Remember January? What I Read

 

Aaaargh, too many weeks without a blog post. Unexpected life changes. I want to say that it's exhilarating, and it is, but yeah. Gotta admit that there's also that temptation to ask what fresh hell is this.

Today is a snow day, so I want to take advantage of being in and tell you about my reading in January. As usual, I started off the year with grand intentions. 

Books I have started, but haven't finished:

A Promised Land - Barack Obama

Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy

Testament of Youth - Vera Brittain

These aren't DNFs, not at all. This is rich, rewarding reading, but my brain, this brain I've had since I was a small girl, is skittering like a pat of butter in a hot skillet. I'm dipping into each book and making single-digit progress daily. With any luck, in a few months I'll finish them all around the same time and Goodreads will stop scolding me for being behind. Go suck an egg, Goodreads! Did you ever have life fall on you? Of course not; you're a...what's the word I'm looking for? "Social media cataloging website". Thanks, Google.

Anyway, here's what I *did* complete in January:

1. The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck - Mark Manson. Nonfiction. I was annoyed and disappointed by this book. The writing style seemed disjointed and blathery. I was reminded of late evenings/early mornings in bars. Not drunk enough and in complete misery thanks to the blabby (and usually male, but not always) drunk who has pinned me in the corner where I've gone to hide. They tell me in painful detail about how intelligent they are, and how they've got life all figured out. Then they tell me again. And again. And AGAIN. There's not enough alcohol in the world. I can fairly feel the bruises blooming all over my cerebellum from this onslaught. No, just no.

2. News of the World - Paulette Jiles. Novel. I saw the movie and read the book within a week of each other, so it's hard for me to separate the two. I will say that the movie adaptation is wonderful. I am impressed with Jiles' research into the Old West. I like her slightly severe, pared-down style of writing, and am eager to read other novels by her. 

3. Who Was Lucille Ball? 

4. Who Was Mark Twain?

You know I'm happily addicted to the Who Was...? series, but some of them fall a little flat for me. In the cases of Lucille Ball and Mark Twain, it seems like they are too large and complex to be reduced to the formula of the series.

My 2018 100-Book Resolution: A Critical Look Back

Even on my worst day, with electrodes hanging out, I'm *still* infinitely better-looking than your crazy 2018 Reading Resolution list.

What a freaking mess!

24 out of 100. Yikes.

My rationale for building such a big list seemed sound to my twelve-months-younger self. I'd have room to wander and all types of books to try. I'd read the list and thus cull my shelves.

Almost from the beginning, I knew I was in trouble with this resolution. It was not elegant; it lacked order. It's so weird it almost defies description, but I'll take a run at it: It's like a drunken Frankenstein (the monster, not Victor) wearing snowshoes and boxer shorts tap-danced it out in the middle of the sodden, muddy pasture during a heavy rainstorm.

Each time I returned to the list, I didn't feel like reading. I only felt like cringing.

And speaking of Frankenstein, why didn't I include it on the list?

What I Talk About When I Talk About Reading

I tried several times, but couldn't get this post off the ground. After a great deal of cursing and sweating, I decided to ask myself questions.

Did you notice that you were wrong again with your Pulitzer Fiction prediction?
Yes. There needs to be a new word for my level of perennial wrongness; it's truly breathtaking.

How do you feel about how it all shook out this year?
After my initial surprise, I hied myself down to the bookstore to order a copy of Less for my permanent Pulitzer shelf as well as my immediate future reading enjoyment. Can't wait to read it!

How about that biography winner?!
GASP!  Prairie Fires! I was completely delighted, and my joy was compounded upon realizing that I own a hardcover first edition. When I first read the book, I was struck by the brilliance of the research, construction and writing. There was not a wasted page; the editing is top-notch as well. I'll be reading Prairie Fires again soon and pestering my fellow bookworms to follow my good example. So glad the enigmatic Pulitzer committee saw things as I did.

Have you read any Pulitzer fiction winners lately?
Aaargh. I read the 1942 winner, In This Our Life. Not my favorite. I had high expectations because I loved the movie version starring Bette Davis and Olivia de Havilland. This was a case of Hollywood improving on a book. The screenwriter took this bloated, analytical novel and using some sort of alchemy, got it in fighting trim. I understand why it may have won the Pulitzer, but it's aged badly.

