Dude, every time I see coverage of the situation in Niger it makes me cry.
Before having a critter of my own, the idea of starving children seemed horrible... but only in the abstract sense, I'm ashamed to admit. Now, every time I see the footage of that mother trying to hold her emaciated baby's head up on its incredibly sad, weak little neck so that she can give it a drink of water, I feel paralyzed with sadness.
So we've donated some money to Doctors Without Borders' campaign to fight this situation. If you've got a few spare bucks kicking around, maybe give it some thought? (You can donate online. Here's the link to the Doctors Without Borders site in Canada, and here's their U.S. site. If you don't live in Canada or the U.S., just type "Doctors Without Borders" into Google to find your country's chapter.)
If you're not familiar with Doctors Without Borders, here's a brief description from their site:
Doctors Without Borders/Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) is an international independent medical humanitarian organization that delivers emergency aid to people affected by armed conflict, epidemics, natural and man-made disasters, and exclusion from health care in nearly 70 countries.
Sorry this isn't exactly book-related, but this is something that needs to get out there, and I needed to do my own tiny part.
I didn't stab her in the eye with my wand. I WANTED to. I talked about doing so VERY FUCKING LOUDLY. I was going to eviscerate her mother with the cover of my brand-new copy.
Duuuude... it's just a book.*
(Link courtesy of Bookslut)
*Since I first wrote this post, it looks like the piece I linked to has now been password-protected by its owner. Awww... sorry if you missed it. It was pretty damn funny.
So Sam and I were hanging out and rocking some Mother Goose together. We breezed through "Hey, Diddle Diddle", though I sensed that Sam had some justifiable skepticism about the cat's true fiddling ability. We were both meh about "Old King Cole", because we didn't appreciate how the king just went around calling for pipes and shit, like he was the boss of everything.
But the real excitement took place a bit later in the book. When I read "Fee fi fo fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman," Sam let out a genuinely terrified yell, reminiscent of Ralph Wiggum's reaction to the line, "Now is the winter of our discontent."
Maybe it was one of those "you had to be there" things.
"Beach read." It's a phrase that probably makes you cringe. It makes me cringe, but every time some dorky women's magazine's publishes its top 10 beach reading list, I'm powerless to avert my eyes.
But it wouldn't be summer, and this wouldn't be a site dedicated to reading, if at some point I didn't give you my unsolicited recommendations in that questionable category known as "beach reads." And here they are:
Garden of Eden by Ernest Hemingway
You may not have heard of this novel. Even some of my literature profs had never heard of it. Written right before his death and published posthumously, this is the novel that made me revise my opinion of Hemingway.
The story takes place over one long summer along the French and Spanish Rivieras, before these became fashionable hotspots, and it chronicles the increasingly bizarre relationship between newlyweds David and Catherine in a fascinating character study that demonstrates Hemingway at the top of his powers.
It's an incredibly subtle book; I've probably read it a dozen times, and I find new meaning in it every time. The thing you have to bear in mind with Hemingway is that he's extremely reluctant to tell you what characters are thinking. Instead, he presents you with what they say and what they do, and leaves you to interpret their motivations. (Sounds kind of like real life, huh?)
All that aside, Garden of Eden is worth reading just for the fantastic descriptions of eating and lazing on the beach.
Tender Is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald
I should be up front and let you know that this is my absolute favourite novel of all time. I've read it so many times that now I'm forced to ration my readings so that I can pace them out over my lifetime. If I get sick of this book before I die, then life will no longer be worth living.
The novel starts out on the French Riviera, again before it became a fashionable summer destination, and, similar to Garden of Eden, it tells the story of the complex relationship between members of a glamorous couple: psychiatrist Dick Divers and his heiress wife Nicole.
It's a fabulous, hedonistic, and intelligent novel, written as only Fitzgerald can write.
Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck
Nobody ever accused Steinbeck of being glamorous or hedonistic, God love him. I'm normally not all that big on memoirs, but Steinbeck's account of his road trip around America at the age of 58, accompanied by his standard poodle Charley (the only dog in the world capable of pronouncing the letter "f"), in a custom-built camper called Rocinante, will have you reaching for your car keys.
Steinbeck drives a circuitous route across America and back in 1963, a time of massive social change. Along the way, he sees the sights, meets the locals, and ruminates on such subjects as mobile homes, highways, desegregation, and the fact that you can never go home again.
This book is funny, poignant, and still relevant... and written in that effortless and artless way that is the cornerstone of my love for Steinbeck. There aren't many writers I wish I'd met. Steinbeck is one of them.
The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac
Now, I know what you're thinking: Kerouac? She's got to be kidding.
I know, I know. But I've always said that anyone who's serious about reading has to go through a Kerouac phase (and an Ayn Rand phase, and a pretentious 19th-century French novel phase, etc.). And then you have to put that phase behind you. Because, dude? Forty-year-olds who go around styling themselves after Dean Moriarty or espousing the virtues of selfishness? Are creepy.
