I had a very hard time with the selections because a) I didn’t read a lot of non-fiction and 2) I read a lot of bad fiction. I mean, I should have people tied here, but I don’t want to do that. How I made such crappy selections is beyond me, but I managed to do it. Yay me! Not only did I read very little, I didn’t enjoy what I read for the most part. There were some gems, though, among the waste.

Best Book of 2009: Every Man Dies Alone by Hans Fallada. My husband is very big into World War II. Not to the point where he’s mapping out battles, but he is very interested in the dictators, politics, and upheaval of the time. I believe Fallada came to IP’s attention thanks to the New York Times Sunday Book Review: Melville House Publishing has begun publishing Fallada’s works, and all three currently circulating appear in my list below. Every Man Dies Alone tells the tale of Anna and Otto Quangel, German citizens who have lost their only son to the war. Quiet rebellion stirs within them, leading the factory worker and his wife to begin penning and dropping postcards with inflammatory, anti-fascist rhetoric messages. The postcards are far from a success—they do not inspire revolt in the minds of those who find them, but fear in being associated with the cards. Gestapo inspector Escherich tracks the cards, trying to find out who has been dropping them, knowing that his position and life depend on the discovery and arrest of the perpetrator(s). Brilliantly written in the span of 24 days by Fallada (who died weeks before its publication), Every Man Dies Alone speaks to the helplessness and anger of everyday German citizens who experienced the real cost of war and fascist governments, not only to their families, but to their neighbors and friends (among which there are Jews who either disappear or commit suicide in despair). The novel is based on the real-life story of Otto and Elise Hampel; Fallada manages to take the files that he had on their story (brief and unknown, really) and extrapolate it into a story of real emotion, trial, and love. In the end, yes, the characters die alone, but not before reaffirming their greatest virtues.

Worst Book of 2009: How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely. I think I described exactly why I hated this book so much in its review. It beat out Fool, People of the Book, Experimental Heart and The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao quite easily. While the above books had weaknesses in terms of plot, characterization, and resolution just like How I Became a Famous Novelist, Hely throws in woman-hating, which helps him take the Worst Book cake. Nothing has changed since I read it: it’s the foulest book I’ve had the misfortune to read in a long while.

Best Non-Fiction: On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King. While I started out 2009 intending to do much reading and writing, it kind of fell to the side, slain by the greedy and bloodthirsty demon that was wedding planning. Reading through King’s book, which is half instructional and half autobiography, gives the reader an insight into the mind of a prolific writer who draws much inspiration from the events of his life to write what can be some of the most psychologically terrifying or overtly horrifying prose to cross your lap. It was an academic exercise, really, to pinpoint the moments of his life that King made immortal in his novels. Like every other person advising on how to dance with the craft, King points to time, space and just writing as keys to unlock your inner writer. Let’s hope I can take his advice this year.

Best Fiction: Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. Switching between first person and third person narration; no use of quotation marks; yet another implication that Anne Boleyn was a manipulative wench (but at least she so obviously loved her daughter in one throwaway moment from the book): all this could have made me throw down Wolf Hall in exasperation, but the novel, winner of the 2009 Man Booker Prize, is an excellent read. Not only is Thomas Cromwell sympathetic (in my mind, he is a cruel politician who allied with Anne when needed, then expediently removed her from power when his own was threatened), but Mantel nicely sets up her sequel (which I believe will be titled The Mirror and the Light) by foreshadowing his revenge against those who brought down Cardinal Thomas Wolsey. Like other authors who fictionalize Anne Boleyn’s rise to power, Mantel falls back on portraying Anne to the point of caricature: vague conversations, outright crowing at downfalls, and Henry as nothing more than a little boy with too much power who is under a spell. The novel is saved by Cromwell’s home life: it is quite obvious that he is trying to build a legacy, and he is doing it while still loving, protecting and (in some instances) missing his family. The relationships outside of the court are what sustain this novel and brings it its true brilliance. Mantel made me like Cromwell in this novel, and for that I give her major kudos. Also implied in the novel is Cromwell’s growing affection for Jane Seymour, Henry’s third queen. The sequel is a book I’ll be seeking out for sure.

Worst Non-Fiction: Empty. I honestly didn’t read enough non-fiction, and what I did read I enjoyed for the most part. I’ll try to find a stinker in 2010!

