Book Review: Eleven Kinds of Loneliness

“The pen lay dead in his cramped fingers. It was as if all the letters of the alphabet, all the combination of letters into words, all the infinite possibilities of handwritten language had ceased to exist.” — Richard Yates, Out With the Old in Eleven Kinds of Loneliness

As I said to Jenny, I feel like a traitor saying this about Yates, but I was underwhelmed. My reaction comes from two distinct reasons. Firstly, I adore short stories. It’s a big love of mine and I’ve discovered so many really wonderful short story writers over the past eighteen months, so I have high hopes when I read shorts. Secondly, I love his writing so much, I think Yates is an absolute master of his craft. The Easter Parade shattered me. But although when I read these, it was clear they were written by someone very skilled, they don’t really amaze as shorts. I think he’s a novelist at heart, and his shorts don’t deliver the emotional (or stylistic, for that matter) impact his novels do. 

I’m glad I read it, but I breezed through it, and only occasionally felt that there was something noteworthy. It is not a bad book, I don’t think Yates could write a bad book, but it is not a brilliant book, and I doubt anyone could argue it is his best. I can’t wait to read Young Hearts Crying and get back on track with his genius, but for now I must away to study for exams.

Book Review: The Marriage Plot

“Depression be like a bruise that never goes away. A bruise in your mind. You just got to be careful not to touch where it hurts.” — Jeffrey Eugendies, The Marriage Plot

Disclaimer: I have a bad habit of sounding like I didn’t like a book I expected to love when I actually just have a few criticisms. Bear this in mind.

So, in the spirit of trying to return to reviewing, I present you with my first read of 2012. Unfortunately, I’m quite conflicted about this novel. Let’s start with the my frame of mind when I read this: I am an enormous fan of Jeffrey Eugendies. I loved his first two books, and thoroughly enjoyed the short story collection he edited. In fact, the introduction to that anthology had writing as good as the shorts themselves! You know a writer is masterful when even their introductions can sustain your avid interest. Eugendies doesn’t publish often. In fact, thus far, his novels have appeared at nine-year increments. That’s substantial! Even Cunningham, whose work I adore, publishes at a faster rate of a book every five years. 

That is all to say: I had very high expectations of this novel. That’s always dangerous. Before I begin picking apart my thoughts I would like to state that I did like the book. I thought it was well-written, the characters were mostly deeply realised and felt tangible. It’s definitely worth a read. My crutch was that I expected to be as remarkable and timeless as his previous two. That’s what it boils down to, and that’s what I’m unsure he achieved. His style in this novel is a lot closer to Franzen’s than his own. It feels like he captured a contemporary time quite well, but for a contemporary audience. Some of these may not even be criticisms for other readers — we all value different things and place importance on different aspects of books. But although I enjoyed the book, thought about the characters when I wasn’t reading it, and put off studying to read it at times, I felt like I was waiting for the amazement to set in.

As someone who has struggled with mental illness (I hasten to add, and stress, that it was nothing whatsoever the same illness as in the book), but most importantly, as someone who is studying mental illness, my loyalties to the characters were divided and fickle. I could never decide who to root for or to dislike, who was right and who was wrong. If you can pull this off well, as a writer, it’s a great thing. But here, once more, I wasn’t sure if my mind was constantly to-and-fro because of Eugenides or because of my own biases. While he depicted some things fairly well, and while manic-depression is different in different people, I did think that there were gaps he didn’t fill in. I don’t know how many of these would be obvious to a layman, but it bugged me.

You have no idea how much it pains me to write this review. It’s not even a bad review, but the fact that I could be so critical about this book upsets me! I wanted to be blinded by his brilliance, and I was a little underwhelmed. I maintain, however, that it’s a decent book, worth a read, on par with Franzen or Irving. Both of whom I like enormously. Eugendies’ particular branch of magic is just somehow lacking. 

Book Review: Beauty and Sadness

What gripped me about this novel originally was mostly the title. I’d wanted to read Yasunari Kawabata, and when Penguin was kind enough to send me this book after I inquired after it, I made it my first read of his.

One of the problems with the Japanese fiction that I’m reading is that a lot of them are written and published in the fifties and sixties, which is easy to forget because the time period isn’t expressed with a tremendous amount of importance. But the reason this is a problem is that with Kawabata especially is that one of his consistant themes seems to be comparing issues of the traditional versus the modern. So I begin thinking in terms of the noughties, whereas it’s actually fifty or sixty years back. 

