bookshelves: fiction
Some books take longer than others to convince you of the world they have created, and this one was a little slower than most for me. I enjoyed and even flew through the first half of the book, but I kind of didn't fully believe it until the second half. The book reads almost like a fable from the beginning--not quite what I was expecting--and the main character's self-described "bumbling" was a bit off-putting at first. But once the plot--ahem-heats up, I really became immersed in this invented world, and I especially enjoyed the commentary/satire on reading, writing and books. By the end, I believed the characters enough even to be a bit heartbroken. In general, wonderful writing, great absurdist humor, and lovely commentary on what books mean to us. ]]>
"I know I'm reading an ARC and this book isn't out until March, but um, this isn't part of the Bernie Gunther series. It's a 1st novel."
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bookshelves: currently-reading
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bookshelves: fiction
You know the Seinfeld parody of the J. Peterman catalog? Those travelogues of inanimate objects obsessively detailed to the point of hilarity? That's kind of what this book is like: an absurd, obsessively detailed, romaticized travelogue of human folly. And I honestly mean that in a good way. The man can write the hell out of a sentence, and though he is using the rose-colored glasses we often use to view our pasts, you can tell by the prosaic subjects he chooses--New Coke, Swanson TV dinners, the grammar of teenage insults--that the tint isn't hiding any flaws exactly, they're just putting a slight haze over the proceedings. The juxtaposition of the elaborate detail and the mundane subjects generally results in both insight and hilarity.
A standout passage describing holding hands for the first time with a girl at a roller rink:
"We were out there forever. How does one measure infinity in a roller rink? You can test the universe by asking questions--how many mirrored tiles on disco balls shooting how many pure white streaks across the walls and floors, how many ball bearings clacking into each other like agitated molecules in how many polyurethane wheels, how many inkblot colonies of bacteria blooming unchecked in the toe-ward gloom of how many rented skates. But let's say this notion of chintzy roller-rink infinity is best expressed by the number two. Two people, two hands, and two songs, in this case, 'Big Shot' and 'Bette Davis Eyes.'"
My complaint about this book is that I suspect that it is the victim of the post-James Frey world of publishing. Everyone's too paranoid to publish a memoir these days that uses any sort of creative license, and so this got published as a novel. As a novel, it's a 4-star book. As a memoir, it would have been 5 stars. There are different rules, different plotting techniques required of a novel, and this just doesn't come up to meet those expectations. As a series of remembrances, a soliloquy on growing up and finding yourself when you don't fit into the pre-defined rules of the world forced on you, this book excels. But there is no real plot or story arc, no strong enough tension pulling this together as a novel. Obviously I don't know how much of this self-described autobiographical novel was fictionalized, but I have a pretty strong feeling that not much would need to be changed to call it a memoir and perhaps throw a disclaimer about faulty memory and protecting identities at the front of the book.
What best summarizes this book is a passage in which the narrator describes his reaction to his aunt selling the house that he spent summers in as a child: "I was appalled, but you know me. I was nostalgic for everything big and small. Nostalgic for what never happened and nostalgic about what will be, looking forward to looking back on a time when things got easier." ]]>
bookshelves: to-read
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bookshelves: to-read
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bookshelves: to-read
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bookshelves: to-read
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