Worst Fiction: Experimental Heart by Jennifer Rohn. I was asked to read Experimental Heart, and it was plenty painful. My main complaint is that Rohn simply does not know how to write men. Her Andy O’Hara is unrealistic: very, very few men would find themselves in bed with a stunningly attractive woman and discuss another woman instead of getting it on. Very few men would, when the woman he truly wants is free to return his affection, take a few months to mull it over before taking the relationship plunge. In short (and I really hate to say this because it sounds so sexist), but Andy O’Hara is a teenage girl. Plain and simple. It’s not that introspection is a weakness in men—of course it isn’t. But Andy doesn’t act with introspection: he reacts with petulant immaturity. And does the guy ever go home!? The book descends into thriller mode, which seems thrown in to give Andy something manly to do. Additionally, this is a book about scientists: at the end of the novel, there is a note from Rohn stating that you can’t overdo the science so that you don’t lose your readers, and you can’t underdo your science so that don’t lose your scientists (paraphrased, obvs). Her first readers told her she did the science perfectly, or at least got there after some tweaking. I beg to differ: the science absolutely overwhelmed the novel at times and the book needed some serious editing. I consider myself somewhat intelligent and capable of grasping complex ideas and translating them for lay readers: I don’t think I’d know where to begin here thanks to Rohn’s cumbersome prose.

Best Discovery: Hans Fallada: The pseudonym of Rudolf Ditzen, Melville House Publishing released three of his works in 2009, all of which I had the fortune to read. While I found Little Man, What Now? to be the weakest of the trio, it still outpaced the silly bombs I read this year. Their variety in topical matter is astounding: Every Man Dies Alone, as cited above, focuses on citizen resistance and the struggles therein; Little Man, What Now? focuses on the economic realities of 1930s Germany, and the efforts a young family with little resources might have to undertake to make ends meet; The Drinker is the tale of a man’s descent into alcoholism, falling from prosperous man to midnight silverware thief in his own home. The honestly observed stress and uncertainty of the times, which we fail to see especially when we consider a Nazi Germany, is Fallada’s greatest strength. The prose is simple, straightforward—Fallada does not seek to weave intricate literary circles around the reader. He simply tells the story, in oftentimes Spartan prose, but the elegance in the simplicity makes for a stunning and intense read. 2010 will see the release of Fallada’s Wolf Among Wolves by Melville House, and I for one can’t wait to add that to the Fallada section of our humble library.

So there you have it: the 2009 awards. While it’s fun to examine books in depth, and I think that criticism of texts allows me to learn more about writing and could ultimately help me on my own path to literary immortality (said tongue-in-cheek!), it’s now my turn to actually do instead of throw spears or accolades from the sidelines. As it is said often in sports, war, and love: “Let’s do this!”

Onto the final book list of 2009:

1) On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King
2) Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them by Francine Prose
3) The Complete Stories by Flannery O’Connor
4) The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz
5) Fool by Christopher Moore
6) People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks
7) The World of Normal Boys by K.M. Soehnlein
8) Every Man Dies Alone by Hans Fallada
9) The Audacity of Hope by Barack Obama
10) Little Man, What Now? by Hans Fallada
11) The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón (Translated by Lucia Graves)
12) South of Broad by Pat Conroy
13) The Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri
14) Dancing to “Almendra” by Mayra Montero
15) The Beautiful Things that Heaven Bears by Dinaw Mengestu
16) The Aeneid by Virgil (Translation by Robert Fagles)
17) The Implacable Order of Things by Jose Luis Peixoto
18) Intuition by Allegra Goodman
19) The Drinker by Hans Fallada
20) How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely
21) The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri
22) The New Rules of Lifting for Women: Lift Like a Man, Look Like a Goddess by Lou Schuler, Alwyn Cosgrove, M.S., and Cassandra Forsythe
23) Kate: The Woman Who Was Hepburn by William J. Mann
24) Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel
25) Experimental Heart by Jennifer Rohn

Re-read:

1) Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling

Currently Reading:

1) Shakespeare’s Wife by Germaine Greer

Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Husband or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books):

Empty

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Anyway.

This review focuses more on The Namesake than Interpreter of Maladies. Interpreter of Maladies lead me to The Namesake; Interpreter was absolutely, perfectly executed, I believe, and I wanted to see how Lahiri’s storytelling translated into a larger work of fiction. The answer: very well, but with one weakness.

