The Fault in Our Stars by John Green

This book wasn’t for me. I thought it might be — 10 million fans can’t be wrong — I had heard good things about it, the title stayed lodged in my brain, and I thought about buying the book several times over the course of this year. So I picked it up, not entirely on impulse, at Berlin’s main train station just before an overnight trip to points south and read it all at once, finishing somewhere between Prague and the Slovak border.

The Fault in Our Stars is a tale of dying teens in love. Sometimes books aimed at children or young adults will get to the emotional core of an idea or character or event in a way that books aimed at adults will not or cannot. As Madeleine L’Engle put it, “You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.” A book about death and love and growing up that is aimed at young people can afford to be very direct, and that can pay off by going straight to the heart of the matter. But the flip side of that coin is self-involvement, mawkishness, self-indulgence. A story of dying teens falling in love is an invitation to self-involvement, and I think that’s what most put me off of The Fault in Our Stars, along with the author’s indulgence.

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Poor Doreen by Sally Lloyd-Jones

I was walking through the kids’ section of the Silver Spring library nearly two weeks ago, somewhat haphazardly selecting books for Jms while he was at school, when I came across THIS book. Honestly, the only major character I can think of named Doreen in literature is the crazy ass friend in The Bell Jar, so I pretty much leap at anything with my name on it (call it the aftereffect of never finding touristy keychains with my name on them.)

But a weird thing happened when I started reading the book with Jms. Honest to God, Sally Lloyd-Jones must know one of the default archetypes I choose for a role-playing character (optimistic, good-hearted, not necessarily bright but a shameless manipulator; the other, should you care, is a misanthropic sociopath) because she channeled that perfectly in Miss Doreen Randolph-Potts, the Ample Roundy Fish who is the star of this charming picture book. Jms and I loved her misadventures, as well as the pictures and the way both referenced the alphabet. Tho Jms is perfectly capable of reading on his own (he’s 4 and has been doing so since age 3, brag brag,) he prefers when I read it aloud, as the construction of the sentences here lends itself perfectly to dramatics. We liked this book so much, I might get “him” a copy for Christmas!

Permanent link to this article: https://www.thefrumiousconsortium.net/2015/11/02/poor-doreen-by-sally-lloyd-jones/

Did You Ever Have A Family by Bill Clegg

Stunning and sensitive, this book would have been perfect but for the ending, which I felt petered out in a way that was meant to be philosophical but which just felt oddly disconnected given all the emotions that had filled the pages till then. I mean, honestly, I’d cried three times before even getting halfway through, with tears threatening again near the end (an awkward situation, by the way, when I’m waiting by the door to hand out Halloween candy,) when Cissy sees Will’s canoe. As I finished the book, I couldn’t help but want Bill Clegg to have ended it more strongly, on a crescendo that would have swept me up in another round of emotions. He chose otherwise and I can’t help but feel it let down an otherwise terrific novel.

Did You Ever Have A Family has a gorgeously complex narrative that reads almost like a mystery novel. Aside from the shocking, even scandalous events it recounts (centering on a woman losing her entire family on the eve of her daughter’s wedding, when her house in small-town Connecticut blows up,) it beautifully examines the feelings on every side of a situation, showing how meaning well isn’t enough, and how openness and honesty can go a long way to salving wounds, and how we shouldn’t wait to give of ourselves to those we know deserve our love. It was striking how sympathetic and complex Mr Clegg made all the characters, even the rather awful Lolly (and I really liked how he showed that she was objectively bratty without judging her too harshly for it.) I’m really looking forward to his next novel, which I can only imagine will build on the quiet triumph that is this one. Then, I hope, we’ll see something truly spectacular.

Permanent link to this article: https://www.thefrumiousconsortium.net/2015/10/31/did-you-ever-have-a-family-by-bill-clegg/

Another Day of Life by Ryszard Kapuscinski

I had been thinking how terribly young the soldiers were that Ryszard Kapuściński wrote about in Another Day of Life when he brought me up short by noting that they were the same age as many of the fighters in the Warsaw Uprising at the end of World War II. Alexander Hamilton raised an artillery company for the American Revolution when he was no more than 21, and possibly as young as 19. A story of war is, inevitably, a story of many young lives that come to an abrupt end. They do not have another day of life.

