James Lasdun's memoir is his account of being cyber-harassed by "Nasreen," a former student in one of his creative writing classes. This book is sheer...moreJames Lasdun's memoir is his account of being cyber-harassed by "Nasreen," a former student in one of his creative writing classes. This book is sheer art, written by one of the best writers I've ever encountered. Too bad it's complete bullshit.
You see, while this is one of the most beautifully and masterfully crafted memoirs you'll ever read, it's also a memoir with an agenda.
Here's the deal.
Lasdun explains that "Nasreen" contacts him out of the blue two years after she graduated. Fine. They begin a cordial enough email relationship that turns somewhat flirtatious. Lasdun then reminds Nasreen that he is happily married (he will reaffirm this contradiction in terms several times for his readers as well, just enough to make us want to call bullshit on the spot). The two continue the correspondence until, for some inexplicable reason, Nasreen starts flooding Lasdun's inbox with hateful, antisemitic, threatening, conspiracy-oriented and otherwise batshit crazy emails. Lasdun's agent and employers also receive these lovely emails...for years.
For no other reason than the fact that Nasreen is just unstable, she also begins smearing Lasdun on Facebook, in comment threads under book reviews, and even on our fair Goodreads.
The basic flaw, of course, is that Lasdun's account of these events makes about as much sense as Fatal Attraction would if the fuck scene was cut out. In short? Middle-aged men who are established, have powerful connections, and are in a position of power over young women don't simply "fall victim" to anything. The innocent older man and the crazed-for-no-good-reason younger woman? Suuuure.
Coming to the conclusion that Lasdun is lying about the true nature of his relationship with Nasreen--and his role in unleashing the madness--doesn't require close reading and literary expertise. Everyone from The New Yorker to Goodreads reviewers have pointed out that Lasdun's "pure innocence" is either a lack of self-awareness or a complete lie.
While I'm likely one of the only readers who adored Lasdun's ramblings about things unrelated to Nasreen--his cross country train trip, his reflections on D.H. Lawrence, his beautiful retelling of Sir Gawain--and happily ignored his pretentiousness, it's that nagging truth of what really happened in his relationship with Nasreen that drove me to the edge. Funny, isn't it? How people want to know the truth? That the truth cannot even be disguised with Lasdun's beautiful writing?
These are the truths that I've managed to figure out with a little Google stalking of my own:
--Lasdun gives a few lines to note that Nasreen is pretty. What he should have told readers is that the girl is goddess beautiful. Find her picture online (it's not that difficult) and you'll be gasping at her presence: a cross between Shakira and a Persian princess. Seeing how beautiful she is suddenly makes Lasdun's "we were just friends" claim seem like..well, horseshit, really.
--All of the comments, except for those Nasreen left on Goodreads (which also happen to be in Lasdun's book),have been wiped clean from Google. A few can be found in Google cache.
--Try talking to Nasreen, and you'll quickly discover that the woman once dead-set on destroying Lasdun's reputation now refuses to speak. In fact, she'll shut down any conversation about Lasdun within seconds. My general impression? The woman is scared shitless to open her mouth about Lasdun. How...odd? Nah, more like how revealing.
The purpose of this book is to scrub Lasdun's online reputation clean--while he makes a buck off it, of course.
I'm guessing the real story went something like this.
1. Lasdun has an inappropriate relationship with a hot young student. Whether it was sex or simply leading her on (I'm guessing he promised her an array of things, from getting his agent to sell her book to letting her have his apartment), Lasdun was toying with Nasreen. Too bad he didn't know she was going to snap.
2. Lasdun's wife busts him. He swears it will never happen again, makes good on his promise, and stops responding to Nasreen's emails.
3. When she doesn't hear again from Lasdun, Nasreen realizes she's been burned. Time for the crazy to come out. Antisemitism, hate mail, cyber-bullying, and harassment ensue. Lasdun doesn't like that Nasreen is accusing him of rape and plagiarism, and he really hates that Goodreads won't remove comments in which she says she doesn't like Lasdun or his books. (Damn that Goodreads! Why won't it censor comments that piss off authors?? Amazon does it! No fair!!)