Gogol Ganguli, a first-born Indo-American, is given an unusual name as his parents wait for a letter containing his “good name” from his maternal grandmother that never comes; instead, he is legally known as Gogol, a name that was supposed to function as his pet name at best, used at home but not in the real world. His father, a great fan of Nikolai Gogol, nearly dies in a train accident in India; this precipitates not only his decision to travel and expand his horizons (which eventually include a tenure-track professorship), but his belief that having Nikolai Gogol’s collection of short stories nearby helped to save him from death. Hence Gogol’s name.

Gogol’s struggle with his identity is of course the larger, overarching theme of the book; how he rebels and acquiesces to his parents’ desires and to their community of Bengali friends; how he deals with an unusual name (legally changing it to Nikhil before the start of college); how that name helps to define who he is within and outside of his family’s sphere. The issues are carefully examined and constructed; to me, names are fundamental to who you are, and to change them in any way sets off a chain of events that can leave you feeling unsettled, a little bit lost. A personal digression: Part of the reason why I refused to drop any of my names and insist on being Mrs. WordNerdia IPia is because WordNerdia anchors me; it is something that is familiar and that speaks of home and roots and culture. Over the past year of wedding planning, I would periodically practice saying “WordNerdia IPia” to myself, practice signing out an impossibly long name. By the time the wedding rolled around, I felt secure in the knowledge that I would not be yielding any part of my identity, and came to believe I would be enriching it by adding IPia to the set—my husband is now my family, and in adding his name I claim him as a part of me. Yet I still get pissy when WordNerdia is dropped because I need it to feel complete; Gogol finds it jarring to transition from one identity to another within the latter half of the book; I hope to never experience that jarring feeling because I want my two worlds (and families) united. I don’t care if I annoy people who would find it easier to call me just Mrs. IPia—that is not who I am, just like I’m not WordNer. I’m WordNerd. The devil, as they say, is in the details; do not overlook one part because in doing so you risk overlooking the whole. I can think of another example that applies to my husband and his name; it’s not my place to discuss it fully on this blog, but boy, when he’s called one thing by his family it nettles me. That is not IP! And IP agrees.

Anyway, the paragraph above is a stunning example of how accessible Lahiri’s novel truly is; it’s not solely about the immigrant experience, but about how you identify throughout life (most importantly, through your name), that can affect how you negotiate you travels throughout life.

The weakness of the story comes into play when Gogol’s father dies (remember: to read a WordNerd book list post is to risk spoilers!). At this point, Gogol’s courtship of and marriage to his wife are introduced, and that’s where Lahiri lost me for a bit. I felt that we saw too much of Moushumi’s reasons for marrying Gogol, and not vice versa. I don’t care about Moushumi, to be honest: from the moment the possibility of Gogol meeting her for a lunch date is introduced, you know what happens next. While I understand Lahiri’s desire to include a female voice when discussing the experience of first generation immigrant children, I felt that another novel was trying to creep into The Namesake. Too much of Moushumi’s life dominates the last 100 pages, and as a consequence we lose a lot of Gogol (the character we’ve come to care about). The marriage is explored in order to demonstrate the struggles between the American and the home cultures, and what could happen when you fold yourself into the home culture with little thought. Moushumi, ultimately, is unsympathetic and unlikeable, and her dominance of the last 100 pages is disappointing. The exploration could have been done with a sharper focus on Gogol and would have improved the last 100 pages. When the focus finally returns to Gogol, the book ends on a very high note.

Ultimately, though, this book is a strong recommend. Onto the book list.

Finished:

1) On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King
2) Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them by Francine Prose
3) The Complete Stories by Flannery O’Connor
4) The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz
5) Fool by Christopher Moore
6) People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks
7) The World of Normal Boys by K.M. Soehnlein
8) Every Man Dies Alone by Hans Fallada
9) The Audacity of Hope by Barack Obama
10) Little Man, What Now? by Hans Fallada
11) The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón (Translated by Lucia Graves)
12) South of Broad by Pat Conroy
13) The Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri
14) Dancing to “Almendra” by Mayra Montero
15) The Beautiful Things that Heaven Bears by Dinaw Mengestu
16) The Aeneid by Virgil (Translation by Robert Fagles)
17) The Implacable Order of Things by Jose Luis Peixoto
18) Intuition by Allegra Goodman
19) The Drinker by Hans Fallada
20) How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely
21) The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri
22) The New Rules of Lifting for Women: Lift Like a Man, Look Like a Goddess by Lou Schuler, Alwyn Cosgrove, M.S., and Cassandra Forsythe