I digress. Beauty and Sadness follows Oki Toshio, a Japanese writer who has a reunion with an ex-lover, Otoko Ueno, who is now an artist and somewhat of a recluse. Itis a novel of remarkable stillness and beauty. I found this in The Sound of the Mountain to an extent as well, but it’s much more prevalent here. Permit me to use an analogy: Kawabata’s writing is like a still lake that is full of life. You know there is life in it, the fish are alive and healthy and strong, the plants are growing, there is a whole ecosystem in balance. But you don’t see that when you are on the bank, you see a body of water. Imagine this life stirring, but no ripples forming on the surface of the lake. His writing is like that. There are events that enfold and emotions and circumstances, but he writes so peacefully and almost passively. I feel like you’re expected to use your imagination a lot more to fill in the blanks and insert colour into the picture you’re provided with, and I think that’s quite lovely. 

Book Review: The Collector

“There were even times I thought I would forget her. But forgetting’s not something you do, it happens to you. Only it didn’t happen to me.” — John Fowles, The Collector

I don’t want to talk about this book without discussing it and how I felt reading it, so there will be spoilers. If you don’t want to read on, suffice to say I liked it, I thought it was a good book, and you should read it. 

SPOILERS HENCEFORTH:

I’ve been wanting to read Fowles for ages, and The Collector in particular, since it is such a favourite and so often spoken of. This book freaked me the fuck out. That’s natural, considering it’s about a man who we assume is about to turn into a serial killer, who has kidnapped a woman he is in love with and imprisons her. But that’s not really what freaked me out. What made me shiver was how for the first half of the book, we experienced events from his point of view in the first person. It was amazing the number of times I had to start and think, this man is evil, he will not keep his promises. A couple of times I found myself thinking, well, if you’re going to get kidnapped, surely rather him than someone worse — and I was gobsmacked that a turn of phrase, a little concept of compassion (with no execution) made my hatred and abhorrence of this man decrease. I was astounded.

When we get to Miranda’s side of the story, I was a little startled. Firstly, I didn’t realise the book was going to switch accounts — I thought we were going to continue with Frederick throughout. Secondly, I knew what he was capable of now; and finally, you were reading the victim’s account. Naturally my compassion and anxiety were for her to be safe, though I knew this wasn’t going to happen. I’ve heard some people say that they found Miranda too mopey, or too aggravating to be sympathetic. I find this downright laughable. She is a young woman, kidnapped and imprisoned, with a man she is terrified will rape her and has complete power of her, and is away from all her friends and family. Should she be composed? Should what is presented to us as diary entries be devoid of emotion? It’s ridiculous. Whenever people complain about style of writing of diaries in books, movies or television I’m always at a loss. How many people reread their past entries? How many people can honestly claim that they write well when they’re writing emotionally? I know that my diary entries are astoundingly bad, even when I try to organise my frazzled emotions. I understand perfectly that we expect things of fiction that we don’t expect of real life, and there are times where it is inappropriate to be true in the style and compromise theme or content, but in a novel like The Collector, compromising on style would have had an extremely detrimental effect to the overall novel.

All in all, I was piqued by this novel; I liked it a lot, precisely because I was moved into emotions and reactions that scared and agitated me.

Book Review: Brooklyn

I have been wanting to read something of Colm Tóibín’s for a couple of years. Brooklyn induced me the most, although I also bought The Heather Blazing at a charity shop a little while ago. I was curious to see how he wrote, how good he was, and whether he deserved his reputation. There’s also the instinctive curiosity about any Irish writer who is acclaimed: there are many in that land that deserve the distinction, but is he one of them?

I think so. I’m still unsure as to how brilliant I think he is, but Brooklyn was a quiet, very affecting sort of novel. It tugged at my heart often, and Eilis frequently made decisions that confused me. But it’s a novel that’s true to life, true to the mistakes we make and how often we don’t take the opportunities that offer us a way out, and how often the tangle of our own thoughts trip us up more than external events. The description of a homesick, newly independent girl in a foreign city was familiar in certain places, and alien the next. 

One enormous reproach I have for this novel, which Colm Tóibín has absolutely nothing to do with, is the absolutely fucking ridiculous blurb on the back cover. It quite literally tells you the entire novel, the “twist” they advertise happens a mere twenty or thirty pages from the end. I don’t read blurbs often, I despise them for this very reason, and I’m glad I didn’t pay too much attention to this one till after I read the novel. I would have been very angry.

Ultimately, this is a book that some may get through quite quickly, while with others it will try their patience, but I think that once one has finished and reflected properly on it, it has the power to disquiet. 

Book Review: The Summer Without Men

“We are all dying one by one. We all smell of mortality, and we can’t wash it off. There is nothing we can do about it except perhaps burst into song.” — Siri Hustvedt, The Summer Without Men

I wanted to like Siri Hustvedt. I really did. I was browsing in London when I came across this, her latest novel, and I was so predisposed to liking her that I bought it, despite the fact that I owned a (secondhand) copy of What I Loved in Scotland that I hadn’t read yet. But I thought: no matter. She’s bound to be wonderful. 

