Shut The Book Up: The DNF Files

I struggled with a couple of books recently and had to give them up.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - Ken Kesey. As much as I loved the glimpse of Randle Patrick McMurphy's undershorts (boxers with white whales, given to him by an English major he was sleeping with, he said), I got so annoyed and then depressed with the misogyny.  My sympathies were with Nurse Ratched, and I suggest that someone write a novel telling her side of the story.

It Can't Happen Here - Sinclair Lewis.  I feel bad about this one. I adore Lewis' novels, and enjoy a bit of dystopia. I was all primed to curl up on the sofa with this book and a couple of news channels murmuring (?) in the background. Don't know exactly why I stalled. Pretty sure it's not a forever thing, like the Kesey book.

The bad news: I feel like a bookworm slob when I DNF.
The good news: Both books came from the library.

Have you DNFed lately? Do you hate it as much as I do?

Talking 'Bout My Zoladdiction

After reading beaucoup Zola during February and March, I got bogged down in His Excellency, Eugene Rougon at the beginning of April and couldn't continue past the third chapter.  My mind steadfastly refused to engage no matter how much bookworm muscle I put behind it, and my eyes just slid off the page like they were greased.

 Zola was not at his most vivacious when writing about politics.  I also went into the book knowing that I have a zzzzzzzz factor when it comes to Eugene.  His mom and dad (mere and pere, I should say) were interesting because they pulled themselves up from the lower classes by luck and finesse.  Although Eugene's brother Aristide Saccard makes my skin crawl, at least he gets your attention with his sliminess.  As for Dr. Pascal, the other brother, I can't keep my eyes off of him because he's so unlike the rest of the family.  So far, he's not ruthlessly ambitious or an addict or batshit crazy. He's just a hell of a nice guy, even if his best intentions sometimes go badly.

Our Boy Emile seems a little workmanlike when he's writing about the Rougons.  Politics is a rather intricate thing and he's got to labor to make sure all the pieces fit.  Characterization seems to get sacrificed and since he tends to juggle a bunch of minor characters, they all run together like an anemic watercolor.  This is especially true if you have (like me) been reading the Rougon-Macquart cycle out of order and you've seen him have a go at the Macquart and Mouret branches of the family.  When he's with them, there's blood in his veins; there's a fire in the furnace. Although the action gets a little repetitive, the reader doesn't feel as if the action is on hold while Zola pauses to finickily arrange and rearrange his chess pieces.

I skipped ahead to Germinal, in which Zola examines the conditions of working in a coal mine and a subsequent miner's strike, and everything is going smoothly again.  The R-M connection in Germinal is Etienne Lantier, who is the son of Gervaise Macquart  from L'Assommoir, so it'll be interesting to see if (or how) he's messed up.  I'm 6 chapters in and my interest is high.

Now that I'm back on track with my Zolalove, I have a hankering to read a massive biography (800+ pages) of Zola by Frederick Brown.  Sadly, it was ready and waiting for me for four years at my previous school's library.  It's not at this school.  Four years in which I could have read this book. How many times did I circle that shelf thinking that I might check it out?  Even now, I can see it sitting there, its mylar dust jacket making it shine like a big piece of ripe fruit.

Forehead, I smite you, and call you vous.

The DNF Files: Blankety-Blank

Last month I was in the middle of In the Garden of Beasts by Erik Larson and enjoying it when all of a sudden, it disappeared from my Nook right before my eyes.  Every single book I had on this device vanished.  Poof.  It was an odd sensation -- like going to a magic show I didn't want to go to and having a prank pulled on me.

Of course, I'd like all 19 books to come back, but it's been difficult to retrieve them since I'm overseas.  Even when I was home  in Missouri last summer, I was constantly on the phone with Barnes & Noble's customer service for various issues. I had my Nook in one hand and my Kindle in the other, and in every situation, the Nook was Goofus to the Kindle's Gallant.

My patience with the Nook has played out.  I regret ever buying it.  As for In the Garden of Beasts, I want to finish it, but don't want to buy it again.  Even if I could get my hands on a paper copy for free, I'm not sure I'd want it right now because it's all bound up with my B&N frustration, so I don't think the rest of my reading experience would be enjoyable.  On the other hand, I hate having a DNF.

Grrr.

Come Back To The ROK, Linda Sue, Linda Sue

Linda Sue Park at the 2007 Texas Book  Festival.  Isn't  her book cardigan fabulous?

A couple of months ago, right after I saw Krys Lee speak about Drifting House, My friend Pieter and I shared a taxi from Itaewon back to Seoul Station with a middle school guy.  This student, Landon, had made a point of coming quite a distance unaccompanied to see Krys Lee.  My own middle school self would have yearned to go, but would have been too intimidated to go see a real-live author, so Landon really impressed me.

Landon is Korean, but spent most of his younger years in Canada, so he's native-like in English.  I started babbling at top speed about how great it is to meet authors, they are my rock stars, etc.  Landon asked me how many I'd met.  I said that  Krys Lee was my third author.*  He wanted to know who the other two were.  I said Tobias Wolff and Larry McMurtry.  Landon didn't know those authors.  I briefly explained.