4. Lasdun gets sick of the harassment and considers his options. He realizes that Reputation.com is expensive and could likely never keep up with Nasreen's prolific internet posts.
5. Lasdun decides to call an attorney. His lawyers contact Nasreen and offer a pretty sweet proposal: Lasdun will write a book all about you, and you'll even get a cut of the royalties. Sign here agreeing to allow Lasdun to paint whatever picture he wants. Sign here agreeing to wipe the internet clean of any remaining comments about him. Sign here to agree to shut the fuck up, now and forever, about anything Lasdun-related, or we will fry you.
5. Nasreen signs. Lasdun writes the book. His reputation is clean. Lasdun is still "happily married" and writing for the New Yorker.
The slimy nature of this whole thing has the double effect of making Nasreen's conspiracy claims suddenly seem not so far-fetched and making Lasdun seem like a shady liar. A genius writer, a master of the written word, but a big, huge, shady, sketchy liar.
So, it's hard to rate this one. I loved it and couldn't put it down. My God, what a writer. But at the same time, I don't like being lied to by writers unless I specifically set out to buy fiction.
Automatic one star for trying to bullshit me without my permission.
And good luck to Nasreen. I hope she made a fortune from this deal. (less)
I have nothing to say about this book other than it was useless.
It was sort of like being stuck in the waiting room at a doctor's office where the on...moreI have nothing to say about this book other than it was useless.
It was sort of like being stuck in the waiting room at a doctor's office where the only magazine available is Cosmo Teen: you get a little horrified about the lives "these kids today" as you turn the pages, but in the end, you don't give a shit because you've got more important things to deal with than the asinine problems of teenagers.
Sucked, and unworthy of my usual author and book destroying rants. (less)
REVIEW CONTAINS SPOILERS. (And FYI: Holy shit. I actually feel mean writing this). Anyway, let's get on with it.
This book motivated me to create a ne...moreREVIEW CONTAINS SPOILERS. (And FYI: Holy shit. I actually feel mean writing this). Anyway, let's get on with it.
This book motivated me to create a new shelf called ZZZZzzzZZZZzz.
So, a small commuter plane crashes in the Canadian wilderness in 1984. The four survivors spend a frigid night on a mountaintop while awaiting rescue. The daughter of one of the survivors goes on to write a book about the entire ordeal.
You bored yet? Don't worry, you will be.
I can see why Carol Shaben finds this topic more fascinating than the rest of us do. After all, her father was one of the survivors. But let's cut away the fluff and get to the bare bones of this memoir.
Our four survivors are a politician, a pilot, a cop, and a criminal with a drinking problem. Know what happens after they're rescued?
The politician leaves office and becomes a political activist instead.
The pilot doesn't get hired at any airlines because of the little commuter jet snafu on his record, but he eventually finds work as a pilot again.
The cop leaves the police force and travels the world. Then he returns to Canada and becomes a cop again.
The criminal is pardoned, enjoys a brief period of sobriety, falls off the wagon, goes broke, and dies.
All that really happened in this book was that four guys had their lives briefly interrupted by a puddle-jumper crash and a cold night on a Canadian mountaintop.
I suppose Shaben could have gotten away with it if she were a better writer, but I just couldn't stand it. Shaben writes a lot like one of my C students in English 101: her repetition got to me (using the word "moan" two or three times per page to describe the aftermath of the crash), and passages like "slugs the size of bananas" (were they banana slugs, perhaps?) and "rakish good looks that wouldn’t seem out of place on the set of a Western movie" mean nothing to me.
This whole book begs for a good rewrite, or at least an editor who knows how to breathe a little life into bland and boring prose.
All of this when I could have been reading (and mocking) Pretty Little Liars or the new Dan Brown book. Ah well. C'est la vie.
With Three Cups of Tea, I had to stop and start over three different times in order to convince myself that it was a...moreSee if you notice a pattern here.
With Three Cups of Tea, I had to stop and start over three different times in order to convince myself that it was a true story. Something about Greg Mortenson descending from a mountain like some biblical figure to a group of adoring villagers just didn't ring true for me. I even found myself thinking of how easy it would be for Mortenson to pocket the cash he was getting to build schools, but brushed aside my own suspicions, thinking that no one would do such a thing. I should have listened to myself. Instead, I was eventually won over by the beautiful writing and I bought in, hook line and sinker. This was of my favorites for years. Oops.