Well. Not exactly. I knew that the plot of this novel would be predictable and mundane, but that did not mean that it had to be trite and colourless. I may be being a bit harsh, because I did finish it and it was fine. It was meh. But I when I pick up a book that has such a common storyline (a woman whose husband cheats on her), I expect there to be a selling point. Will it be her prose style? Will it be her ability to write about the human psyche? Will it be a compelling exploration of marriage dynamics? And it wasn’t any of those. It was simple, straightforward, unaffecting, at time irritating, novel.

Sometimes when I finish a book, a little time makes me think of it more favourably. And sometimes time doesn’t make a smidgen of difference. I finished The Summer Without Men about five weeks ago, and it has not gotten better with time. As a matter of fact, in the meantime I have read several books that have dealt with adultery, and all of them did it better. I do want to point out that it’s not a book I would argue vehemently against people reading. It probably wouldn’t even take very long. I just think that it’s colourless and I expect much more from a novel.

Book Review: Bed

“I saw it on her face that day, a look like her heart would float upwards through her throat, topple from her mouth, clip her front teeth on the way out and drift into the sky. It wasn’t love, nor lust, she was too young. But it was something, a seed of a seed that would become something one day.” — David Whitehouse, Bed

I picked up Bed at Waterstone’s as I was perusing with Katherine. I had heard absolutely nothing about this book before I picked it up, I didn’t know the premise and I didn’t know the author. It turned out he was a debut novelist, which perked my interest. I like reading the first book of an author just emerging, just like I enjoy buying first albums by bands or artists who are beginning to find their feet. Anyway, after reading a couple of pages and skimming the blurb very quickly (I loathe blurbs), I decided to buy it. 

I found the book quite interesting. It’s well-written, and I think you can even find Whitehouse’s unique overtures in certain parts of the novel, which I always love. The book poses fascinating questions (through the issues raised) of ethics and family dynamic, and how true the German proverb, blood is thicker than water. To what extent is a family like an elastic band? Do you always fall back, no matter how far you ago?

I think those thoughts and musings, which the novel produced, were often the most interesting part for me. Another bit I quite liked was when the narrator writes, “They both laughed, reminding me that I could talk when I was in the mood. My obstacles were often my own.” It’s amazing how true that often is, and it’s definitely an invitation to step outside of one’s comfort every once in a while.

I didn’t have much patience for Malcolm even before his decision, and I definitely didn’t respect him. I’m not sure anyone in the book, apart from Lou (to a point) excites much regard or affection. Nevertheless, it is an interesting debut novel, while far from perfect; and apropos of the type of novel it is, it makes the reader think. I would certainly pick up a future book by Whitehouse, but I would also be looking for him to improve.  

Book Review: The Hunger Games

Sorry about the length, but I am reviewing three books at once.

When I posted that I was currently reading this series, I got pretty unanimous requests to write a review. Saying I’m behind on reviews is a total joke — I think I’ve reviewed a total of four books I’ve read this year (and I’ve read a lot, lot, lot more than that. Of course). So I didn’t think that I’d even bother with reviewing The Hunger Games trilogy when I got to catching up, because I didn’t think anyone needed another review! But I was asked several times, so I shall submit. As always, I am pleased and flattered and a little incredulous that people want to know what I think and feel about certain books.

I had been curious about this trilogy, but mostly in the abstract sense, because I wasn’t sure how good it was. However, as time passed, I realised a few people whose opinions I kind of trust really enjoyed them. My little brother likes to read, but he’s very much YA only, and he loves sort of adventury things. So I bought the trilogy for him and hoped that he would enjoy them. He did. I love being able to talk about the books he’s read with him (it’s why I read all the Percy Jackson books last year) so I decided I’d give these a go. I had been curious already. I think one more thing I have to point out is that I’ve been reading at quite a fast pace recently (last four or five weeks) and I’ve finished quite a lot of books. So the fact that I finished the three books in three days does tell you I enjoyed them and wanted to know what happened next, but not to the extent you would think. I had been reading like crazy. I finished things like The Collecter by John Fowles in a day or a day and a bit.

So hopefully I won’t step on anyone’s toes for this review, but it’s pretty much inevitable that I will. Here goes. 

(I’ll be talking about all three books, with slight spoilers about the third. I’m separating each book into a paragraph, so the first paragraph is the first book, etc. Don’t read the third paragraph if you don’t want spoilers.)

