This book seems produced by a wholly different author than "The City and the City." It does deal with some of the same themes, but it's wildly more in...moreThis book seems produced by a wholly different author than "The City and the City." It does deal with some of the same themes, but it's wildly more inventive, fully realized, and fun. Too bad it's weighted down with interminable exposition, exhausting descriptive passages, and a ten-ton vocabulary that makes me want to set fire to the author's copy of Roget's. Seriously, CM? We're going to call it "thaumaturgy" instead of "magic"? REALLY? I sorta-kinda liked this one, but in the end, it wasn't worth the heavy lifting.(less)
Rushdie KILLED me with this one. I think he did it on purpose, at least. He strings you along for the entire novel with the promise of a big payoff, a...moreRushdie KILLED me with this one. I think he did it on purpose, at least. He strings you along for the entire novel with the promise of a big payoff, and it becomes increasingly obvious that the payoff isn't coming. But what really slew me was the commentary of female agency that paints a red line through the center of this book.
Women in this book are erased from history by men, and then put back into history by other, later men. They are created from whole cloth from the imaginations of men. These imaginary women have no less value than real ones; in fact, they are superior. One woman even has her entire personality and history stripped from her brain to be replaced by the history of a man. She is literally transformed into a vessel: the memory palace. The only source of a woman's power is her desirability, and a man's desire has an irresistable transforming effect on even the most powerful woman. The complete denial of agency to any female character in the book has to be intentional, but why?
Ps. A note explaining my shelving. In my opinion, my review is true, but so is the eternally eloquent Ann Hopper's. So, as storytelling this is Good Stuff, but as a literary act of violence against women, it's Crap.(less)
A couple of rip-off Croup and Vandemar wannabes and the mention (i refuse to say allusion, because that would imply that it somehow honors or preserve...moreA couple of rip-off Croup and Vandemar wannabes and the mention (i refuse to say allusion, because that would imply that it somehow honors or preserves the integrity of the original) of Samuel Taylor Coolridge doth not a similarity to Neil Gaiman make. The preposterous suggestion that this book was "a fantastic journey in the spirit of Neverwhere" duped me into buying this block of bound-together toilet tissue. I finished it out of a combination of devastating idleness (I was job-searching at the time) and total disbelief. How could anyone, even a publicist, sleep at night after comparing Barnes and Gaiman? Egads, that's like comparing Janis Joplin's Take Another Little Piece of My Heart with Faith Hill's cover. No, worse; at least Hill and Joplin are both singing. I've said some nasty things about certain books lately. The Time Traveller's Wife, Heavy Liquid, You Suck, and even The Meaning of Night, I apologize to all of you. Remembering the dreadful experience of reading this book, I realize that I should have been grateful for your mere badness.
The Somnambulist was, as the title implies, dull, and the Coolridge cameo supports my hope that the author was just writing through a crippling drug haze. It was also dazzlingly incoherent, without point, theme, motivation, or explanation. Not only is there no reason for any of the book's many silly twists and turns, there's no excuse for them. If the London Barnes sketches had been in any way convincing, if his characters were at all fleshed out, if his narrative devices were not missing a few parts, the plot of this book would still be extraordinarily stupid. Sarah Palin could give the author lessons in sentence construction. The book didn't rightfully even have a protagonist, although, somewhat pitifully, it tried to-- every single nominee from the job was flat and unsympathetic. Perhaps that's why it took me so long to review this excreable hack-job; my attention slid right off it like water from a duck's back. I didn't even think about it long enough to hate it until I bought Neil Gaiman's latest book, and recalled the taking of his name in vain.(less)
Uuugh. Enough about your wardrobe. Get to killing...
Look, I'm not a monster. I don't feel particularly robbed that this book contained no gruesome acc...moreUuugh. Enough about your wardrobe. Get to killing...
Look, I'm not a monster. I don't feel particularly robbed that this book contained no gruesome accounts of anyone bathing in anyone else's blood. But I really do feel that if you're going to propose that protagonist's icy, distant husband finally falls in lust with her over a spot of good old-fashioned maid-torture, as an author you AT LEAST owe me some kinky bedroom stuff. MINIMUM. Instead, I get wedding guest lists and accounts of menus. How could a book about Erzebet Bathory be so boring?
