I'm trying to buy fewer books this year, as I've noted in earlier postings, but after the terrible book I last read, it was easy to justify my purchase of The Death Cure when I stopped in Northtown Books after brunch on Sunday. And, I reasoned, if I already have the first two books in this trilogy, don't I have to own the final one?
As you can see, this is the beginning of a very slippery slope. And that's not even when you take into account the fact that I bought two other books--one also the continuation of a series I've started and the other by one of my favorite authors, William Gibson. My friend Diqui, the most dedicated client of the McIntyre Free Public Library, pointed out that she is happy I bought these books, seeing as she too has read the others and looks forward to borrowing them from me. So, yes, the next time you see Diqui, you can let her know that she is a book-purchasing enabler. Obviously, I love her.
Truthfully, I have no regrets about falling off the book-buying wagon. I thoroughly immersed myself in Dashner's final volume of the Maze Runner series (reviewed here in entries 60 and 61) and finished within a day--even with the first week of the semester interrupting. I filled you in on the premise of the series in the earlier entries, so I'll just say that this one does not fail to satisfy. There is plenty of action, amplified by mad scientists, the crazy near-dead masses, and political extremists. And, while I sometimes tire of those evil-scientist characters--Do we really need more anti-science models in today's political climate?--they do make for smart, despicable foes. If you haven't already read The Maze Runner and The Scorch Trials, you should start there. If you have already done so, what are you waiting for? Get out and get a copy of The Death Cure. Or stop by and borrow mine and make me feel better about my vice.
If the first book I read this year demonstrated the fact that good books sit on my shelves for years before I get around to them, this second book provides an alternative lesson: some of the books are neglected for good reason. They stink.
Why, with all the good books available, do I end up purchasing bad ones, you might wonder. In the case of The Bitch Goddess Notebook it was due to limited choice. You'll note in the header of this entry that TBGN was published in Great Britain (although written by an American author), but it was purchased (as the stamp inside the front cover shows) at the Universal Bookshop in Portals Nous. The Universal is a primarily English-language used bookstore in Mallorca, Spain, which I often end up frequenting when I visit Eddie's family. Until recently, when she moved inland to the village Eddie's mother lives in, Nonna Neda lived in Portals Nous, and she always lets us stay in her seaside studio apartment for a few days when we visit the island. With nothing much to do but laze on the beach and wander the few businesses on the main drag, I always get plenty of reading time in and run short of books--especially pre-Kindle and iPad. So, I drop in to Universal Bookshop, sell my already-read books, and pick up a couple more to see me home.
Perhaps it won't surprise you to hear that the types of books available in a bookstore frequented by British tourists soaking in sun by day and sangria and disco by night aren't of the highest caliber. Suffice it to say that you can cross this book of your to-be-read list and move on to something else. How I even managed to make it through to the end is somewhat of a mystery. It might be that, like the three women in the book, I too went to high school in the Midwest in the 1980s. And, compared to their current train-wreck lives, mine is a paradise of stability and happiness. Their outcome, of course, differs because of a horrific shared experience they had as seniors.
Usually I would only hint at outcomes here, but since I strongly advise against your reading of this book, I'll just tell you: they escalated from alcohol, drugs, sex, and cutting to killing the drama teacher one of them was having an affair with. I won't call this a spoiler alert because nothing can really spoil the book. At least now I can dump it at the nearest used book store soon--freeing up the shelf space it has been holding for at least two and a half years (or longer if I didn't buy it on my most recent trip to Mallorca).
In my last book entry of 2011, I discussed my penchant for buying books, many of which go unread for some time, and my resolution to stem the tide of book buying in 2012. My first book of 2012 nicely represents this new effort. In the case of The Monsters of Templeton, I have concrete evidence that the book has been languishing on my to-be-read shelves for some time: a receipt for Powell's Books, dated 4/12/09, was tucked in the front cover. I'm not sure how many points I can score for waiting 2 years and 9 months to read this book, but it does represent one fewer tome gathering dust (only partially true, I suppose, since it will still be gathering dust--just in its properly alphabetized location on the already-read shelves).
Like many of these neglected volumes, Monsters turned out to be a very good book. Set in a small city in upstate New York, pretty clearly modeled on Cooperstown because of the baseball museum, Templeton is staged as idyllic America. Nestled on a lake amidst the rolling, forested hills, the town flourished early on and regained its importance with the establishment of the museum. The book's main character, Willie Upton, is a descendant of the town founder, raised by her ex-hippie mother in the sprawling home he built on the lake shore. Now finishing her PhD in archeology, she returns to Templeton in self-described disgrace on the every day that Glimmey, the monster rumored to live in the lake, has died and floated to the top.