Then Pieter asked Landon if he'd met any other authors.  Good question.  It would never have occurred to me to ask.  I mean, this is a middle school kid, right?  I'd been planning to ask Pieter how many authors he'd met, but I confess that I would have skipped over Landon with nary a thought.  Sometimes I fear that I'm turning into the sort of asshole adult I held in contempt as a child.

Landon said, "A writer came to my school last year.  I can't remember her name, but she wrote a book called A Single Shard..."

I gasped.  "OH!  MY!  GOD!  LINDA SUE PARK!  YOU GOT TO SEE LINDA SUE PARK."

Landon said, "Yes, that was her name."

"I LOVE LINDA SUE PARK!"  I tried to take the squee coming out of me down a notch.  The taxi driver was looking worried or pissed, or both.  "I love her!  I love A Single Shard!  I teach her books!  In my Children's Lit class!  She was here?  In Seoul?"

Landon clarified that it was an international school in a city very close to Seoul, and not too far from where I now live.  Same subway line, as a matter of fact.

"Oh!  I want to meet her!"  I could feel myself wanting to behave in a way that would make me seem much younger than Landon.  I was on the verge of howling and throwing a tantrum like the one I threw at the age of six when my parents went off to the movies to see Bonnie and Clyde and left me with the babysitter:  But I looooooooove Bonnie and Clyde!  I have to go with you!  I won't be scared of all the blood, I promise!

A few hours later, I was finally home from Seoul and could smite my forehead in peace.  I had known for a while that Linda Sue Park had a web page, but I'd never visited it.  I visited it right then and there.  Surprise!   She has a blog, too.  I scrolled down, down, down and finally found this entry.  

The forehead-smiting began in earnest.  February!  My vacation month!  What was I doing?  I really don't remember, but I'm almost positive that it rhymes with "duck call"!  Hundreds of hours of messing around on the internet in my pajamas and I never once thought of going to Linda Sue Park's page.  One lousy little click.  One measly little subway ride and I could have seen her and told her how happy I am that I discovered her books and thank her for writing them.

Come back to Korea, Linda Sue Park.  Please.  If you show up in Korea during the winter again, I'll slide up and down icy mountains on my backside just to meet you.  If the semester has started, I'll beg one of my coworkers to substitute for me.  I'll even cut work, as a last resort, or bring all the English majors with me on the subway.  Since I've been reading your blog regularly now, I know you're off to Australia and Indonesia.  Have a great time...and maybe you could consider a side trip here?

*Not an accurate count.  In my excitement, I forgot William Stafford, Joseph Bruchac and Harlan Ellison.

The DNF Files: Three Generations - Yom Sang-seop

From the book jacket:

Touted as one of Korea's most important works of fiction, Three Generations (published in 1931 as a serial in Chosun Ilbo) charts the tensions of the Jo family in 1930s Japanese-occupied Seoul.  Delving deeply into each character's history and beliefs, Yom Sang-seop illuminates the diverse pressures and impulses that drive them.  This Korean classic, often compared to Junichiro Tanizaki's The Makioka Sisters, reveals the country's situation under Japanese rule, the traditional Korean familial structure, and the battle between the modern and the traditional.  The long-awaited publication of this tour de force is a vital addition to the Korean literary canon available in English.

I'm terribly disappointed with myself for not getting along better with this book.  After about 50 pages, I thought it was meandering, and I chafed against its rhythms.  Maybe it's the book.  Maybe it's me. I don't know.  When I first found it, I was excited to be reading a Korean novel that was both literature and a slice of history.  This is in my DNF files, but  it may be a short stay before it goes back on the TBR.

Book Slog

I haven't finished a book since February 21! What's the problem? I'm having a bit of difficulty reading at home. My surroundings distract me to no end.

I seem to have been infected with a self-improvement virus. After months of slovenliness and chaos, my one-room apartment looks great now-- even the closets are clean and organized. Usually order is calming, but now if I see something slightly out of order like a smudge on a mirror or a crumb on the floor, I feel compelled to hop up and grab the Swiffer or a paper towel and window cleaner. Plays hell with reading.

In addition, I seem to be off on a spate of extreme TV watching. It's not particularly good television, either, but it feels so nice just to sit back and receive the few English programs available. They've been re-broadcast so many times I can say the dialogue by heart and I spend time hunting for familiar words in the Korean subtitles. Again, plays hell with reading, although this wasn't the case in the past. Before, I found the hum of English voices on TV an agreeable backdrop for reading.

I'm in the middle of 3 different books: Don't Look Back a biography of Satchel Paige, The Way West, one of my Pulitzer fiction winners and Wicked, the latest BOOKLEAVES selection. I'm farthest along in Wicked because -- you've probably guessed -- I went on a long subway ride yesterday. The book I finished on February 21 was finished during a train ride to Busan.

This stinks like an outdoor book stall inconveniently located next to a fish market. I want to read at home again.