A big part of the problem is the conceit that the whole narrative is a first person account written by the Countess for her son, so of course she's got to leave out all the juicy stuff, right? Only, no. She has no compunction about cataloguing her lovers for her 10-year-old child, even describing a little bit of ugly old-person sex for her precious boy ("I kissed the pillowy bags beneath each of his eyes..." Blech.) She also recounts conversations with her son TO her son (i.e. "Remember when you said 'blah blah blah?' I answered 'Blootie blootie coo.' And then you looked at me and replied...") WHO TELLS STORIES LIKE THAT? NO ONE! So the whole "writing to my son" conceit is about as thin as a paper bag that's been floating in a sealed bottle of Mountain Dew for a week. Mountain Dew is very corrosive, folks. The very executives of the company have defended themselves from a lawsuit by demonstrating that in that amount of time, a whole mouse would dissolve in a suspension of Mountain Dew. You see where I'm going with this. Very thin.(less)
Rarely have I been so entirely unaffected by a book I actually finished. The best thing I can say about Heavy Liquid is that it was short, but I don't...moreRarely have I been so entirely unaffected by a book I actually finished. The best thing I can say about Heavy Liquid is that it was short, but I don't have anything really horrible to say about it either. Paul Pope is not a great talent. His dialogue is damningly sparse and his artwork isn't kinetic enough to convey the action it's supposed to, so the story feels plodding when it should spark and muddy during ostensible moments of clarity/revelation. The relationships and archetypes are stamped on, and nothing more: Lover, Sidekick, Bad Guy, Really Bad Guy. I kept waiting for something to surprise me, and nothing did.
If there's a good bit to Heavy Liquid, it's the chapter intros. They're designed as dramatis personae, catalogue pages, TV Guide articles. They hint at a rich, fully realized world somewhere in Pope's head that he just can't quite commit to paper. This book was Eisner nominated, and I get the feeling that's because of the pricing guide to the protagonist's "tricentennial boots." That, or it was just a thoroughly lackluster year for comics. (less)
To be fair, this book is a sequel. It's a sequel in much the same way the straight-to-video Return of Jafar was a sequel to Aladdin or Joey was a sequ...moreTo be fair, this book is a sequel. It's a sequel in much the same way the straight-to-video Return of Jafar was a sequel to Aladdin or Joey was a sequel to Friends. That is, it depends entirely on the audience's lazy affection for characters that were developed entirely elsewhere. Having not read the first book, I felt a little like the only non-parent in the audience of a middle school production of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.
I doubt, though, that seeing the same middle school's production of Hamlet would much improve my opinion. Maybe the character and relationship development was half-assed because I was supposed to already know most of these characters, but that doesn't excuse wooden dialogue or god in the machine endings. Utterly lifeless (get it? vampire pun!).(less)
Well, on the one hand, this book was pretty stupid. On the other hand, that doesn't have to be so bad, does it? Sure, it was breathless, sentimental,...moreWell, on the one hand, this book was pretty stupid. On the other hand, that doesn't have to be so bad, does it? Sure, it was breathless, sentimental, pat, and full of silly "gotcha!" coincidences in the manner of gothic-era Fancy-full Tales for Gentle Ladies. Yes, it's over-enamored with the notion that books (particularly books by dead upper-class white women) are The Most Important Things in the World. And yes, the life of the main character(She lives in an antique bookstore! She does nothing but read old books! She's totally financially independent because of her family's love of old books!) does come off as the self-indulgent fantasy of a bookish author. But really, so what?
As narrator herself reminded me through her endless, chest-heaving veneration of Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre, a book doesn't have to be smart to be enjoyable. These classics of English literature are nothing more (or less) than really fabulous soap-operas-- tune in next week, when Jane learns that the mother of Rochester's children STILL LIVES! They are Days of our Lives, but old, and they've earned cultural capital simply by sticking around for so long-- apparently, a man locking his mad wife away in the attic is still a steamy plot twist after all these years. The Thirteenth Tale wants to skip the step of actually aging, so it borrows the tone, style, and plot devices of these protosoaps. Once I recognized that and stopped trying to ascribe any cultural capital to the book, stopped wishing it was better than it was and just accepted its essential tawdriness, I couldn't stop turning the pages. Yes, many of the the things that happen in this book are dumb. At least they're fun. Here's the book jacket as I think it should look:
SCANDAL!!!!! Family Lost--and found?!! Forbidden Love!!! Murder Most Foul!!! WHAT DARK SECRET LIES BURIED IN THE RUINS OF ANGELFIELD???!!!