Re-read:

1) Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling

Currently Reading:

1) Kate: The Woman Who Was Hepburn by William J. Mann
2) Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel
3) Pride and Prejudice and Zombies Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith

Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Husband or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books):

1) Shakespeare’s Wife by Germaine Greer

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

And here’s another bad one for you: How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely. It’s not that he doesn’t get the ridiculous fiction masquerading as literature—he does. And it’s not that he doesn’t get that so many genres have so many ridiculous conversations—he absolutely does and he skewers them with a nice touch.

No, my problem is more with the motivation that drives Hely’s hapless hero, Pete Tarslaw, to become said famous novelist. Are you ready for this? It’s because his ex-girlfriend is getting married. In one scene, Hely describes Tarslaw’s agony at having lost the wonderful Polly Pawson (who is actually presented to us as slightly devious and unkind when first introduced):

I hadn’t cried since the days after Polly left, when I rolled around on a mattress like a helpless seal pup.

We’re never really told why Polly’s still so important to Tarslaw, just that she was a brilliant slacker, like he was, in college. However, she wised up and studied for the LSAT; Tarslaw goes on to write admission essays for lazy, terrible or incomprehensible students to be. Tarslaw strongly reminded me of a sort of ex who would extol the virtues of his actual ex from high school and go on and on about how much he loved and missed her. “I love you, but I’m not in love with you,” he would say. I can imagine him rolling around in agony just like Tarslaw and you know what? Ugh. And that’s the reaction I have with Tarslaw throughout: Ugh. Why would Polly want someone who can’t handle a fundamental truth of life: something you love will sometimes not return to you, no matter how much you will it to happen while rolling around on your bed? Why wouldn’t Polly want something more than afternoon naps and drunken nights? (Not that afternoon naps and drunken nights are bad, but that’s all there is to Tarslaw. Again. Ugh.)

Tarslaw, though, spends the entire book fantasizing about how his novel, the sort of bestselling The Tornado Ashes Club (written in the overly florid style of so many tear-jerking bestsellers today), will make Polly realize that she’s chosen wrong in her selection of a life mate, regretting on the very day she’s married that it’s not Tarslaw standing next to her. And to this, I roll my eyes. Tarslaw fits many descriptions of the reviled Nice Guy in feminist language: he clings, he thinks he’ll never find another like Polly, Polly is at first presented as a cold bitch, he worships Polly, and he imagines that her fiancé is a huge jerk, who could never be as sensitive, kind or refined as he is. Insert eyeroll here. I know this isn’t the larger theme of the novel (the skewering, as I have mentioned, is pretty apt), but the ridiculous amount of vitriol aimed at Polly really wants to make me veer toward the intentional fallacy, and I don’t want to do that. But I have my suspicions.

And as many of you know, it’s time to turn away if you don’t want spoilers. Spoilers are the norm in Casa WordNerdia IPia.

Predictably, Tarslaw makes a fool out of himself at Polly’s wedding. To Hely’s credit, he’s able to convey the genuine love that Polly and her husband have for one another in their vows. To Tarslaw’s credit, he realizes that this is a time when Polly is not faking anything, but he can’t make the link to himself: she wasn’t invested, buddy. Because it’s just not complete until the ex-boyfriend and famous novelist gets drunk and makes a ridiculous speech, insults random guests, and crashes the hotel’s shuttle bus, right? Let’s just say that if that had happened at our recent nuptials—wait, that’d never happen, because IP and I are of the same flavor and pretty mercenary when it comes to past relationships: we’re never friends with exes. Too awkward. Anyway, you would think that book ends here. Nah. Not at all. And the postscript on this lovely event infuriates me as we go to the true climax in which Tarslaw thinks things are looking up (but he’s oh so wrong):

The whole “my life has collapsed on me” thing disappeared. It was hard, in fact, to imagine I’d ever thought that. My performance at Polly’s wedding seemed like boyish hijinks from the distant past.

