against her mind's conviction that she's fine, and not symptomatic, and doesn't need medication. It's just such a great illustration of how intelligence and knowledge aren't assets at all -- and might even be liabilities -- when it comes to understanding and accepting one's own psychiatric disorder.
As a social worker, I work with people who are diagnosed with severe mental illness -- mostly schizophrenia, but also many with severe bipolar disorder. The vast majority of my clients have little in common with the relatively wealthy, privileged Jamison aside from a diagnosis, and I doubt most would relate much to her story, but on occasion I try to force one of them to read this book. An Unquiet Mind is good medicine for literate, intelligent people who would be successful in maintaining jobs and relationships if they could manage their symptoms, who fear that their diagnosis is a death sentence for their chances at a "normal life." I think Jamison does an excellent job of showing how this struggle to live with a severe mental illness plays out, and of getting across how difficult it is to accept the realities and limitations of one's disease in the interest of reclaiming the sense of self and real life that disease has jeopardized.
Actually, a lot of the most annoying and boring parts of this book -- e.g., Jamison's emphasis on her tiresome love affairs and her tic of constantly reminding us how great she is -- are much of what I want certain of my clients to read. Being diagnosed with a psychotic disorder is terrifying and can be very dehumanizing. People are often scared that they'll never be able to have romantic relationships, that they won't be able to work, that their brains will never function properly. People in that position need reassurance that being mentally ill doesn't mean you're unattractive or stupid or doomed to become some pathetic and useless zombified shuffler. I'd recommend this book to people who could relate somewhat to the author, who need to know that they can recover from mental illness. I'm glad that Kate Jamison wrote it, because even if it's flawed as a book, An Unquiet Mind succeeds in providing a crucial sense of the reality of that hope.(less)
I remember when I read Where I Was From a couple years ago, Didion referred a lot to her novel Play It As It Lays and I thought it sounded really bad....moreI remember when I read Where I Was From a couple years ago, Didion referred a lot to her novel Play It As It Lays and I thought it sounded really bad. About a year ago I found an old edition someplace with this enormous and brain-numbingly awesome picture of Didion with her cigarette and legendarily icy, ironical stare. I really came close to buying it just because of that image on the back, but then I had a real stern confrontation with myself in the used fiction aisle about the folly and immaturity of buying a book I'd never want to read just for the author photo.
Well, silly me. Yesterday I found myself the grudging owner of a deeply unappealing FSG reprint that looks like an, I don't know, J. T. Leroy book or something else totally inappropriate and awful and contemporary. No fun at all! So it's funny to be reading something I never thought I'd have any interest in, but isn't that sort of the essence of maturity? I feel like I've sort of grown into Joan Didion. She used to epitomize all these things I hated, but now I find a lot of that same stuff pretty appealing.... story of my life, right? Story of most of ours, probably.
But anyway, yeah, this book. Well, I didn't have such a strong reaction to it, but like everything of Ms. Didion's I've read, I found it very well-written. I'd recommend this to anyone who liked Less Than Zero, who thinks they might enjoy essentially the same nihilistic LA-story more if it were set in the sixties, about a grown woman instead of a teenage boy, written by a better writer. I'd also recommend this to people who loved Valley of the Dolls yet who cling to certain literary pretensions. Since both these definitely describe me, it's not surprising that I did enjoy this book. I mean, it's a beautiful-woman-crashing-to-pieces yarn, and everyone loves those, don't they? No? Well, then don't waste your time. Read some of her essays instead.(less)
This is a really great book. Elaine Showalter claims to have written the first comprehensive overview of American women writers, and as I love and tru...moreThis is a really great book. Elaine Showalter claims to have written the first comprehensive overview of American women writers, and as I love and trust Dr. Showalter, I have no reason at all not to believe her.
First of all: Elaine Showalter is married. To a man. Yes, yes, I was disappointed too, but if we can't sweep her off her feet and spirit her away to live in our castle, at least we might enjoy her engaging critical history of important lady authors from the Pilgrims' day until now! Dry your tears, gang, and go purchase this highly attractive and well-designed book. Please don't be shy! I've never read anything like this before, and I know it sounds boring, but it isn't at all. Elaine Showalter is awesome and fun. She is totally not that Women's Studies chick in your dorm, with the Ani Difranco CDs and "Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History" button and no sense of humor. She is cool and brilliant, and did all this great research! You will learn all about what it was like to be a lady writer in many different eras, and you will be spurred by productive guilt into reading many previously neglected works of American literature! (And also George Eliot. Oh God. Why haven't we read Middlemarch? What's wrong with us? Are we willfully ignorant? We should be killed.)