Princess was an equally gripping read, and totally un-put-downable. Yet a third of the way through, my bullshit detector went off. I tossed the book in the trash because I don't appreciate being sold fiction passed off as non-fiction by some white chick from Georgia with a save-the-poor-brown-women-of-the-Middle-East complex because the publishers would rather get rich from the author's book sales instead of exposing her for a lying sack of crap. For someone, anyone, to expose the author, an actual American would have to speak Arabic (ha!), travel to Saudi Arabia, and start asking the royal family some questions. Yeah, that'll happen. Just keep rolling in the cash, guys. Ugh. Whatever.
Good ol' Ingrid Betancourt wrote an enthralling, beautiful, and touching book that was impossible to put down. Even in this one, a little close reading reveals the author to be full of it at times: there are several accounts of other captives that contradict Betancourt's memoir, her writing reads like fiction, and everything she swears by are events that are impossible to verify. At least with Ingrid, we can blame extreme trauma for her half-truths. Hell, we can even forgive her because she's a politician: we expect her to lie.
1. So well-written that it's impossible to put down -- Check 2. Written about a far away and inaccessible place -- Check 3. Because said place is so far away and inaccessible, the story is nearly impossible to verify -- Check 4. READS A LOT LIKE FICTION -- CHECK CHECK CHECK
Know why fake memoirs are so good? Because they're fucking fiction, that's why. Like all of the other too-good-to-be-true "memoirs" or "journalism" books, Beautiful Forevers: Life, Death, and Hope in a Mumbai is just a bunch of shit the author made up. Read the first ten pages. You'll see what I'm talking about.
There's a general rule for memoirs. In order to write one you have to be famous, have lived in close proximity to someone famous, or have survived som...moreThere's a general rule for memoirs. In order to write one you have to be famous, have lived in close proximity to someone famous, or have survived something so unbelievable that it's better than fiction (as in, you can't make this shit up). If you're not famous and haven't exactly lived through, say, this or this, then really, you have no authority.
This lack of authority is precisely the problem with Domenica Ruta's memoir. She comes from no place of authority to even be writing a memoir: she's barely over 30, she's not famous, she's not a survivor of anything 3 out of 4 people haven't dealt with, and her "recovery" happened so recently it could have been yesterday. This can't even qualify as one of those memoirs about surviving childhood adversity or rising above the ashes of despair because, shit, the girl has barely been sober long enough for me to take her seriously. And having no authority means your readers are left wondering what the hell the point of the story is.
In essence, this is a lot of bitching combined with way-too-many-pages of soul-searching that goes from tedious to agonizing.
But that's the thing. Like me, like my friends, like millions of others, Domenica is just another person who had some sucky things happen to her. I'm shocked by how similar she is to my girlfriends from college: Italian-American girls with thick Bahhhstin accents who came from blue-collar families in Peabody and Danvers, who survived traumatic childhoods and were the first of their lot to attend college. And what would those girls say about Ruta's story? Something akin to "You gadda bad ma'? You had it haaahhhd? Me too. So fackin' whaaaaat?" (My sentiments exactly).
The only difference between Ruta and the rest of us? Domenica Ruta broods. And wallows. And doesn't shut ... the fuck ... up. She doesn't seem to get the fact that having bad shit happen to you doesn't make you special, it just makes you like the rest of us. And that's boring.
Two stars for the couple of well-written sections, but, overall...
With Heads in Beds: A Reckless Memoir of Hotels, Hustles, and So-Called Hospitality , something unprecedented has happened in the publishing industry:...more With Heads in Beds: A Reckless Memoir of Hotels, Hustles, and So-Called Hospitality , something unprecedented has happened in the publishing industry: they published a book by (wait for it!)a good writer. >>gasp<< I know. I'm as shocked as you are, really.
