Well, not really. We ran out of Sudafed last night, so I can't quite credit pseudoephedrine with my spurt of productivity this evening. I can justly blame my craving for bad Chinese delivery on this cold. I hope I wouldn't consume a quart of various Asian soups otherwise.
What the malady has provided me with is the time to finish two books and further cement my place in the world as evil book reviewer.
Excuse me, I must go sneeze.
Showing posts with label book review. Show all posts
Showing posts with label book review. Show all posts
30.8.11
Swedish isn't my thing, unless it's fish.
And even then, I prefer the Aqua Life. Those elusive tasty fuckers.
[Thank you computer-powers-that-be, for informing me that previous sentence may be a fragment. I choose to be fragmentary, I'm sorry if that warrants a dotted green line.]
This is not going to turn into a commentary on how we're judged by everyone, and evidently everything, now.
Instead I'll tell you that I've judged Wedge + Fig to be a fantastic place to grab lunch or dinner in Old City. Though if they tell you that a piece of cake is enormous, listen. Still order it and eat the entire thing, but don't be flabbergasted when it comes out of their little kitchen looking like it couldn't possibly have been housed in such a small space.
Something that competes [slightly] with enormous slices of strawberry-filled coconut cake: Winning books for free!!! Publishers have been unwittingly giving me free books for review and y'all are lucky enough to be exposed to my unbridled opinions.
This publisher was nice enough to send me the prequel (reviewed below) and a t-shirt along with the novel I had originally requested. Unfortunately for them, I'm not quite so cheap...
The American Girl by Monika Fagerholm
My rating: 2 of 5 stars
It isn't very often you encounter a book with dedications and acknowledgments from a translator. Perhaps on some classical works when Ovid or Virgil didn't opt to thank their publicists, you get a fill-the-space dedication from a contemporary scholar. But really, the emphasis on translator should have been the first sign. The translator thanking the author for answering her questions should have been the second.
Not to say that The American Girl was a bad book. There was certainly no lack of story and a dynamic style in the telling.It was just impossible to follow. It was just so translated. I can't help but feel I'm missing out on something.
In a linear storytelling, it would have taken the space of a short story. With the jump arounds, backtracks, revisiting, and flat-out repetition, the book clocked in at nearly 500 pages. I'm not shy of large-scale novels. I'm not afraid of creative literary structure. I am wary of manuscripts that could have benefited from some cuts. Tailored a bit this could have been a very intriguing story. I'd even venture to say that a screen adaptation would be wickedly popular. Cutting this down to screenplay size would certainly allow the reader/viewer to stick with the story and cut down on the overwhelming number of circles it travels in.
Ultimately, I'll chalk it up to lost in translation - a solid story hidden in some confusing text
Disclosure: The above book was provided to me by Other Press through the Goodreads First Reads program. The opinions are all my own.
[Thank you computer-powers-that-be, for informing me that previous sentence may be a fragment. I choose to be fragmentary, I'm sorry if that warrants a dotted green line.]
This is not going to turn into a commentary on how we're judged by everyone, and evidently everything, now.
Instead I'll tell you that I've judged Wedge + Fig to be a fantastic place to grab lunch or dinner in Old City. Though if they tell you that a piece of cake is enormous, listen. Still order it and eat the entire thing, but don't be flabbergasted when it comes out of their little kitchen looking like it couldn't possibly have been housed in such a small space.
Something that competes [slightly] with enormous slices of strawberry-filled coconut cake: Winning books for free!!! Publishers have been unwittingly giving me free books for review and y'all are lucky enough to be exposed to my unbridled opinions.
This publisher was nice enough to send me the prequel (reviewed below) and a t-shirt along with the novel I had originally requested. Unfortunately for them, I'm not quite so cheap...
The American Girl by Monika FagerholmMy rating: 2 of 5 stars
It isn't very often you encounter a book with dedications and acknowledgments from a translator. Perhaps on some classical works when Ovid or Virgil didn't opt to thank their publicists, you get a fill-the-space dedication from a contemporary scholar. But really, the emphasis on translator should have been the first sign. The translator thanking the author for answering her questions should have been the second.
Not to say that The American Girl was a bad book. There was certainly no lack of story and a dynamic style in the telling.