I learned two main things from this book, one of which I already kind of knew, and that's that Being a Woman is Hard and Whew! It Used to be Way a Lot Harder (yeah, I'd heard that before; you probably did too). The other thing I really took away from this is that being a Writer is pretty tough too, which is not something I ever really gave much thought to. I always sort of assumed that if you were a writer you could basically loll around munching bonbons and watching novels come out of you, and that everyone would love the things you wrote, and give your prizes and presents. It turns out there's a lot more to it than that -- struggles, effort, tireless self-promotion, breakdowns, institutionalization, etc., etc.... So maybe it's a good thing I never pursued my childhood dream of becoming an American Woman Writer, because it sounds like a whole lot of work, and not all glamourous like how I thought. Actually, it's worse when it's glamorous somehow, because that seems to be where the alcoholism, illegal abortions, and suicide come in.... but I'm getting ahead of myself! I guess what I'm saying is, a particular interest in female writers isn't a prerequisite, as I think anyone who's interested in writers and writing could get a kick out of this book, which presents such great portraits of these writers' lives and careers.
However, I definitely do recommend this book to anyone who, like me, broke down into helpless feminine hysterics at the part of A Room of One's Own where Virginia Woolf starts talking about Shakespeare's sister. Oh God! It makes me start misting up when I just think about that! The lives in this book are overwhelmingly marked by tragedy and lost opportunities. A lot of the loss does have to do with these authors' gender, but many also come from early deaths or the inability of the writers to manage successfully aspects of their lives, or their literary efforts. Showalter is definitely judging these writers, and evaluating their work to explain how, in her view, they succeeded or failed. I guess this is what they call "criticism," and it's funny stuff because it's so subjective yet stated as fact, but Showalter makes sense, and is a great stylist who's pure pleasure to read. I myself am hoping some people on here read her section on Gertrude Stein, so we can all gather around and throw poop at each other....
Anyway, I really did enjoy this. It's fun to write your own little American Woman Writer biography in your head as you read (e.g., Dead Flamingo Jessica was born in a coalmining town/crumbling mansion/Arizona subdivision into a family of morphine addicts/Deadheads/nuclear physicists/jerks. Crippled by shyness/tuberculosis/existential dread, she never married/left the house/worked a day in her life. Throughout her unhappy career, Jessica struggled to craft the Great American novel/epic poem/Onion article that would bring her the recognition she so desperately craved. However, she ultimately was unable to negotiate between her literary ambitions and duties to her invalid twin/demanding social work job/autistic children/untalented philandering playwright husband. Despite extensive ECT/yoga classes/antibiotic therapy, Jessica died at age thirty of cirrhosis/syphilis/emphysema/a broken heart, leaving only her diary/a sonnet/rambling online book reports. She is buried in Potters Field/Arlington/Père Lachaise in an unmarked grave.). For me, the book fell apart a little at the end, which makes sense because it's sort of a history, and you can't really write history about now because it hasn't finished happening yet. The newer writers' summaries felt a bit strange, maybe in part because Showalter didn't want to delve into the dirty laundry of E. Annie Proulx, who she probably runs into sometimes at conferences and things. Also, the ding-dong-the-witch-is-dead ending -- "Now women can write about whatever they want, and there's no more oppression and everyone loves them, because men don't read anymore anyway!" -- felt a little too tidy, even if it's kind of true.
Anyway, though, this was great. I loved it. Showalter doesn't seem to have many axes to grind, but one is with the feminist critics of yesteryear who went back and reclaimed this old stuff, who just said it's all great because it's by girls. I took her to say there was a time when we needed that, but the time is passed, and now we should be critical. Showalter is, and it's good stuff to read.
One caveat: I liked the parts about writers I wasn't familiar with more than the parts about writers I knew, so someone who knows more about American women writers than I do might not find this as exciting as I did. Although, if you happen to be into these writers, it seems you'd have even more of an interest in reading this book. I actually sort of think almost anyone with an interest in American fiction would be better off having and reading this book. You might even just use it as a reference, but it's so readable I bet you'd get through it all without meaning to.(less)
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