What? Excuse me? Like boyish hijinks. This is no time for simile, Misters Tarslaw and Hely. Those weren’t just boyish hijinks: they were asshole hijinks. Even worse, the entire lazy motivation that launches the book is tossed aside and discarded in order to search for a more meaningful ending. The book is built on a faulty driver, and to have it discarded 266 pages in (of a 322 page book) is maddening. If the book is supposed to be a send up, Tarslaw is not supposed to learn a lesson. But he gets to learn one about literature. However, his treatment of women? Nah. No need for a lesson there, right? Because he’s really a Nice Guy, and if Polly just would figure that out, all would be well.

This ruins the whole book for me. If his motivation had been stronger, if the book had ended when it was supposed to, if there wasn’t so much hatred of Polly (and wishing her nothing but regrets and agony is hatred), I could deal. It would be a funny book. There are some good gems in here—the New York Times Book Review bestseller list is a hoot and the passages from The Tornado Ashes Club are brilliant in their badness. But if the premise of the book isn’t strong to begin with, I can’t play. It’s weak, it’s lazy, and it’s stupid. Like Tarslaw, I understand, but the focus of that weakness, laziness, and stupidity is a fundamental mistrust and anger towards a woman (and women in general: no woman is treated kindly here; they’re all caricatures or stereotypes).

And Tarslaw’s lesson? I can’t even tell if Hely is being sincere through Preston Brooks’ voice or is just doing another send up of authors. At that point, I didn’t really care. Tarslaw finally begins to care. Brooks was Tarslaw’s model in writing The Tornado Ashes Club, and it’s somewhat fitting that he bitch-slaps the young whelp. However, I have no way of knowing if the book is being real at any point.

But that’s not even the ending. I’ll just say two words: house arrest. That leads to the memoir in your hands. Meta enough for you? Jesus H. Christ.

Listen, I love send ups of contemporary literature. Hell, I love send ups of classic literature. But not at the expense of a good plot, and definitely not at the expense of women. Onto the book list:

Finished:

1) On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King
2) Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them by Francine Prose
3) The Complete Stories by Flannery O’Connor
4) The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz
5) Fool by Christopher Moore
6) People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks
7) The World of Normal Boys by K.M. Soehnlein
8) Every Man Dies Alone by Hans Fallada
9) The Audacity of Hope by Barack Obama
10) Little Man, What Now? by Hans Fallada
11) The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón (Translated by Lucia Graves)
12) South of Broad by Pat Conroy
13) The Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri
14) Dancing to “Almendra” by Mayra Montero
15) The Beautiful Things that Heaven Bears by Dinaw Mengestu
16) The Aeneid by Virgil (Translation by Robert Fagles)
17) The Implacable Order of Things by Jose Luis Peixoto
18) Intuition by Allegra Goodman
19) The Drinker by Hans Fallada
20) How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely

Re-read:

1) Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling

Currently Reading:

1) Kate: The Woman Who Was Hepburn by William J. Mann

Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Husband or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books):

Empty

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Sorry, Mr. Conroy. I will return to this after I finish the book. Hold on one second . . .

Okay, done. Let me gather my thoughts and my copy of Beach Music. Herein lie spoilers for both books. Be warned.

The first thought that springs to mind is this: why is high school the most important and defining period of time in the lives of the characters of both of these books? Why is it that no one—not even those who move there—can escape South Carolina? Why is it that the friendships these characters establish in their limited youth echo through the decades and affect them so deeply? I have never understood the concept of high school being the glory years. They are four terrible, awkward years, years in which your knowledge and exploration of knowledge is limited by school testing guidelines, hometown bullies and the dismissal of adults who can’t fathom that you might want to be taken seriously on some occasion. Why they seem to be such important years in both the worlds of Beach Music and South of Broadbaffles me. And infuriates me because . . . drum roll . . .

They are essentially the same book. A little bit of deviation with the main plot, but let me do a quick diagram for you:

Leopold Bloom King = Jack McCall, cooking skills and self-righteousness intact, minus one precocious child. Stalwart husband to a troubled wife.
Starla Whitehead King = Shyla McCall, craziness intact, minus the focus on Shyla’s experiences in concentration camps during World War II. Throw in a bit of Lucy McCall with the North Carolina mountains background. Lacks Shyla’s ability to actually love her husband.
Molly Rutledge = Ledare Ansley, beauty and sassiness intact, minus the courage to do something for herself.
Chadworth Rutledge = Capers Middleton, all asshole nature intact. Except that Rutledge never divorces Molly like Capers did Ledare.
Lindsay King = Lucy McCall, all criticism and snarky attitude intact, minus the leukemia and poor background. Big time James Joyce scholar, hence the kids’ names.
Sheba Poe = Mike Hess, all Hollywood idiocy intact, minus the whole male thing. Spoiler: murdered, too, which Mike should’ve been countless times over (by his friends, no less).
Trevor Poe = Jordan Elliott, needing to be saved by his friends. Talented, sensitive, but Trevor’s gay. Jordan becomes a monk.