Kerouac can be annoying. Non-Asian Buddhists can be annoying. Ergo, big chunks of Dharma Bums are annoying. That's why, when you're re-reading it, you skip those bits and flip ahead to the excellent passages on hitchhiking, mountain-climbing, camping and cooking on the road. They make me want to hit the road with nothing but my backpack and some canned beans.
(In fact, this book inspired Acquilad and I to invent a meal we like to call "hobo dinner," comprised of Kraft Dinner and canned beans. Hoo boy... they don't make 'em more white trashy than us.)
Anyway. Don't bust your piggy bank to buy this book. But if you see a copy at a yard sale for a buck, give it a try.
A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway
What? More Hemingway? What the hell am I doing? But here's the thing: nobody captures the joy and out-there-ness of being young and hungry -- for food, for ideas, for new experiences -- the way Hemingway does. And to me, these things are all synonymous with summer.
I've already pimped this collection of anecdotes about Hemingway's early years in Paris, but it bears repeating. Even if you don't usually like Hemingway (and if so, I'd be interested in finding out why, because I've forgotten why I used to hate him), A Moveable Feast is just that: a feast of delectable treats (come on... gossip about F. Scott Fitzgerald's penis! It doesn't get much better than that!) that will leave you wishing for more after you turn the final page.
So, yeah. There you go. I confined myself to five picks because I thought it would keep me judicious. What are your top five all-time favourite summertime books? Give mama some sugar.
When I started my maternity leave, I had grand plans for all the projects I'd complete, including launching a site that would see me sampling and reviewing each of the bazillion coffee shops in my neighbourhood on a daily basis.
Unfortunately, my plans so far have been foiled by travel, bad weather, the realities of motherhood, and -- let's be honest -- a questionable work ethic. So my caffeine-procurement expeditions have been confined to the two coffee shops within a one-block radius of my house.
Usually these are stealth missions: I dash in, place my to-go order, and rush out as fast as humanly possible, so as not to provoke the ire of the small, restless organism that inhabits the pouch strapped to my front and demands constant motion.
But one fine day, inspired by I know not what spirit of daring, I decided to sit down and drink my mocha in the patchouli-soaked ambience of the hippie coffee shop around the corner.
(Of the two coffee shops I visit, one has been claimed by the local hippie/creatively unemployed crowd. The other is home to the aging -- yet still loud -- Italian male residents who can also be heard yelling on the bocce ball courts a block and a half from my house. I could tell you my theory on the symbiotic evolutionary relationships between these two populations and the flavours of the coffees they ingest, but I sense your finger hovering over the "back" button, so I'll stop now.)
Anyway. While sitting there, I took a long look at the bookshelves for the first time ever. Now, much as I love both books and coffee shops, I usually only give a passing glance to books in coffee shops -- a cursory title inspection, and that's about it. I've never really understood the point of books in coffee shops. I mean, you can't finish the book in one sitting, and you can't take it with you, so what's the point?
Someone obviously agrees with me, because they've started a program that I discovered while scanning the shelves, a program that my local coffee shop has joined, which I applaud. Called BookCrossings, this international initiative encourages people to register their unwanted books, release them into the wild, then track their travels online.
It's a fabulous idea for people like me, who like the idea of getting rid of surplus books but have severe separation anxiety when confronted with the reality of doing so. Releasing books the BookCrossings way offers a pleasing middle ground.
So, of course, once I realized that I could actually take a book home with me, I had to do it... just out of principle. And when I spied Barbara Kingsolver's latest book -- in hardcover, no less -- the decision was a no-brainer.
Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver (#20)
I've read all of Kingsolver's novels, and they were all just good enough to keep me coming back to the trough... that is, until The Poisonwood Bible, which is one of the finest, most moving novels I've read in the past few years. So I had high-ish hopes for Prodigal Summer. A bit too high.
Don't get me wrong. While neither as emotionally ambitious nor as sweeping in scope as The Poisonwood Bible, Prodigal Summer is still a good story, and definitely superior to Kingsolver's early work. But you know how it is when a writer knocks your socks off: you put on fresh socks and wait for her to come back and do it again.
The novel takes place -- you guessed it -- over one fecund summer in the Appalachian foothills that Kingsolver herself calls home. It tells the stories of three characters in narratives that start out as isolated but eventually (and to Kingsolver's credit, quite subtly) intertwine in unexpected ways. There's Deanna Wolfe, a reclusive park ranger who chooses to inhabit the woods rather than mingle with people; Lusa Maluf Landowski, a former entomologist now recently widowed and feeling herself an interloper in this community that she is new to; and Garnet Walker, a crusty retired farmer on a one-man mission to bring back the extinct American chestnut tree.
As you might have guessed, there's a pretty blatant theme going on here, about people and our relationship with the land and the other critters with whom we share it, including other people. This, for me, is where the novel falls down. As a thirtysomething adult, I don't feel that I need a book's meaning to be so obvious. And when I say "obvious," I do mean obvious. Subtext is thin on the ground here.
And much as I love nature and all that (hell, I even donate to Greenpeace every month), I'm uncomfortable with having ecology preached at me from a novel. Call me an old-fashioned curmudgeon, but that's what non-fiction is for, consarnit!