What are you reading now?
A couple of weeks ago, I found a copy of Life Plus 99 Years by Nathan F. Leopold (of Leopold and Loeb infamy). Although it was an autobiography/memoir, the book seemed evasive. Dishonesty fairly oozed out of the prose. Of course it was written about the time Leopold became eligible for parole (Loeb was murdered about ten years after the pair went to prison), so he was writing with one eye on  a specific audience, casting himself in the best possible light. In the book, Leopold wrote about a visit from author Meyer Levin and Levin's plans to write a novel based on the murder case. Leopold went on to discuss the result, Compulsion (1956) in scathing terms. It was the only time in Life Plus 99 Years that his carefully constructed mask seemed to come off. Of course I had to read Compulsion, which is creepily good in that In Cold Blood sort of way although Meyer Levin lacks Truman Capote's delicate touch with the written word. I also checked out a detailed nonfiction account titled The Crime of the Century.

Do you plan to have fun, fun, fun! at the Readathon?
Yes! I'm so tired of missing the Readathon allllllll the time since I moved back to the United States. Plopping myself down somewhere reader-friendly next Saturday, I shall refuse to be moved. Unruly Reader is helping me to start out in fine style; she gifted me a copy of The Teammates by David Halberstam. I'll do an update or two here on Blob, but I'll mostly be doing quick check-ins on Twitter @susanandbooks and at Goodreads where I'm SusanInSedalia. I'll devote this week to figuring out the rest of my stack and snacks. Any suggestions?

F This, I'm Getting A Bookshelf

Last year, I decided to be noble and not take up so much space in the spare bedroom with my bookshelves. That space was needed for a twin bed or a futon for overnight guests.

Long story short, I moved the shelves out to the garage where they hold canned goods. The books are lined up along the tops of my dresser, desk and nightstand. The excess books are stored in plastic boxes under the bed.

The spare bedroom still has no twin bed or futon for visitors. Come to think of it, there have been no visitors.

Meanwhile, new books are coming into my life, or perhaps the old ones are breeding, and my bedroom is overrun. Books are stacked up, and while I love a book pile more than most, there's also that overwhelmed feeling.

My first thought was to go through the Bybeeary and cull out some titles, but I don't want to cull and I don't want to stash any more books away under the bed or out in the garage. I love my books and I want them on display. I long to see them on a shelf once more, standing up proudly and vertically with their spines neatly aligned.

Soon, very soon, the spare bedroom will house the Bybeeary again. I'll direct any overnight visitors to the living room couch.

Parade's End

This is my latest bookworm project. 

Parade's End is an omnibus of four novels written by Ford Madox Ford from 1924-1928. I am very much reminded of the early seasons of Downton Abbey, since the setting is in the years prior to and during WWI.

I had the book on my Kindle...don't remember how it got there, but there it is. I also found an audiobook for a very low price at Hastings' before they closed their doors forever. It's a little awkward, but I've been both reading and audiobooking for a week now.

 The main character, Christopher Tietjens, an upper-class public servant and the people in his world are nearly incomprehensible to me and seem prissy and frivolous. There are all these subtle variances of how people should behave and how far bad behavior can be carried as long as it doesn't come off as bad form. It didn't occur to me until the end of Disc 3 that Ford means for readers to feel irritated and distanced from them because the war is going to change their world.

Even with that fresh understanding, Parade's End is challenging. I've talked back to the audiobook several times:
Who the hell cares?
 Oh, shut up. 
Stop pronouncing golf as gulf.

30 discs. Don't think I'll finish before the end of 2016. Sometimes I get that failed fainthearted Villette feeling, but I'm determined to go on. Stay tuned.

The Crankiest Bookworm

I had the worst reading week I've had in a long time.

 After the brilliance of the Shirley Jackson biography by Ruth Franklin, which is chock-full of great writing, fresh insights, thoughtful scholarship and damn fine detective work, I made a hard left turn into several books I didn't care for and struggled to finish or abandoned. And now? I can't read. If the parts of me that read had a gag reflex, it would be working overtime.

Here's how this wretched week went down...or didn't go down. Be glad you're not me.

Sunday:
Shirley Jackson: A Rather Haunted Life  by Ruth Franklin. Oh my God. Read it, read it, read it, read it.  I couldn't put it down. Tension like the best of novels. Sleep took second place. Finished at 2 a.m, and I mean finished. I read the notes and index, too. Yes, it's that good.

Sunday: 
Literary Life: A Second Memoir by Larry McMurtry.  Ramble, ramble, ramble. Digressions not very interesting. Maddeningly unconnected. The only parts I liked were when McMurtry would mention that he wrote a review of an author's book and it was positive, but they were still pissed at him for the review.  I also liked the bits about Susan Sontag. After the first memoir, Books, which I LOVED, this was a disappointment. I want to weep and make excuses for McMurtry, but he's one of my literary gods and I never want to feel that way about him.