I could go on, but what Pat Conroy seems to have done is take all the personalities of his last novel’s characters, shuffle them a bit, reassign some character traits, and dump the resulting stew into a 512-page book that overwhelms the reader with descriptions of South Carolina’s beauty (if only I could describe the Huron River like Conroy does the Ashley!), repetitive stories (I read the porpoise story once, Conroy, I don’t need to see it again mere pages after it happens) and reused plot twists. I knew as soon as Leo King’s therapist mentions King’s anger at his father for his older brother’s death that the priest in the story had molested the late Steve King (middle name is Dedalus, by the way, so there’s no horror author tribute there); I rolled my eyes when the above-mentioned porpoise appeared because it had made a miraculous appearance in Beach Music, too; I wanted to throw my book out the window when Hurricane Hugo made an appearance toward the end and provides a convenient means by which to dispose of the book’s one antagonist (a poor way to do it, but I was dreading a stupid confrontation in which Leo’s storytelling ability makes the madman crumble to his knees in humiliation and tears). The comeuppance of the priest who causes Steve’s suicide is half-hearted and almost cowardly; is it too much to expose him while he’s alive? The introduction of a love interest for Leo who is actually outside of the core high school group is done weakly and is a throwaway scene in the book—it’s merely there to provide a hint of happiness for King after his mental breakdown (another trait he shares with Jack).

Again, I could go on, but my ultimate advice to anyone who has even picked up Beach Music is this: do not waste your time with South of Broad. Can Pat Conroy still write? Yes, but the humid and verdant beauty of South Carolina is getting old. So are the characters that are always described as the gods and goddesses of their high school. As are the tragedies that befall them; I know you need something to drive your plot, but is everyone in South Carolina living lives of quiet desperation beneath their genteel facades? Must every mother hide something of her past that will irrevocably change her child? Must everyone in the core group be super-talented at something? Must they all be misfits until they find one another? Must they all make South Carolina history? Must high school be the force that sets them in motion? Must at least one character attend The Citadel?

I really loved Beach Music when I first read it, but as I flip through for comparisons, I see the weaknesses cropping up here and there. Conroy is a witty writer and can make his reader laugh; his characters are sharp, but not well-developed. His descriptions can be beautiful, but can also reach the “overdone” setting quickly. There needs to be some restraint and re-examination of the characters which he chooses to populate his novels; over the top is okay in one character. But in all of them? No. Beach Music was entertaining to the girl who wanted to know everything there was to know about the characters; South of Broad was painful to the woman who just wanted everyone to get to the damn point already.

Because ultimately, what is South of Broad about? There seem to be several unsatisfying climaxes and South of Broad goes out with a whimper. A group of high school friends, yes, and what happens to them 20 years later, but I’m not sure who or what I’m supposed to be rooting for, nor do I understand why I should care about these people. Beach Music at least has the finality of Jordan’s punishment and Lucy’s death as the climaxes; what we see afterward is Jack coming to peace with his losses. I don’t see Leo King at peace. I don’t understand Starla or Sheba’s deaths. Why does Lindsay go back into the convent? Why is the priest dealt with kid gloves? Why does the only antagonist disappear so silently (I have a feeling that Conroy had no idea what to do with him, so he drowned the guy with Hugo)? In the end, it feels like Pat Conroy simply wanted to play a bit more with the characters from Beach Music.