In a linear storytelling, it would have taken the space of a short story. With the jump arounds, backtracks, revisiting, and flat-out repetition, the book clocked in at nearly 500 pages. I'm not shy of large-scale novels. I'm not afraid of creative literary structure. I am wary of manuscripts that could have benefited from some cuts. Tailored a bit this could have been a very intriguing story. I'd even venture to say that a screen adaptation would be wickedly popular. Cutting this down to screenplay size would certainly allow the reader/viewer to stick with the story and cut down on the overwhelming number of circles it travels in.
Ultimately, I'll chalk it up to lost in translation - a solid story hidden in some confusing text
Disclosure: The above book was provided to me by Other Press through the Goodreads First Reads program. The opinions are all my own.
17.8.11
I get the impression all was not well in Giverny.
I waited a few days to review Claude & Camille to get some pictures of the Monet paintings I get to see on my way to the bathroom at work. The Philadelphia Museum of Art has several beautiful pieces, including a new acquisition (Path on the Island of Saint Martin, 1881) that's not to be missed. Unfortunately, they're missed because I can't find the cord to upload photos from my camera. Yes, weeks later and I still am feeling the ramifications of moving.
Instead, be contented with my discontent:
Claude & Camille: A Novel of Monet by Stephanie Cowell
My rating: 2 of 5 stars
I'm quite surprised by the glowing reviews this novel has received. Either I'm missing something, or I know too much. My intuition is telling me that this is again an instance when ignorance is bliss. If you begin this book thinking of waterlilies and pastels, I can see how it'd be pleasant. La di da, fine art, love story, struggling artist, burgeoning career, shades of violet... yeah. And I suppose if you're content with shallow happy things, you could leave it be. I however, am not one of those shiny happy people. Having spent too much time in dark rooms, studying slide after slide of paintings, and coming to the conclusion that artists hardly are so one-dimensional.
While I understand that it's impossible to keep a story such as Claude & Camille historically accurate with the lack of biographical information on the two; I don't understand why an author would take on such a project if they weren't willing to push the limits. For instance, Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter takes fictionalized biography to a new level. Weaving through history, Grahame-Smith is still able to make an interesting and engaging story. Not so much the story for Stephanie Cowell. Instead it reads as if she was trying so hard to not piss off any of the Impressionists' estates that she punched out a bland love story not worthy of being published in hardcover. As a starving artist from an abusive household, frequently evicted, forced to flee during wartime, I can't accept that life for Claude and Camille was so simple. "I love you"s aren't so easily solicited during times of heightened stress, even less so once another woman moves into the household. This leads me to believe not only does Cowell not understand art, but anything about love as well.
Instead, be contented with my discontent:
Claude & Camille: A Novel of Monet by Stephanie CowellMy rating: 2 of 5 stars
I'm quite surprised by the glowing reviews this novel has received. Either I'm missing something, or I know too much. My intuition is telling me that this is again an instance when ignorance is bliss. If you begin this book thinking of waterlilies and pastels, I can see how it'd be pleasant. La di da, fine art, love story, struggling artist, burgeoning career, shades of violet... yeah. And I suppose if you're content with shallow happy things, you could leave it be. I however, am not one of those shiny happy people. Having spent too much time in dark rooms, studying slide after slide of paintings, and coming to the conclusion that artists hardly are so one-dimensional.
While I understand that it's impossible to keep a story such as Claude & Camille historically accurate with the lack of biographical information on the two; I don't understand why an author would take on such a project if they weren't willing to push the limits. For instance, Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter takes fictionalized biography to a new level. Weaving through history, Grahame-Smith is still able to make an interesting and engaging story. Not so much the story for Stephanie Cowell. Instead it reads as if she was trying so hard to not piss off any of the Impressionists' estates that she punched out a bland love story not worthy of being published in hardcover. As a starving artist from an abusive household, frequently evicted, forced to flee during wartime, I can't accept that life for Claude and Camille was so simple. "I love you"s aren't so easily solicited during times of heightened stress, even less so once another woman moves into the household. This leads me to believe not only does Cowell not understand art, but anything about love as well.