Of course, the book's title implies that there is more than one monster to be found in Templeton. In the search to find her true father--whom her mother now admits is a town citizen and not one of three possible men from the free-love San Fransico commune she left upon the death of her parents--Willie digs into the past to uncover who the mysterious man may be, unearthing a few monsters along the way. The only hint her mother provides her with is that Willie's father also shares a bloodline with the founding father--although of a less legitimate nature. The stories of these family monsters are told through a series of letters as well as invented narratives, uncovering a rich history and, ultimately, Willie's heritage. It's a historical take on an early American settlement, and I'm happy I finally pulled it from the shelf.
It's the end of 2011, and I'm posting my 104th book. I didn't quite make it to my goal of 111 in 2011, but it does verify my estimate that I read an average of 2 books a week. Not only that, but I'm pleased that I have managed to complete a blog entry for most of what I've read. Looking back at the year's entries, I see that 11 are unfinished, bearing a promise similar to "Recently finished. Review coming soon!" While I did finish these at some point along the way, I never did make it back to record my thoughts. Maybe I'll go back and add a few lines some time in the future, but more likely I'll simply move forward with the goal of having fewer unfinished entries in 2012. There's resolution #1 for 2012. And, I am challenging myself to read more this year: 112 books in 2012. Perhaps you'll join me?
Wildwood is a charming book to end the year with. It's an illustrated novel for ages nine and up, created by a husband (the lead singer of the Decemberists) and wife team in Portland, Oregon. Since all things cool come from Portland these days, it's not surprising that the book is a magical, eco-conscious adventure. The story begins when Prue and her friend Curtis enter the wild area that Portlanders know as the Impassable Wilderness in order to rescue her baby brother. Oddly, but appropriate in Portland, where surfaces are covered with images of birds from the Corvus genus, Prue's brother was stolen by a murder of crows. Immediately upon entering the wilderness to find him, Curtis and Prue are separated and fall in with people from two parts of the hidden world: Prue with a mailman serving the "civilized" North Wood (rural) and South Wood (urban) human and animals and Curtis with a coyote army serving the human Dowager Duchess of the Wildwood. As is usual for books targeting younger readers, animals can talk--and frequently wear clothing. Really, though, it's a wonderful novel for children of all ages who want to exercise their imagination and delve into a world of excitement and hope. I'd highly recommend it as one of your first reads in 2012.
I have the bad habit of buying the majority of the books I read in hardcover. I could come up with any number of excuses, but it comes down to laziness and impatience: I don't want to wait for the paperback version, and I don't want to take a trip to the library. The worst thing about this habit is that I don't just buy as many books as I can read at a given time. Instead, I simply buy books when I encounter them, and I worry about reading them at a later time. You won't be surprised to hear that this results in a large number (dozens might be a modest figure) of unread books gracing my shelves at any given time.
The reason I'm making this confession is two fold: it is a habit I would like to change, and it sets the premise for this book, which has sat on my shelf for two years since its purchase. When she came by to borrow some reading for the holidays, my friend Diqui saw me reading The Lacuna and exclaimed, "You're just reading that now? I read it over a year ago." The ridiculous thing about this is that Diqui read my copy--borrowed from the very shelves she was perusing. My bad habit is such that this is not an uncommon occurrence, I must confess, and I won't even get into the problem of purchasing duplicate copies of the same book. (My friend Marsha can give you the details there, should you be curious.)
The reason I put off reading The Lacuna is obscure at best. I am, in fact, a big fan of Kingsolver--and of her two most recent novels in particular. I even recall eagerly waiting to get home from the store to read it, and it made it to my bed-side reading stack--a sign of favor in my book hierarchy. However, at some point in time--likely when clearing surfaces for a gathering at our house--the book made its way back to the library shelves and just never reached out to me again. Why I pulled it from the numerous other books awaiting my attention right now is likewise unclear--although partially attributable to me goal of buying fewer books--but I'm glad that it did.
Like The Poisonwood Bible and Prodigal Summer, The Lacuna explores a time and place through the eyes of a primary character: a fictional man interacting with real figures from 1930s-50s Mexico and the US. Harrison Shepherd (who seems so realistic that I had to look him up to make sure he didn't exist), son of an American father and Mexican mother, arrives in Mexico in 1929 with his mother and follows her through a number of living situations--with one two-year stint at a military school back in the States--until he finds himself mixing plaster for Diego Rivera, serving as cook to Rivera and Frida Khalo, and acting as personal assistant to Lev Trotsky. Upon Trotsky's death, Shepherd returns to the U.S. in 1941 and eventually becomes a popular author of novels featuring the Aztec and Maya, at least until the Committee on Un-American Activities catches wind of him. The entire story is told through Shepherd's fictional diaries, fabricated book reviews, and created letters--with 8-10 actual articles and documents mixed between them to add to the realistic tone. It's a riveting read, and it provides one of my favorite ways to learn about history: through the lens of excellent fiction. If you have been thinking about reading this book and somehow, like me, just never got around to it, I'd recommend you do so now.