A strong do not recommend from your faithful WordNerd. Onto the book list:

Finished:

1) On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King
2) Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them by Francine Prose
3) The Complete Stories by Flannery O’Connor
4) The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz
5) Fool by Christopher Moore
6) People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks
7) The World of Normal Boys by K.M. Soehnlein
8) Every Man Dies Alone by Hans Fallada
9) The Audacity of Hope by Barack Obama
10) Little Man, What Now? by Hans Fallada
11) The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón (Translated by Lucia Graves)
12) South of Broad by Pat Conroy

Re-read:

1) Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling

Currently Reading:

1) The Aeneid by Virgil (Translation by Robert Fagles)
2) The Implacable Order of Things by Jose Luis Peixoto

Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Husband or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books):

1) Kate: The Woman Who Was Hepburn by William J. Mann
2) The Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri
3) Dancing to “Almendra” by Mayra Montero
4) The Beautiful Things that Heaven Bears” by Dinaw Mengestu

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

I haven’t posted anything about the book list since March. That’s five months ago! And that was the first one of the year! But now I feel like I’m making a slow return to reading, and for that I’m happy. Right now I’m perusing Barnes & Noble, ready to order a bunch of books and dive into reading once more. Even as I was planning and not reading, I felt the desire to write. Write what, I’m still not sure, but I just need to pick up a damn pencil. Or just start typing on a blank Word document.

I’ve read a total of 12 books this year. Jesus! Apparently at this time of year last year, I was only at 16, but I had just discovered Jasper Fforde and that number was about to jump tremendously (and it doesn’t help that Fforde’s next novel, Shades of Grey is delayed yet again). I haven’t ordered shit from BN.com since March 2 (that’s truly frightening!).  Will I be able to catch up and surpass last year’s total of 33 books read?

I certainly hope so; it’ll be easier if I read more books like The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón. Not quite as impressive as The Shadow of the Wind, I think I was more in tune with the plot and less taken in with the language.  Don’t get me wrong, the language was still stunningly beautiful and, like The Shadow of the Wind, awakens in me a desire to write like Ruiz Zafón, like Donna Tartt, like Maria Amparo Escandon.  However, like The Shadow of the Wind, the climax and dénouement were easy to spot well before they occurred; I admit to a bit of confusion as to which Sempere I was seeing, but other than that, I was far from lost. I still enjoyed the stunning language, but what were supposed to be either shocking revelations or unsettling conclusions felt more like huge moments of “Yeah, didn’t see that coming.” I say none of this sarcastically or with disdain; it just means that my eyes were a bit more open when reading Ruiz Zafón this time around. He is an excellent writer and Lucia Graves is a top-notch translator, but I’m not that shabby of a reader.  I still retain some of the literary analysis skills imparted to me by the University of Michigan Department of English faculty.  I was thrilled to see this author return, though; I’ve been on the lookout for Ruiz Zafón’s next novel since I put down The Shadow of the Wind. More of his work needs to be translated, like, now.

Although wedding planning took far too much of my time, here are some quick and dirty reviews of what I read:

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao: Meh. I have no idea why people think this was a funny or particularly interesting story. If anyone’s trying too hard with the magical realism, it’s Diaz.

Fool: Again, meh. One of Moore’s weaker stories.  Not humorous, the bawdiness taken to an extreme (well beyond what we saw in Lamb), and a cast of unsympathetic characters make this a poor novel.

People of the Book: I read Year of Wonders and hated the way Brooks wrote. Why I thought People of the Book would be any better escapes me. The premise is interesting enough, but the book descends into confusing metaphors and a Mission Impossible-esque ending. Boo.

The World of Normal Boys: Extremely powerful story. Graphic with the sex, but strong on emotion, consequence and loss. Definitely recommend.

Every Man Dies Alone: Beautifully written book.  In fact, given this novel, I would put Fallada into the realm of writers I wish I could emulate in style.

What Now, Little Man?: Also Fallada, but not as strong as Every Man Dies Alone. Would still recommend, though.

The Audacity of Hope: Policy, really, with then-Senator and now President Barack Obama falling into the talking points that come with policy; less interesting and honest than Dreams from My Father.  I particularly loved the part where he says that seeing people wave the Mexican flag angers him. Oh, Barack (and politicians everywhere), will you ever learn? If I based my identity solely on my citizenship papers, I’d lose the richness that comes with my history. Same with the U.S. in general.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: Simple re-read in preparation for the movie (which I’ve only seen once; see what else wedding planning can do to you and your time!?).  Still excellent even if I still want to kick Ron down a flight of stairs during the middle parts of the book.

Hopefully this post is a sign of better things to come with my reading and writing.  Off to Barnes and Noble to buy some books. Onto the second book list of the year.