9.8.11
comebacks, resurrections, and general hoodwinkery
Life being the tricky thing it is, decides once again to beguile me. Just as I feel the need to reinvigorate this blog, my MacBook so decides it's a good day to try out a Potter-esque obliviate spell on any input-able text boxes. I stand by my assertion that Apple products are best showcased in white, even if I am borrowing the black MacBook we have here at home. [I'm sorry, but iPods, iPhones, MacBooks, and the like should all be in gleaming Apple white. This matte black is suited MAC products, which is probably why I'm confused.] I've never been one with much motivation, so this is a pernicious attempt on the part of technology to silence my ramblings.
That being noted, I'm back. With my best intentions to keep up appearances. Imbued with a new sense of hope for the world (thank you, 2011 Reading Challenge on Goodreads!), my digressive sermons have returned. And returned in a better apartment with stunning views, which in turn create great spaces to read - and review books like Stiff.
 |
| Reminder: I need a pedicure. Forget clean underwear in case I die, my toes need to look good. |
Squeamishness be damned, indeed. While I generally try and avoid the topics of death and cadavers, Stiff certainly gets beyond the stigma and gives the nitty gritty that we're all inherently curious about. Death is one of the few guarantees we all share, a great equalizer that is unavoidable. While a few of us probably gave thought to postmortem plans during a Six Feet Under marathon, contacting locally family owned funeral parlors and hastily filling out pre-needs, I'd venture to say the majority of us haven't seriously considered death-long plans (which really turn out to be longer-lasting than any life-long plans we may pride ourselves on). Hell, I'm guilty of not even checking the organ donor box (can't say I recall ever seeing it on any driver's license application, but it's a failure of my own for not asking).
Roach thoroughly investigates all manners of cadaverdom, in a way that seems not like a presentation of options that should be given by Michael C Hall, but more so like a well-rounded 300 page answer to a child's query of "What happens to us when we die?" And have no doubt - I mean that in a very good way.
Having also read Spook, I already have a fondness for Mary Roach, who has a voice that both smartly and graciously deals with the toughest of topics. That being said, I'm still not sure what to do with myself when I die... If you're one of the few who have heard my grand plans for a green burial on a preserve in California, don't fret. It appears that I have new options to be an eco-friendly cadaver! Freeze-dried Brittany fertilizer wouldn't be so bad, but it does mean someone's got to stick around and water me from time to time. Here's to hoping I can finally grow some Mr. Stripey tomatoes...
16.4.11
reading the air kind of sucked
Anyone who knows me is aware of the voraciousness of my book appetite. Fiction, non-fiction, academic, to trashy - I want to read it all. Inevitably, this leads to reading both the good and bad. In an effort to keep you abreast of all the words wandering before my eyes, enjoy one of my reviews from my online library.
Infrequently do you find so many stories within stories all woven together to make something short of a convoluted mess. I would refrain from saying the novel was confusing, as I read it in entirety and feel as though I grasp the author's intent. The parallel of Jonas' search for a life in New York City with his wife and his father's search for asylum loosely match up; though not as seamlessly as the midwestern journey the three characters share (Jonas alone, his mother and father together).
While Mengestu writes with well thought prose and a voice that is to be appreciated, the story would benefit from further character exploration. Four strong individuals exist in the book, but due to the desire to keep the "true story" mysterious, the connection and ability to feel any sympathy for them is lost.
Just as Jonas feels disappointment in the lack of explanatory contents in the box he receives after his father's death, I too feel as though I've been cheated from knowing someone that Mengestu is keeping hidden away.
 |
| A title more apt than I'd originally assumed. |
Infrequently do you find so many stories within stories all woven together to make something short of a convoluted mess. I would refrain from saying the novel was confusing, as I read it in entirety and feel as though I grasp the author's intent. The parallel of Jonas' search for a life in New York City with his wife and his father's search for asylum loosely match up; though not as seamlessly as the midwestern journey the three characters share (Jonas alone, his mother and father together).
While Mengestu writes with well thought prose and a voice that is to be appreciated, the story would benefit from further character exploration. Four strong individuals exist in the book, but due to the desire to keep the "true story" mysterious, the connection and ability to feel any sympathy for them is lost.
Just as Jonas feels disappointment in the lack of explanatory contents in the box he receives after his father's death, I too feel as though I've been cheated from knowing someone that Mengestu is keeping hidden away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)