The Thirteenth Tale by Daine Setterfield-- a hack, but a damn good one.(less)
**spoiler alert** Really, how did this book get such an inflated GoodReads average rating? I encourage my fellow goodreaders to spam it with one-star...more**spoiler alert** Really, how did this book get such an inflated GoodReads average rating? I encourage my fellow goodreaders to spam it with one-star reviews as a public service. It enjoys an entirely undeserved reputation as good.
Mostof the book is solidly mediocre. The author's creative involuntary time travel idea uses up its steam about a third of the way in, and the book settles into a repetitive, suspenseless smooch-fest. If that sort of brainless sugar-rush is your thing (and honestly, isn't it everyone's thing every once in a while?) then by all means, read the first two thirds of the book. Then put it down and walk away satisfied that you've read all of it that is worth your time and emotional energy.
SPOILERS AHEAD- STOP READING NOW IF I HAVEN'T ALREADY CONVINCED YOU NOT TO READ THE BOOK.
The book jacket touts The Time Traveller's Wife as "a triumph of love over time." What a crock. The last 100 pages of the book are a sadistic exercise in emotional manipulation. Watch as Niffenegger exposes her heroine to physical and emotional trauma that is completely inconsistent with the earlier logic of the book. Watch as she dismembers and kills her hero with such painstaking slowness that it's like watching iron grass grow, inexorably piercing your feet as it does. The nauseatingly enlongated trauma at the end of this book might feel okay if there was any great love or loss associated with it. Here's the great crack in this particular Liberty Bell: in the end, Clare and Henry's relationship rings oddly hollow. In their final meeting, there's not any joy, anticipation, or even agency. They didn't chose each other, and they weren't fated to be together by a higher power. Their supposedly epic romance is entirely mechanical. At the end of the book, I really hated Neffineger for briefly convincing me to care.(less)
This isn't the worst thing I've read this year. Rachman, over and over again, convinced me to care about his characters and their relationships. I can...moreThis isn't the worst thing I've read this year. Rachman, over and over again, convinced me to care about his characters and their relationships. I can't agree with Goodreads's assessment that the interspersed chapters on the history of the paper are dull; I found them warm and subtle. Neither, however, can I agree that Rachman "creates a diverse cast of fully realized characters." They may have diverse physical descriptions, but all speak with exactly the same voice. He even has one character, supposedly from Georgia, repeatedly use the word "proper" as a generic modifier, as in, "a proper shower" or "a proper relationship." Um, is Atlanta the seat of county called Georgia in England that I'm unaware of? Also, 100% of the characters are wretches hell-bent on unmooring themselves from the only harbor of human connection they have. Utlimately, that makes the experience of reading this book extraordinarily unpleasant, like being repeatedly kicked in the face by someone wearing really nice shoes. (less)
None of the reviews I’ve seen attempt to judge Oath on its merits as a thriller—only as a Christian thriller. I find this insulting and sad. The impli...moreNone of the reviews I’ve seen attempt to judge Oath on its merits as a thriller—only as a Christian thriller. I find this insulting and sad. The implication is that it is unfair or irrelevant to weigh Christian cultural/artistic efforts on the same scale as secular culture. This is akin to saying that it is unfair to judge art produced by women by the same standards as art produced by men; it’s patronizing and wrong. Bach wrote sacred music of enduring power and beauty—suck on that, Jars of Clay. The devotional poems of John Donne or Saint John of the Cross resonate with visceral passion and energy. Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings radiate the terror and fascination of sin. Their genius isn’t just Christian genius, though; it’s genius, period. Their work stands as tall on its artistic merits as its spiritual ones. In fact, I’d argue that their artistic value increases their spiritual worth, because one doesn’t have to be a believer to appreciate them. The Hallelujah Chorus can fill an inveterate atheist with religious awe. My guess is that Frank Peretti converts about as many non-Christians as Ann Coulter converts Democrats.