The other day when we were talking about the "value" of different leisure activities--watching TV, reading, playing Xbox, crafts, etc.--my husband Eddie made a disparaging comment about Sweet Tooth. I was a bit offended at first and asked him what he knew about it. He said he had picked up and flipped through one of my trades when it was sitting on the coffee table at my sister's house. It isn't real literature, he suggested, and I suppose he is right to some extent. It's not the type of thing I would likely read in public--unless that public involved a high number of comic readers--so even I must confess to a degree of speculation. The cover pictures themselves likely lead some of you to raise an eyebrow. A boy with antlers? A girl with a pig snout? Yet, here I am writing about the series on my blog, so I'm not THAT embarrassed.
While I wouldn't be willing to take a side defending Sweet Tooth as a great work of literature, it has some significant merits that put it solidly in the literature realm. The plot is interesting and engaging, the characters are complex, and it addresses societal issues in the guise of metaphor. You see, it's not just that these kids have animal features: some folks don't believe they exist; others know and fear them; and still others--the minority--know and love them. It's mainly the parents of the hybrids that fall into the later category, as the women gave birth to these humans with animal characteristics after a plague struck the U.S.--killing the majority of people and sending things into complete disarray in a short period of time. Unfortunately, that same plague usually kills the parents before too long, leaving the kids alone and defenseless against those fighting for survival. From the very start, the antlered Sweet Tooth--so called for his love of candy--is a sympathetic and endearing character; perhaps it's some built-in Bambi reaction, but I want him to make it. It's an up and down struggle, of course, in the world drawn in these books, and I'm sure the battle will continue throughout the series. Along the way, the premise allows for an exploration of bigotry and fear, what it means to be human, and good versus evil (and shades in between). And, Lemire's story and art are both strong enough for me to continue that exploration--despite a shade of embarrassment.
Two of my favorite comics are Runaways and Y: The Last Man by Brian Vaughan. Actually, I should say were my favorites, as both series were concluded some time ago. Once in a while another writer/artist combo will pick up the Runaways and complete a new story arc, but they are never as good as Vaughan's originals. So, the best I can do to follow Vaughan's current work is Ex Machina. And that's pretty darn good in itself.
It looks like I haven't reviewed Ex Machina yet on this blog--I'm a bit behind in my comic reading and just catching up--so I'll fill you in on the premise. Mitchell Hundred is an engineer/architect who comes in contact with an otherworldly item in
the water, which leaves him with the ability to talk to machines and command them to do his
bidding. With the assistance of two friends, he becomes a local NYC hero, rescuing babies and the like. The police consider him a vigilante and try to track him down, but after September 11, 2001, when he uses his abilities to stop the collision and collapse of the second Twin Tower, he becomes a community sensation. Having been raised by an activist mother, he decides to turn his new acclaim to public service and politics, turning celebrity into a position as NYC Mayor. In this position he fights the forces of evil--both political and supernatural--that threaten his people.
In trade 10, NYC Mayor Mitchell Hundred continues to fight the good fight against forces threatening his city--and now the world. In this story arc, a reporter becomes infected with an ability akin to Hundred's, with an evil twist: she can speak to humans and command them to do her bidding. Add the fact that she is acting on behalf of horrible monsters in another dimension who are seeking a gateway to ours, and it's a job for the super mayor. The volume ends with both relief and darkness, and readers are left to consider whether the system is leading Hundred down a path of corruption. And, I suppose it's fitting that Vaughan leaves us there, since issue 50 concludes the series. For first-time readers, that can be a good thing, as you won't have to wait for future issues to come out.
The plot is a bit absurd, but superhero comics require enemies, and they are harder to come by these days. Besides, it's the issues and discussion around the main plot that make this series interesting. Hundred's political rise from nobody to mayor of NYC, and his rumored candidacy for US office, are what make this comic worth reading. Hundred has made his reputation as an Independent, making decisions based on what he sees as best for the people of NYC instead of a specific political agenda. While he backed gay marriage, he rejects the morning-after pill, and he's hard to pin down on most hot-button topics. Additionally, the series is purposely self-conscious, throwing out one-liners about comics all the time. It makes for an interesting blend of politics, current events, and super heroism that's hard to resist.