While Heads in Bedsis being marketed as Kitchen Confidential with a hotel slant, there's a marked difference between the two books: Anthony Bourdain is a cocky chef who also happens to know how to open a Word Doc on a PC, and thus gets his half-decent memoirs published. Jacob Tomsky, on the other hand? Goddamn, this kid can write.
Don't believe me? Have a look for yourself.
When describing his asshole manager, Tomsky writes that when his supervisor spoke, "it sounded as if his tongue were too swollen for his mouth, the words wet like a flopping fish." (Pen mightier than the sword and all that).
And if you can find me a passage anywhere that more perfectly describes the ambivalence of living in New York City, I'll buy you a Coke: "I couldn't help but think back to New Orleans. Hadn't I been happier there? I was a nicer person there, right? How come I'd even stayed this long in New York? I might have already left the city, but in a way New York put a hex on me. The gravity is so strong here, that center-of-the -world feeling, it made leaving the city unfathomable." I feel you, bro.
And then there is his description of New Orleans during Mardi Gras, which is nothing short of poetry. "I sat down ...watching the evening sun bleed from the streets, the city shifting into night, when it truly became New Orleans: the music, the constant festival, the smell of late evening dinners pouring out, layering the beer-soaked streets, prostitutes, clubs with DJs, rowdy gay bars, dirty strip clubs, the insane out for a walk, college students vomiting in trash cans, daiquiri bars lit up like supermarkets, washing-machine-sized mixers built into the walls...lone trumpet players, grown women crying, clawing at men in suits, portrait painters ... jazz music pressing up against rock and roll cover bands, murderers, scam artists, hippies selling anything, magic shows and people on unicycles, flying cockroaches the size of pocket rockets, men in drag ... the affluent, the beggars, the forgotten, and the soft spring air pregnant with every scent created by such a town." Whoa. (Yeah, Jacob Tomsky is in no way an Anthony Bourdain. Hey Norton people, are you reading? Anthologize this shit already).
And don't worry. Despite the good writing and many references to classical philosophy and literature (and those references are correct, by the way, which in itself is surprising given that publishers crank out any old crap without bothering to check Cliff's Notes for accuracy), the book is hilarious (think of me when you get to the section about Room 212) and is bound to inspire a maniacal laugh or two.
The hotel info? Just an added bonus. All of Tomsky's tactics are likely to score you upgrades and free alcohol the next time you stay in a hotel. Sweet!
Hmmm, let's see.... Exceptionally good writing, humorous, and useful. Know what I call that? Un-put-down-able.
I bought this on impulse (damn Kindle)because the title was on some Amazon "Best Non-Fiction of 2012" list that came in my email. Best of 2012? Heh.
P...moreI bought this on impulse (damn Kindle)because the title was on some Amazon "Best Non-Fiction of 2012" list that came in my email. Best of 2012? Heh.
People Who Eat Darkness is the story of a Tokyo murder that happened in 2000, sort of like In Cold Blood meets Murakami. The only problem? People Who Eat Darkness has none of the Murakami and an excess of Capote.
What I'm saying is, all of these true-crime novels, from In Cold Blood to Helter Skelter to People Who Eat Darkness, are boring as hell. The most interesting parts of the story are always the suspenseful moments of the doomed characters' last hours of life. After the crime is committed? Then it's all trials, denials, and convictions. YAWN.
This book was like trying to read an episode of Dateline, except there was no eerie background music, no panning to a guy in a prison jumpsuit insisting he's innocent, and no drunken Diane Sawyer to lighten up the mood.
And why would you read this endless, rambling, researched-to-the-point-of-exhaustion book when you can just watch the entire story on Dateline on YouTube and be done with it in an hour?
**Full (embarrassing) disclosure: I watched Guiding Light from the time I was 12 to about 14. Somehow, despite only having watched sporadically after...more**Full (embarrassing) disclosure: I watched Guiding Light from the time I was 12 to about 14. Somehow, despite only having watched sporadically after that, I still know way too much about the show. I never followed Kim Zimmer's character that much, and only ended up reading this thing because it came up in a work discussion and I got curious.**
Disclaimer over. Let's start.