Sunday: 
Hollywood: A Third Memoir by Larry McMurtry.  For such a potentially vibrant topic, there is a miasma of disinterest and low energy that was exhausting to cut through. So glad the book was short. I'm going to forget the second and third memoirs and go back to Books.

Monday: 
Closing Time: The True Story of the "Goodbar" Murders by Lacey Fosburgh.  There are quotes in the title around Goodbar, but they should be around True.  This true crime book is highly regarded, but I don't know why. The names have been changed and there is invented dialogue. One could say the same about In Cold Blood, but Truman Capote's seams don't show.  If I wanted to read fiction, I would have gone with Looking for Mr. Goodbar by Judith Rossner, which was published at about the same time.

Tuesday:
Villette by Charlotte Bronte.  Uncle! Uncle! I give up. DNF at 39%. I've been at this book, both the audio and print version since April, and I can't go another step with Lucy Snowe. I hate how she raises passivity to an art form, and I hate how the characters lapse into French for pages on end. Yes, I could pick out a word here and there, and yes, I know they are in a French-speaking country, but couldn't Charlotte Bronte just let the reader somehow understand that the conversations were in French? Even Hemingway knew how to give a reader a break. The tipping point was when Lucy/Bronte held something back from the reader and finally admitted that she'd known it all along.  Okay, it was Dr. John's true identity. At this point, I don't care if I spoil anything for future readers.  I'm claustrophobic from being in Lucy's head. I can't breathe, and reading it is like hacking through a thicket of brambles with only an emery board or perhaps my debit card. Although I've still got two Charlotte (this one and The Professor) books  and one Anne (The Tenant of Wildfell Hall) book to go to complete my Bronte Sisters project, only Anne gets my attention from here on out. I will never return to Villette. I'm even going to stop calling it Vee-ette and go back to calling it Vill-ette.

Wednesday:
I'm 189 pages into a biography of Robert "Believe it or Not!" Ripley, but I just don't care anymore. Read one page and sighed and put the bookmark back in.

 [ETA: The proper title of this book is: A Curious Man: The Strange & Brilliant Life of Robert "Believe It or Not!" Ripley by Neal Thompson. I mean no disrespect to the book or its author, and plan to finish it sometime this month.]

Thursday:
Started reading Where Eagles Dare by Alstair MacLean.  For a WWII novel full of espionage and adventure, it sure is zzzz. The movie is much better. MacLean wrote that first (as a vehicle for Richard Burton) then wrote the novel. It feels like he ground it out with all the grimness of a man working a shift at a factory.  DNF. I left it at the 20% mark. Life is short.

Friday:
One chapter of Germinal by Emile Zola, right before I slept. I've been rereading this book since last month. This translation is so much better, but I can't get into the story again. My theory is that The Beast Within was so devastating that I am ruined forever for anything else in the Rougon-Macquart series.

Saturday:
Didn't read. Did not read. All day. I feel monstrous. I feel like that Korean patriot who said that if he didn't read everyday, thorns grew in his mouth.

I'm just going to pretend this week never happened and start the Shirley Jackson biography all over again.

The Boxcar Children - Gertrude Chandler Warner

The Boxcar Children (1924) was my mom's favorite childhood read, but for some reason, she didn't read it to my brother or me.  I finally got it done, and now I don't know if I would have liked it as a child or not.  I think I would have.  I liked old-fashioned stories, stories about orphans and plenty of descriptions of food and finding cool places to live.

As an adult, The Boxcar Children seems musty and dated.  Henry, Jessie, Violet and Benny are a little bit too good to be true.  They seem like paper dolls that Gertrude Chandler Warner cut out and arranged prettily.  Her authorial intrusion felt like heavy, adenoidal breathing over my shoulder as I tried to concentrate.  The language is stilted and insultingly dumbed-down.  I'm with E.B. White who said something something like if you lob challenging words at children, they intercept them quickly and smash them back over the net with great force.

Here's where Warner lost me:  Henry leaves his siblings in the boxcar in the woods and goes into town to find work.  He earns a dollar or two and buys food and a tablecloth.  He gives the tablecloth to Jessie, warning her that "It's not hemmed."  Please.  Even back in the 1920s, did boys generally notice if tablecloths were hemmed or not?  Did they even care?  Upon reflection, I suppose that the clerk at the store pointed this out to Henry, but by then my need for verisimilitude was overwhelming me.  I wanted someone to get smacked or arrested.

I'm charmed by the idea of the little red boxcar somewhere in Connecticut that is a museum devoted to Gertrude Chandler Warner and her literary creations, but a whole linen chest full of hemmed tablecloths could not induce me to read any more about the Aldens.