Still, it was a good enough read -- Kingsolver has gorgeous descriptive powers, and I did learn a lot about nature 'n' stuff (albeit against my will) -- so I'll continue to pick up her future novels. I guess this is a case of an author taking two steps forward and one step back. I'm an optimist: I'll look forward to Kingsolver's next two-step leap.
This piece by Salon's James Hynes has lit a fire in me that only Tolstoy can quench.
[In a nod to my literary idol and yours, Bil Keane, today's special guest entry was written by Sam, age three months.]
Two thought-provoking tomes have recently come to my attention, and I wanted to share them with you. They are Green Eggs and Ham and One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, both by an extremely gifted storyteller named Dr. Suess.
Very early in Green Eggs and Ham, the reader is confronted with the dramatic tension evident in the relationship between the book's two principal characters: a small red-hatted creature named Sam-I-am and the book's narrator, a larger creature whose name we never learn. The narrator declares, apropos of very little, that "[he does] not like that Sam-I-am."
I, for one, was piqued with curiosity. Why such blatant hostility? What dark past haunts these characters? What conflict awaits on the pages to come? With bated breath, I waited for the page to turn.
Sam-I-am, seemingly unfazed by the narrator's animosity, counters with an unexpected question: "Do you like green eggs and ham?" The narrator, without missing a beat, declares "I do not like them, Sam-I-am. I do not like green eggs and ham."
Ever persistent, Sam-I-am suggests that the narrator might like them in a house or with a mouse, but the narrator's resolve holds fast.
As the story progresses, Sam-I-am suggests various venues or dinner companions that may render green eggs and ham more palatable -- a fox, a box, a boat, a goat, etc. -- but the narrator maintains his stance. But the reader becomes aware of something: the narrator has never actually tried green eggs and ham!
The story comes to an impasse, the likes of which has not been seen on the printed page since The Old Man and the Sea, as the two characters appear to reach a stalemate. Sam-I-am seems to have an endless fund of rhymed suggestions, while the narrator is steadfast in his blind rejection of green eggs and ham.
***SPOILER ALERT***
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Suddenly and inexplicably worn down by Sam-I-am's perseverence, the narrator wearily states that he will try them, adding ominously, "You will see." The illustrated two-page spread that follows this concession is comprised solely of an image of the narrator taking a bite of green eggs and ham, with no accompanying text. And just when the mounting tension is bordering on the unbearable, the page turns and...
Say!
I like green eggs and ham!
I do! I like them, Sam-I-am!
I, for one, was floored by this unexpected turn of events. In the denouement that follows the book's powerful climax, the narrator lists all of the ways in which he would eat green eggs and ham -- from in the rain to on a train -- concluding with a hearty thank you to Sam-I-am. His earlier hostility is clearly a thing of the past.
For obvious reasons, I considered Green Eggs and Ham the best book I'd ever read... that is, until I read Suess's One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, as certain evidence as anyone could need to prove that this Suess is no one-hit wonder.
Despite what you might assume from its title, One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish is not a scathing indictment of the homogeneity of America's current two-party political system. Instead, it's a colourful Dadaist romp through an absurd parallel universe.
The fantastical creatures that inhabit this universe bring to mind the mythical beings created by Blake or Yeats, and clearly Suess is indebted to these other great poets. Yet while paying homage to them, he also cleverly subverts them, most obviously in the passage:
This one,
I think,
is called
a Yink.
He likes to wink,
he likes to drink.
This nod, or "wink," if you will, to subversiveness is reflected in the form and structure of One Fish Two Fish. While Green Eggs and Ham is unswervingly faithful to its rigorous rhyming couplets, One Fish Two Fish -- while mostly confining itself to couplets -- occasionally deviates from this form, as evidenced in passages such as:
Look what we found
in the park
in the dark.
We will take him home.
We will call him Clark.
To remain true to its linear narrative, Green Eggs and Ham relies on its single first-person narrator. One Fish Two Fish, on the other hand, initially seems to be told from the perspective of a young girl and boy, but the story's voice frequently shifts to other characters, including Ned (who for unknown reasons seems to be confined to his bed), an unnamed creature with unnaturally large ears, and a tiny creature called a Yop (who apparently likes to hop).
This sophisticated narrative device speaks to the complexity of the subject matter. While Green Eggs and Ham is a riveting morality tale with a neatly and satisfactorily resolved plot, the profoundly absurd meandering of One Fish Two Fish speaks to the book's deceptively simple thesis:
From there to here,
from here to there,
funny things
are everywhere.
They are indeed.
Ultimately, the book's moral ambiguity leaves the reader haunted by unanswered questions: What misfortune has left Ned confined to his bed, forever to be dismayed by the fact that it is too short? What trauma led to the cryptically named "this one's" need to constantly "yell, yell, yell"? And will the illiterate Nook ever find someone to decipher his cookbook for him?
I look forward to reading and reviewing Suess's other works, including Hop on Pop, with its obvious anarchistic leanings, and the sartorial adventures of Fox in Socks.
