apropos of anything

Woke up earlier than normal for a weekend and was proud of myself, right until the moment I realized last night was the spring daylight savings’ changeover.

There has not been any sun today.

It’s been quiet. I’ve been a little sad, inexplicably so.

I finished Lev Grossman’s The Magicians. At first I’d thought it was going to be a new kind of Harry Potter, and I was right, it was, but Harry Potter is about the magic of childhood, and The Magicians is about the magic of adulthood, and being an adult is so much harder. It ended sadly. That made me sad, more than before.

I have deliberately de-chocolated the house recently in an effort to eat healthier. There are carrots.

My pile of to-be-answered email grows and grows.

I found a pair of thick socks that needed putting away, and instead I put them on my feet. Am suddenly much happier. Maybe the sun will be out tomorrow.

“Does anybody READ poetry anymore?”

Last Saturday, as we made dinner at Alicia’s after finally seeing Sherlock Holmes, I asked this question rather cavalierly without stopping to think that her houseguest Becky is getting a graduate degree in something related to literature and creative writing. I don’t remember much of the context of the conversation at the time (I think it had something to do with making a living as a poet), only that I felt rather bad about my comment, especially after Becky replied, “Well, I hope so.”

And really, I hope so too, very much, if only for the sixteen-year-old version of myself who devoured literature and poetry and was, in general, I think, a happier person… but I honestly don’t think I know anybody who reads poetry. I have many friends who read prose, but I can’t really think of the last time somebody’s called me up to discuss a poem they’d just finished. I also can’t think of the last time I came across a poem at all. I never was much for “modern” poetry in high school, so yes, I don’t go out of my way looking for it, but I don’t go out of my way looking for prose either, and yet I find new and interesting prose all the time.

Freshman year of college, Zara sent me a letter about the happenings at BU, and she enclosed a couple of photocopied Maya Angelou poems, including “Phenomenal Woman”. I loved the something extra those poems provided, in that even though I’d finished reading her letter, I still had one more thing of hers, from her, to read and understand. You can’t stick books into a letter. Magazine and newspaper articles would be easier, except for that tiny snag where nobody reads actual physical magazines and newspapers anymore… it’s all on the Web now (thank goodness for the trees at least).

I read books. I read blogs. I read magazine articles, both long (sometimes) and short (far more frequently). If I ever get a Kindle or any other e-reader, it will be exclusively for the purpose of reading periodicals, should they survive the next few years. I do not read poems… but I probably should, if only so that I have something to fold into a letter, or stick on my cube wall.

Sometimes I think there aren’t enough hours in the day for me to read through and digest all the news I want, in the way I want, which is to be able to step away from the computer and be able to speak knowledgeably for 3-5 minutes on the subject in question. There’s just too much news. Too many positions on each new story, too many new stories in each new section.

And sometimes it just gets to be too hard to handle, like this eyewitness account of violence in Tehran, which just makes me shudder, and feel a little vomity, and be grateful that I live in a country where the most outrage over an election (see Bush victory 2004) mounts to is scathing blog posts and late-night television satire. But, I suppose the Iranians had more to lose, or… more to gain had their guy won.

The problem with the Iranian election coverage is that I can’t suss out the correct story since there’s nothing even resembling unbiased media in the country right now. Foreign journalists have been asked to leave, at least partly for their own safety, so those of us not in Iran are relying on reports from their state-run media and then from various Twitter accounts, some of which have started accusing each other of being Basijis or secret Israeli spies.

The pictures, though… they seem real enough, and as I look at them, I can only pray that things work out for the best in Iran in the end, insha’Allah.

I gave Nooreen a copy and realized that it has been years since I read my own copy. When I started, it only took getting to the author’s note to remind me why I loved The Book of Three so much as a kid. So, in lieu of more politics (wanna know what I thought about the debate? check out my Twitter (why yes, I do Twitter now) page), here’s a little Lloyd Alexander for you:

“‘In some cases,’ he said, ‘we learn more by looking for the answer to a question and not finding it than we do from learning the answer itself. This is one of those cases. I could tell you why, but at the moment it would only be more confusing. If you grow up with any kind of sense — which you sometimes make me doubt — you will very likely reach your own conclusions. They will probably be wrong,’ he added. ‘However, since they will be yours, you will feel a little more satisfied with them.’”

Currently reading (in addition to The Book of Three): A Spot of Bother by Mark Haddon and Sabriel by Garth Nix.

Because I no longer have a place to list out what I’m currently reading…

I finally finished last month’s book club book, Life Isn’t All Ha Ha Hee Hee by Meera Syal. I know, I’m so behind. I have to admit I had my reservations about this selection after the disastrous Mistress of Spices (Raven? really?), but Syal’s novel proves to be a much stronger effort than Divakaruni’s Harlequin-wrapped-in-paan. However, I do think this book will only really register for foreign-born desis, as so many of its themes are rooted in the ABCD experience (or in this case, BBCD experience), and I don’t feel like Syal ever makes an effort to reach an audience outside her base.