The basic deal is that Kim Zimmer played the wildly popular Reva Shayne on Guiding Light for almost as many years as I've been breathing. In the few episodes I did manage to catch Zimmer, her character was a loudmouth sceeching skwak who tossed herself in fountains (no shit), cried a lot, and was always falling prey to some sort of histrionic fit.
That's what makes you a daytime superstar in America. Not too shocking, I guess.
The authorial voice that Zimmer uses in this book is just as over the top and obnoxious as that of Reva Shayne. It's a lot like reading a long high school yearbook entry (written by one of those I-think-I'm-more-popular-than-I-am classmates whose bubbly writing takes up an entire page) or one of Zimmer's Emmy speeches: extended thank-yous, a lot of not funny TMI tidbits, and irritating one-liners.
The thing is, though I was more than ready to rip Zimmer a new one, I can't do it. The actress -- who I always thought looked like an overweight, alcoholic, over-tanned smoker -- eventually ditches the annoying Reva voice and becomes candid about her weight gain, quitting smoking, and her alcohol abuse. She even dishes some delightful behind the scenes gossip about Guiding Light, the TV show that went from being an American institution to un-watchable trash that was only on at the nail salon.
So, I can't hate Kim Zimmer or her book.
Does that mean you should read it? Absolutely not. Much like the daytime television that made Zimmer famous, this book is a complete waste of time.
I first encountered Dominique Moceanu the same way everyone else did: on TV when she was a bright-eyed 14 year-old at the 1996 Atlanta Games. I still...moreI first encountered Dominique Moceanu the same way everyone else did: on TV when she was a bright-eyed 14 year-old at the 1996 Atlanta Games. I still remember the little tumbler with an eerie resemblance to Nadia, talking all about how in this moment her life was "absolutely perfect." That struck me so much that now, 16 years later, I still remember my first thoughts at hearing those words. I thought, "Well, that kid's either naive or lying." After reading this memoir, I suspect it was -- and still is -- a combination of both.
This book reads like a blog, and that's probably because all of the information available here can be found on Dominique Moceanu's Wikipedia page. That's right. Her accusations of abuse at the hands of her father an the Karoyli's, the spat with Kim Zmeskal (don't worry, Dommi, you win, Kim Zmeskal sucks!), the eating issues, the drugs, the sister given up for adoption that Dominique didn't know existed until 4 years ago: it's already up on the Internet, and it takes about ten minutes to read. This book expands on none of it and just rehashes it all at a Sports Illustrated level of literacy.
The only thing that did strike me as somewhat fascinating was the fact that by the end of the book, Dominique is all growed up and claiming to have a life of near perfection. Even the title of the book, "Off Balance" implies that her hardships are in the past and that her present life is balanced. How familiar. How like the 1996 Games when everything was "perfect." How naive.
I suspect that we'll be hearing from Dominique Moceanu again in several years, perhaps in another memoir, and hopefully with juicer details about what she was covering up this time around. My prediction? It'll have something to do with the 20 or so times in this book that she felt the need to highlight in (embarrassingly excessive detail) the "stunning" and "absolute" and "perfect" physical beauty of every female mentor she encounters. *Interesting.*
Is it bad that I'm waiting with baited breath for Marcus Samuelsson to fly just a little too close to the sun? You can bet I'll be there to kick him w...moreIs it bad that I'm waiting with baited breath for Marcus Samuelsson to fly just a little too close to the sun? You can bet I'll be there to kick him when he comes crashing down.
You see, this is not a memoir. It's the story of one man's unwavering ambition. And it's really just a cog in the massive Marcus Samuelsson self-promotion machine. It's a small workhorse that gives just a little more publicity to the guy who has four restaurants, catered for the Obamas at the White House, and got himself gigs on the Food Network and Bravo.
But the thing is, I don't even care about the memoir being a self-serving gig to promote his many businesses and his agenda. That's fine. That's business. That's the state of American publishing. What bothers me here is Marcus Samuelsson's heaping sack of steaming crap, bound up, disguised as a story, and packaged nicely by a decently talented ghost writer. The entire thing is a healthy entree of bullshit with a side of crème fraîche.