I really enjoyed the first book. I thought the idea was great, it was well-executed and paced really well. I really liked Katniss, Gale and Peeta. What I liked the most about them was that they were not perfect. You could easily get angry at any one of them, they had flaws and kind characteristics, etc. I think the one thing I found a little amusing is that they all ‘happened’ to be gorgeous, but it’s such a slight thing that I didn’t think much of it. When I finished the first book, I wondered whether I should read the next two. The first book wraps itself up well, and there wasn’t really a cliffhanger. But I decided to anyway.

I thought the second book was good, it showed some development although not as much as I expected. I enjoyed it, but I thought there was a lot of repetition, both within the book and with regards to the previous book. It was still a good book though, I became invested with the characters, and I definitely wanted to picked up Mockingjay when I was done.

I think I’m in two minds about Mockingjay. I know a lot of people talk about how Katniss was always a strong character and in Mockingjay she lets herself be led and doesn’t stand up very much for herself, etc. In a way, I agree with this. I did get a little frustrated with her. But I also felt like — she’s a girl. She’s not a grown woman. Yes, she’s more mature than most but she’s still not really capable of leading an entire revolution by herself, and certainly not in the time frame they’ve presented. I think while you’d want to see a gung-ho Katniss leading everyone into war, it’s just entirely unrealistic (yes, I realise this is a dystopia and fiction, but still). So in the end I was in favour of having Katniss lose a few feathers. But I just don’t think it was done well. It’s feasible to have someone who has been bruised and battered for a year want to retreat and not have anything to do with the outside world — I say this as a Psych major. I just don’t think we got as close to Katniss as Collins had us be in the first and even second books. When Peeta comes back and he’s been reprogrammed into despising Katniss, it upset me and I finally felt like the book was about to pick up, but even this great idea didn’t really take. I was fine with having him love her again by the end, but in the interim it should have been executed better. We should have had Peeta’s side of things. I know it’s a first person account from Katniss, but really, there could have been ways around that. The way the events unfolded I agree that Katniss could not have ended up with Gale, but at the same time, considering the love triangle had been the focus of three books, it really, really should have been explained better.

One of the things that really stayed with me about these books is that I didn’t think of them as simple dystopia. It’s easy enough to disengage when it is. But as I’m from the Middle East, and I watch the events in my own country, as well as in Syria, in Libya, and so on I don’t feel like this is an unimaginable future. That made the books hit me a lot harder than they would have otherwise done. 

Book Review: Valley of the Dolls

“I’ve learned something — guys will leave you, your looks will go, your kids will grow up and everything you thought was great will go sour. All you can really count on is yourself and your talent,” Jacqueline Susann, Valley of the Dolls

As much as I love books and reading, I think books that shake you to your core don’t come by very often. I’m also of the opinion that they’re more likely to happen to you in your youth. A lot of my favourites, things that truly shook me, were read when I was a girl. Little Women, Jane Eyre, An Old-Fashioned Girl, Harry Potter, Stay As Sweet As You Are, A Little Princess. I don’t know how to properly describe that feeling, that sense of floating and feeling both terribly apart from your body and yet acutely hearing and feeling the hammering of your heart and the tangle of your thoughts. And the slight lift of euphoria, that someone not only felt this, but wrote this, and you hold it in your hand. That a book can induce this. 

I have had a lot of favourites over the years. A lot of books I love to press into people’s hands. I’ve also read simply well-written books, or thought-provoking ones. I’m not really talking about those. I’m talking about books that you love almost senselessly. Books that, if I stood objectively, I may find flaws in quite easily. Books that aren’t perfect and yet, they are. 

I also think a lot of it has to do with your mood, how you’re feeling at that point in your life, how focused you are when you read. It takes a lot of little circumstances, and sometimes they come together and they kick up this heartache, produced by a bunch of people who never existed.

That was Valley of the Dolls for me. The book itself is quite good. The thing that made it hit me in the gut was that it was about three women over a period of about twenty years. I’ve been on quite a feminist kick, in the sense that I want to read about strong, able women who don’t have to compromise in order to get what they want. I think that’s one of the things that saddens and angers me the most sometimes — I feel like women have to compromise all the time, and men don’t (and if they do, it is most certainly not to the same extent). My views on feminism and the state of women in the world deserves a post of its own, though.

The book can be easily summarized in this slightly spoliery sentence: Three women, twenty years, plenty of trials and tribulation and no happy outcomes. It broke my heart. The thing that really touched me was that it wasn’t hugely dramatized or ridiculous. It felt very much like life. I felt and got angry at the characters as I would at friends, even those I didn’t sympathise with. 

I have been meaning to read this for about four years, and I bought it three years ago, and it had just been sitting on my shelf. I am so glad I finally read it, but I’m also glad I waited till now. Sometimes books find you at the right time.