In one scene, film-maker Tania, while arguing about her career path with her agent Mark, says, “No more grubbing in the ghetto, I’m mainstream now.” And Mark replies, “The ghetto got you where you are today, Tania. It’s what makes you different. And a good story is a mainstream story, end of story.” I think Syal identifies more with Sunita, based on her decision to play Sunny in the BBC miniseries version of the book, but I have to wonder whether Tania’s exchange with Mark isn’t lifted straight out of Syal’s own life.

There is another scene in the book where someone tells Tania, “You don’t live here any more. And this stuff is not for tourists. Go home.” She is referring not to Tania’s residence but to her identity, in essence calling Tania out for being more white than brown, and I think this is also something Syal has taken to heart — that in order to be a true artist, you have to know and accept who you are, even the parts you may not like. Tania gets there eventually, as I think Syal has in this book that is entirely and unapologetically brown.

While I do not think Life Isn’t All Ha Ha Hee Hee is on the same epic, soaring level as Ian McEwan’s Atonement (and I should disclose that I am the only one of my book club who liked that book, and also that I did not like it so much as love it and that I consider it a masterpiece of modern literature), I’d recommend for a quick weekend read. It’s chick-lit, but chick-lit with a purpose beyond bagging the perfect boyfriend/husband/job, and even the non-desis should be able to find something they like about Chila, Sunita, and Tania to keep turning pages until the end.

Still working on the Harry Potter re-read that I started during suhoor in Ramadan (because I need something to do while eating breakfast at 5:15, and reading a book I’ve already read and know well works better than reading something new because then I don’t suddenly find myself so caught up in the story that I must know what happens and I keep reading until ishraq, and also because I ran out of cookbooks to read). I finished through Half-Blood Prince before Eid (actually, I started Deathly Hallows the night before), so I just have a little bit left to go before I put Harry away again. Also I promised to get Nooreen a copy of The Book of Three because I figure anyone who loves Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings should read the Prydain Chronicles at some point in their lives, if only to be reminded that sometimes the journey is more important than the destination.

Next up: This month’s book club book, A Spot of Bother by Mark Haddon, who also wrote The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. Also, my list is about to run dry, so I am looking for recommendations if anyone wants to volunteer any.

I don’t know if I can finish The Five Red Herrings after all. There’s just too many times for me to keep track of, especially when I am not reading it all in one setting. Am I getting adult-onset ADD that I can’t focus anymore? Or is it just the book?

Updated 12/30/2007: Removed from the “Reading” section because I finished it, not because I chucked it. The parts that weren’t devoted to the timetable were classic Sayers, but the parts that revolved around trains and times got all muddled in my head. A more thorough review coming. Eventually.

Phew.

I don’t know that I’ve ever read a book with as many never-ending sentences as Special Topics in Calamity Physics.

Granted, it’s a 500+ page book, so there are some simple sentences mixed around in there, but overall, Pessl definitively proves she doesn’t believe for a moment that brevity is the soul of wit.

The reviewers adore this book. They’re tripping over themselves to smother it in praise: The New York Times, Salon (although at least they find some chinks in Pessl’s literary armor: “If only Pessl wouldn’t try so hard to convince us that she is a novelist of grand, American-style ambition; she seems to think that if you fling enough metaphors at your readers’ heads, their ducking can be interpreted as bows of reverence.”), The Christian Science Monitor … all echo Jonathan Franzen’s glowing recommendation on the back cover.

I’m not sure if I adore this book. I’m not sure exactly what I think of this book. Is it too smart for its own good, or is it simply too smart for me? Are the chapter titles (each one is the name of a book) a clever literary device, or a pretentious, overly-precious gimmick? Is the ending ultimately unsatisfying, as many of the Chickliterati attest?

At the beginning, I was intrigued. In the middle, I was a little bored. At the end, I couldn’t put it down, even though I had a strong suspicion about what was going to happen. And even though I was right, I was still surprised to read it because I was so sure Pessl wouldn’t go there, that my imagination was running amok as usual. Possibly I read through it too quickly. (Sometimes when I HAVE to know what happens, I’ll start to skim and then go back and do a thorough re-read later.)

I think the Bluebloods are what trip up most readers who don’t review books for a living… but to explain why, I’d have to get into the guts of the book, which I don’t want to do because I’m hoping somebody out there will want to read it soon and discuss it with me.

And if that doesn’t happen, I’ll simply bide my time because they’re SO going to make a movie out of this book.

Borders emailed me this morning to tell me the cover art for the seventh Harry Potter book has been released. I couldn’t help it. I looked.