While I do appreciate the fact that Samuelsson had to endure great hardships because of the color of his skin (and I take particular glee in the fact that he called out Gordon Ramsay for being a negative, loudmouth, asshole racist), I can't stand the fact that I'm supposed to ignore the pain he inflicted on others in pursuit of his dreams of becoming a chef.
Some examples? Samuelsson missed his father's funeral because our fair chef's visa paperwork prevented him from traveling. Well. It happens, and the dead are exceedingly understanding about these things. Let's try again. Oh, yes, he broke up with a girl he'd been dating for years to follow his dreams of working in a Swiss restaurant and simply can't fathom why she's upset. He's even more perturbed that she takes a job in Switzerland with him, so to cope with his annoyance, he fucks a different girl in Austria and knocks her up; that relationship produced a daughter for whom Samuelsson paid child support but refused to meet until she was fourteen because he was too busy making his career in New York and marrying a model. (Oh, great. Just what the world needs: another little girl with daddy issues. We all know what happens with those.)
(Good thing Samuelsson made up for lost time with his kid by flying her to New York to meet Kanye West at a party. Jesus. Fucking. Christ).
You know, ambition is fine. Ambition is what makes dirtbags like Marcus Samuelsson famous while people like me write pissed off reviews on goodreads. It's the fact that Samuelsson treats the people that are supposed to be important -- his daughter, his father, women, etc. -- like crap, but then praises himself for sending monthly financial support to his family of origin in Ethiopia (that gave him up for adoption when he was a baby), or talks about how much he loves his super-wealthy supermodel wife. Funny how the only woman he respects is one who's rich and gorgeous, and the only family he takes care of is the one that sounds great in New York Times articles. UGH.
When he wasn't trying to disguise his dickheadedness with faux acts of humanity, it was all food, food, food, food, food, FOOD, FOOD, FOOD, FOOD and ... yeah, I couldn't take it.
So, Marcus Samuelsson, do your thing. Marry the model, run the chic four-star New York City restaurants. Pop up on every TV show on Bravo and the Food Network. Do your little promo thing with Illy. Rake in even more millions. Just keep flying higher, my friend...that's right, higher, right towards that warm glowing orb, just keep flying ... When you hit the ground with a thud, I'll be here waiting. With a pair of boots on....with steel-pointed toes.
Oh, and Marcus? You forgot to mention your daughter in the acknowledgments section. *shocker*
"I'm Scott Jurek. I am so great. I'm vegan. I'm Scott Jurek. I am so great. I'm vegan. I'm Scott Jurek. I am so great....moreAnd now a summary of this book.
"I'm Scott Jurek. I am so great. I'm vegan. I'm Scott Jurek. I am so great. I'm vegan. I'm Scott Jurek. I am so great. I'm vegan. I'm Scott Jurek. I am so great. I'm vegan. I'm Scott Jurek. I am so great. I'm vegan. I'm Scott Jurek. I am so great. I'm vegan. I'm Scott Jurek. I am so great. I'm vegan."
Look. I like Scott Jurek. We all do. He's a great runner and he just seems like a really nice guy. But you'll need the willpower of an ultra marathoner to get through this one...and getting the to last page will probably feel like crossing the finish line in a 100-mile ultra, too.
Here's the thing. I don't really care about a book that's nothing more than an ongoing list of Jurek's trail-running triumphs, broken up by the occasionally interesting vegan recipe. And while I do buy into Jurek's plant-based diet thing, it's really not going to stand between me and my weekly cheeseburger. And while Jerker never does get too douchebaggy about his diet, he does get irritating. I mean, his whole claim that eating cows and chickens is bad because the animals are injected with hormones and antibiotics? Well, dude, you're probably right, but let's not forget that your prized vegetables are doused in pesticides ... unless they're organic, in which case they're fertilized with feces. *Yummay*.
And isn't it just such Western snobbery to refuse food and get all crampy about your diet? I mean, you don't see Kenyan running champion Samuel Wanjiru following a special diet. Oh wait, that's right, he got wasted and fell from a balcony to his death, so he actually doesn't give a fuck about his diet at all. Never mind. The point is, shut the fuck up, eat, and enjoy life.