So, judged on its merits as a thriller, Oath is dreck. The prose is abysmal—plodding, repetitive amateur hour, drained of suspense. Oath is full of clunky passages like “Tracy Ellis didn’t want to answer that question. ‘I’m not going to answer that,’ she said.” As the spooky story it attempts to be, this book is a cheap house of horrors with the lights on. You see all the mechanical devices that are supposed to pop out and startle you from a mile away. Peretti’s description of the protagonist falling for his lady-friend is particularly excruciating. Peretti seems incapable of displaying attraction as anything but sleazy. No wonder so many of his Christian readers are disturbed by his descriptions of sin! His supposedly decent character’s “impure thoughts” are creepy and gross.
For those that still cry foul, who argue that Oath is still somehow worth my while despite being objectively awful, I must add that theologically, Oath is also, sadly, dreck. One doesn’t have to read past the introduction to find this out. In that introduction, the author reveals his inspiration and purpose for writing this book. He was judging some friends of his for their sinfulness, but alas, he did not judge them loudly enough, and they sinned even more. Peretti wrote Oath so neither he nor his readers would ever again tragically miss an opportunity to judge their friends and neighbors. It’s just like Christ said: “Judge not, lest ye become a New York Times bestselling author.”
Of course, the insular, self-righteous un-charitablity extends beyond the introduction. I could write a thesis on the many ways in which this book gives Christianity a bad name. Stereotype one: religion reinforces misogyny: check. In this book, women separated from their husbands lose sanity and personhood. They are frantic, irrational agents of unfocused destruction who must be controlled through marriage to a strong-willed man. I wonder how single gals Mary and Martha or their best pal (Jesus) would feel about that. Stereotype two: religion cannot co-exist with rational thought: check. Are we not all sick of this yet? The titular oath is a pact to make Reason a small town’s only God. Cue the hysterical fears about godless scientists and public schoolteachers now, folks. Fortunately, Peretti had the spiritual integrity not expose himself to any of that dangerous Reason in his research for this novel. He mentions it, but he and his characters seem blissfully innocent of what it actually is. Stereotype three: Christians are judgmental hypocrites: check. For a man that professes to worship a loving God, Peretti evinces great relish as he dooms sinner after sinner to a horrific terrestrial death followed, one assumes, by eternal suffering in hell. Is a lake of fire that burns but never consumes not enough for this guy? Why must his sinners also be punished, horribly, all out of proportion to their actions, here on Earth? That doesn’t sound like Christianity to me—it sounds like fascism. Peretti is genuinely unwilling to engage with ideas that oppose his own. He can’t conceive of a charitable humanist, even though charity is the cornerstone of humanism. He doesn’t deserve to be taken seriously because he doesn’t take non-Christians seriously. How can he persuasive if he doesn’t understand that against which he argues? Like his own protagonists, he can’t really see the monster he’s trying to fight.
In Romans, the apostle Paul writes that God gives each of his children different gifts. It is not my job to judge the state of Peretti’s soul. In judging the state of his art, however, I have to hope that his spiritual gifts lie elsewhere. And to any Christians out there whose consciences don’t allow them to consume secular art, and whose tastes don’t run to seventeenth century devotional poetry, may I recommend Steven King’s The Stand? It’s a Christian thriller, I swear—about the end of times, no less. And it’s, you know…good. (less)
This book is saved from a one star review by being inoffensive. It was tedious, sure, ungracefully structured, static and bland. Grossman explores the...moreThis book is saved from a one star review by being inoffensive. It was tedious, sure, ungracefully structured, static and bland. Grossman explores the some of same ideas as in Watchmen and Top Ten, but without a fraction of Alan Moore's humor, nuance, or imagination. What's left is a one-joke act, and it's a joke I've heard so many times before, it's not even funny the first time Grossman tells it; for a book about superheroes to be so little fun is downright criminal. This review feels harsh, especially since I read this book on the recommendation of two (count them! Two!) authors I admire very, very much. In the end though, I couldn't find anything to admire about "Soon I Will Be Invincible." The best I can say about it is that it didn't anger or disgust me the way the books that earn single stars do.(less)
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