It’s not what I expected:

I mean, the book is called Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. The pre-cover-art placeholder was all black with white lettering. I wasn’t anticipating a bright cheery yellow — almost golden — cover for this last volume.

The first three books have dark red/green covers, the fourth book has a dark green cover, the fifth book has a dark blue cover, and the sixth book has a dark green cover. I looked at the bouyant cover of the seventh book, and I wondered, is this symbolic? Does this mean the seventh book ends well? Harry doesn’t die, despite the rumors to the contrary? Or am I just overthinking it, and a yellow cover is cheaper to mass produce than a black one? (Because, as I learned as an editor of the erato, a black cover with white lettering is actually pretty expensive.)

In all likelihood, I’m seeing symbols where there are none. And for this, I blame Mrs. Dollander.

Before we begin: Because I am nothing if not up on my sports rivalries, and because I care about keeping y’all informed, Carolina just beat Duke at Duke. Let the rejoicing in Chapel Hill begin.

I just finished Zadie Smith’s On Beauty, and it was excellent. At times, I had to make myself put it down so I could go to sleep, or to work, or wherever. Smith is an excellent writer, and her characters are very real, especially because they are not always likeable.

And now, as you can see from the box on the right, I have other books in my queue. There are still more sitting on the shelf (the Chicklit thread about shelf-sitters has me motivated about clearing the decks, or at least making an effort), so it’s not like I’m hurting for things to read. Not really.

What I’m looking for, though, is a book that has characters that set up shop in my head and my heart. The Belseys and the Kippses are great, but I want someone more along the lines of Taran or Anne or Harry. Interesting that all three of those are children’s books; possibly what I’m looking for can’t really be found in an adult book, except, maybe, for Elizabeth. Even Seymour, much as I love him, wouldn’t fit this particular bill.

There’s a traveling pants book coming, and a new Harry Potter, but does anybody have any recommendations to tide me over until then?

As The History of Love opens, Leo Gursky says every day he makes a point of being seen because he doesn’t want to die on a day that nobody saw him. He goes to movies and spills his popcorn as soon as it’s handed to him, goes to Starbucks and changes his order half a dozen times, trips and goes sprawling on the floor in a store. He expects to die alone, probably in his apartment, and he wonders how many days it will be before the super notices the smell. He has no family, but he does have a burial plot, and he carries a card stating as much for when the inevitable happens.

Leo Gursky feels like he’s invisible. He probably is.

Initially when I finished The History of Love, I didn’t agree with the critics who consider it to be superior to Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, but it really is. The thing is, it’s just so inevitable and sad whereas Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close has a tiny bit of uplift to it. Leo lives a life, possibly not even an unhappy life, but not really a whole life. Not exactly a happy life. He just lives. He poses as a nude model because of the incredible prospect of having so many eyes on him, studying him, all at once. So many people seeing him. And in the end, the thing he wants most to happen doesn’t happen, at least not the way he thought it would.

Is it enough that a thing happens? Does the happening not matter if we don’t know that it happened? If a tree falls in a forest and nobody is around, does it make a sound?

And then there’s Alma, who anchors the other thread in the book. Alma, who is named after the main character in a book her father gave her mother, who has a weird little brother and a lonely, introverted mother, and whose father died of pancreatic cancer. Her brother, Bird, is reminiscent of Oskar from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, except he’s more annoying than loveable. Oskar, I want to hug; Bird, I want to slug. Sometimes. And then I feel badly about it because he’s one of those kids — we’ve all known at least one — that really just needs someone to pay attention to him, someone other than his teenaged sister who’s still trying to figure it all out for herself, but his brand of eccentric is such that he’s amazingly off-putting. I know I should be more sympathetic, but I can’t be, and I think that may be part of the point.

Alma’s lonely too, a little. Bird’s lonely a lot, only he doesn’t know it. Their mother has wrapped herself so tightly in a cocoon of loneliness she never even notices her loneliness is by choice. None of them are completely invisible because at least they have each other.

Leo doesn’t have anybody.

On Sunday, a story about lonely Americans ran over the AP wire. It seems we’ve all gotten so busy we don’t have time to cultivate relationships, resulting in thousands of Leo Gurskys all over the country. I have to wonder, do we really see the people who share our space? How many invisible people have I not seen just in the last twenty-four hours?

And is it fair for me to dislike Bird while I love Leo when Bird is also just trying not to be invisible, even if he doesn’t realize that’s what he’s doing?

This book has gotten in my head even more than Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close did, despite searing fewer lines and images in my head. I can’t stop thinking about it, and I haven’t even begun to process the themes of love and loss that the critics are all raving about.

When I was a kid, I thought the world was generally a happy place, with a few patches of sadness. Now I’m pretty sure the world is generally a sad place, with a few patches of happiness.