The few parts where the book momentarily borders on interesting are too few and far between. Example? His wife finally up and leaves him (perhaps because our fair Jurek was too busy training, racing, and winning) because she was in love with another man. Now, any non-moron knows who the guy is, but not only does Jurek frustratingly refuse to dish out the dirt, he doesn't even give us an inkling of emotion. Come on, Scottie! Call her a skank! Call her a cheating hooker and tell us how you went out and banged her best friend for revenge! Give us something we can USE for Chrissakes! But alas, no, it's only depression and more running.
Something like a narrative arc follows when Jurek talks about losing his mother and falling out with his best friend, but it's always the running, the running, the running. See, instead of telling us how he feels, we just learn that Jurek's bad mood leads him to lose races that he should have won. The moral of the story? Jurek comes to understand that winning isn't everything. Sigh. Fuck me.
Unlike my other reviews where I rip the book to shreds and take the author down with me, I actually *like* this author and wanted to like this book. It didn't happen. But I don't want my money back. Hey, That's a first.
Sucked. But Scott Jurek doesn't suck. Just hire a ghost writer next time, buddy. (less)
You know those books that are a complete chore to read? The ones you'll do anything -- playing Words with Friends, cleaning the house, scrubbing toile...moreYou know those books that are a complete chore to read? The ones you'll do anything -- playing Words with Friends, cleaning the house, scrubbing toilets -- to avoid reading? Then a few weeks go by and you've gotten dumber, because in doing your damnedest to avoid reading said book, menial tasks have turned your brain to mush?
Gone Girl has gone to my "sucked" shelf.
Look. If I want to hear about bored, unhappily married people, I'll talk to my married friends or delve into something by a capable writer. If I want horror and suspense, I'll drop all pretenses and hit up the master.
I can't deal with a slow-moving plot about a neurotic suburban housewife and her (justifiably) distant husband. I can't deal with lines like "She blew more smoke toward me, a lazy game of cancer catch," or "When I think of my wife, I always think of her head....It was what the Victorians would call a finely-shaped head." (Hey, Gillian, next time you write from a male point of view, try to remember that guys notice T&A and not the shape of a woman's head. GAHHHHHD!)
Then there's the issue with the character named Margo, or Go for short. What a pain in the ass when sentences start with her name. It seems like a verb, then you go on to realize that it's the chick with the annoying name. i.e., "Go walked across the bar," "Go loves to read," "Go was now pantomiming dick-slapping my wife." Right.
If you're going to do any theory courses, get this book. It saves a lot of time, cuts through the headache created by these theorist assholes, and exp...moreIf you're going to do any theory courses, get this book. It saves a lot of time, cuts through the headache created by these theorist assholes, and explains everything in terms that can be understood by anyone with a GED. Definitely useful, though it won't make theory any less painful.
(And I've blown off my theory paper to sit here and write reviews of theory books on goodreads. Jesus. It's a new low.)(less)
If you're unfortunate enough to have to do do literary theory, this book will be your best friend. It does especially well at making sense of massive...moreIf you're unfortunate enough to have to do do literary theory, this book will be your best friend. It does especially well at making sense of massive assholes, including (but no means limited to) Derrida, Foucault, Lyotard, Barthes, Lacan (notice how they're all French? I'm seeing a pattern here) and many other academics who were unfortunately allowed to write their ideas down and call them "theories."
I will NOT say anything bad about Sarah Waters. She is just more proof that the British have been and always will be better writers than their America...moreI will NOT say anything bad about Sarah Waters. She is just more proof that the British have been and always will be better writers than their American counterparts. This chick gives us the best of intensity and suspense of Daphne du Maurier and all of the naughty sex scenes that Daphne skimped out on. In short, Sarah knows what she's doing.
That said, it took me a year to read this book. It was tense, dark, and was in no way like its sex-fest un-putdown-able predecessor Tipping the Velvet. The ending pissed me off so much that if I'd the book-book (and had not been reading it on my cell phone) I would have tossed it across the room in bitter frustration.
Yeah, whatever. It was still a fine piece of writing, better than anything you or I could dream of penning out, and an interesting story. Sarah Waters is an artist, whether you like her books or not.