Finished:

1) On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King
2) Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them by Francine Prose
3) The Complete Stories by Flannery O’Connor
4) The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz
5) Fool by Christopher Moore
6) People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks
7) The World of Normal Boys by K.M. Soehnlein
8) Every Man Dies Alone by Hans Fallada
9) The Audacity of Hope by Barack Obama
10) Little Man, What Now? by Hans Fallada
11) The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón (Translated by Lucia Graves)

Re-read:

1) Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling

Currently Reading:

1) The Aeneid by Virgil (Translation by Robert Fagles)
2) South of Broad by Pat Conroy

Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Husband or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books):

1) Kate: The Woman Who Was Hepburn by William J. Mann

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

First know that I began the year by reading books about either writing or about reading like a writer. I’ve made it a kind of secret goal to write a few short stories this year; the form is delicate, difficult and terrifying, but the stories that I think I have to tell best fit into this form (one or another could grow larger, but I suppose I won’t know that until I start writing). Francine Prose’s Reading Like a Writer praises O’Connor’s short stories and, it being at hand in the apartment and the short story a genre I want to study in greater detail, I decided to begin reading through O’Connor’s works. Like all college students who have taken a short story class or who found themselves in a creative writing course from time to time, I have of course read “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” several times. I wasn’t surprised to find myself shivering a bit when reaching the end of the story this time around; the story is still as powerful and as senseless as it was when I first read it as a college student. Many of O’Connor’s other stories also had the same effect on me.

I would caution the reader to not dive into O’Connor’s complete short stories; it’s best to digest these slowly, one by careful one, giving each a close read and not treating the collection like you would a novel. I give this caution because I did not follow it myself; what I should have done was read the stories as I read other works (fiction or nonfiction), but I should not have treated it as the whole that I did. Because of this mistake, some stories are lost and will need to be re-read at some point. However, there’s no mistaking the power of O’Connor’s writing; there are stories that, even consumed as I consumed them, stay with you and send that shiver down your spine. Weeks later (and yes, it took me weeks to read the stories), I still remember some early stories and pause a moment, wondering over the power of the tale.

Southern gothic is how O’Connor’s work is typically described, and I believe it’s a fair if not incomplete descriptor. There is a haunting magic to her stories, characters, and plots that have me clinging happily to my metropolitan world. I have never felt more uncomfortable on the Metro than when trying to read O’Connor’s stories, cringing whenever the “n” word came up (and come up it did, frequently—her race and class beliefs were apparently often reflected in her writing, which quickly made this book an “at home” read). I have never seen so many dead children, domineering mothers, domineered children, absent mothers, foolish fathers, and self-righteous protagonists gathered in one place. Some of the attitudes, beliefs, and characters are absolutely stomach-churning; you marvel at the idea that there really might be people so selfish, narrow, and inconsiderate. In many stories, though, there is an attempt to grow by the characters; it often comes too late or at the expense of someone else’s misfortune.

Did O’Connor’s works give me insight into the short story form? Definitely; as a close read, I found myself delighted by her metaphors, turn of phrases, her imagery. In terms of building a short story, I found myself trying to figure out precisely why certain details were in the story, how the story held together as a cohesive whole with those elements, and how the language guided the story along to its climax. Trying to examine O’Connor’s work doesn’t make beginning my own any less frightening, but it does encourage me to iron out the thoughts floating around in my head and get them onto paper already.

I would recommend all short stories, but here are a few striking ones in particular:

• “The River” (this one almost made me burst into tears)
• “The Displaced Person”
• “A Good Man Is Hard to Find”
• “The Enduring Chill”
• “Everything That Rises Must Converge”
• “The Lame Shall Enter First” (oh man, is this one stuck in my head!)
• “Revelation”
• “A View of the Woods”

I will probably read a few other short story collections throughout the year (which could lead to a new category in the 2009 awards).  However, my following reads will be novels until I figure out which collection to tackle next (and even then I’ll read the stories as I read the novels or the nonfiction that I have).

Onto the first (and very short) 2009 book list:

Finished:

1) On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King
2) Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them by Francine Prose
3) The Complete Stories by Flannery O’Connor

Re-read:

Empty

Currently Reading:

1) The Aeneid by Virgil (Translation by Robert Fagles)

Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Fiancé or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books):

1) The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz
2) Fool by Christopher Moore
3) Kate: The Woman Who Was Hepburn by William J. Mann

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.