“In Europe,” [Commandante Farrusco] said, “they taught me that a front is trenches and barbed wire, which form a distinct and visible line. A front on a river, along a road, or from village to village. You can trace it on a map with a pencil or point to it on the terrain. But here the front is everywhere and nowhere. There is too much land and too few people for a front line to exist. This is a wild, unorganized world and it’s hard to come to terms with it. There is no water, because there is a lot of desert here. You can’t hold out for long where there are no springs, and it’s a long way between springs. Here where we’re standing, there is water, but the next water is a hundred kilometers away. Every unit holds on to its water, because otherwise it dies. If there are a hundred kilometers between water, that space is nobody’s and there’s nobody there. So the front doesn’t consist of a line here, but of points, and moving points at that. There are hundreds of fronts because there are hundreds of units. Every unit is a front, a potential front. If our unit runs into an enemy unit, those two potential fronts turn into real fronts. A battle occurs. We are a three-man potential front now, travelling northwards. If we are ambushed, we become a real front. This is a war of ambushes. On any road, at any place, there can be a front. You can travel the whole country and come back alive, or you can die a meter from where you’re standing. There are no principles, no methods. Everything comes down to luck and happenstance. This war is a real mess. Nobody knows just where they stand.” (p. 76)

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The Adventures of Tintin, Vol. 1: Tintin in America / Cigars of the Pharaoh / The Blue Lotus by Herge

It is so weird how bad Tintin In America is compared with the other books in this collection. It’s the kind of thing you expect from a successful series writer towards the end of his interest in the venture as anything beyond a profit generator, when he’s just churning out pablum to please the mindless hordes of die-hard fans and the editors who won’t let him try something new. Granted, Herge had a tough time getting to the point of being able to write this story, and had to satisfy his original, ultra-conservative publishers. Still, were I a child whose first exposure to Tintin was through this volume, I’d have likely given it up halfway through TIA and been absolutely mystified by why anyone else liked this stuff.

Fortunately, this was not my introduction to Tintin, and the two other stories, Cigars Of The Pharoah and The Blue Lotus, had all the charm and verve of my remembering. The hardback digest format doesn’t do as much justice to the artwork as the over-sized paperbacks of my youth, but they do have a durability that’s hard to beat, especially in the hands of children. Not that my four year-old showed a lot of interest in this, tho I doubt I would have at that age either. Perhaps when he’s several years older.

Permanent link to this article: https://www.thefrumiousconsortium.net/2015/10/30/the-adventures-of-tintin-vol-1-tintin-in-america-cigars-of-the-pharaoh-the-blue-lotus-by-herge/

Remake by Connie Willis

Most of the rest of Connie Willis’ writing would lead a reader to expect that Remake, her tale of Hollywood endlessly recycling classic movies and classic actors through digital magic, would be a screwball comedy that packed an emotional wallop. But no, this is as close to dystopia as Willis gets. As the back cover says, “moviemaking’s been computerized and live-action films are a thing of the past. It’s a Hollywood where Humphrey Bogart and Marilyn Monroe are starring together in A Star is Born, and if you don’t like the ending, you can change it with the stroke of a key.”

People in their legions still want to be in the movies, are still willing to do practically anything to be seen on screen, except that no one is hiring warmbodies anymore. Remake, reuse, recycle have been taken to their logical extremes, and nothing in the new Hollywood is being made that hasn’t been made before, starring and featuring people long dead but still bankable on opening weekend. Studio mergers have been taken nearly to their extreme, with most of the novel’s action concerning people affiliated with ILMGM. It’s not yet one big studio, but constant rumors of further mergers imply that even more recognizable names will soon be mashed together like Viamount. Studio intrigue has everyone simultaneously angling for a promotion and fearful of being left on the cutting room floor. Willis also take copyright litigiousness close to its limit, with suits being filed practically instantly, ruling coming in days or hours, and some films and images being out of litigation for mere moments before disappearing again from view while lawyers wrangle not so much about the merits but about their interests.

The dystopia of Remake is not so much physical destruction as it is personal degradation. Everyone is trying to score something, addictive substances, sex, a non-existent role in a movie, a place higher up the corporate ladder. It’s all very transactional, and at first it seems that no one cares. “I’ve never understood,” says Willis’ first-person narrator Tom, “why the faces, who have nothing to sell but an original personality, an original face, all try to look like somebody else. But I guess it makes sense. Why should they be different from everybody else in Hollywood, which has always been love with sequels and imitations and remakes?” (p. 8)

The women are all trying to be Marilyn Monroe, and indeed Tom refers to most of them as Marilyns. The exceptions are Hedda, a tough-dame reporter who knows everything and who is something of a friend to Tom, and Alis, a fresh face in from the provinces who does not look like a Marilyn and who wants, more than anything else in this world, to dance in the movies. Even though she knows the movie musical died, after a long period of poor artistic and financial health, in the 1960s.

There it is. There’s that screwball comedy trying to get out again. Because against all odds, despite the drugs and the transactional sex and the skullduggery and the soulless productions, people in this story still love the movies. They can quote the great ones; they have watched hundreds, know dozens by heart; they have felt the movie magic, want to see it again, want to make it happen.

The future technology that Willis handwaves about implies that time travel might be possible. Tom, in the throes of either too much of one substance or not enough of another, believes that he has seen Alis in an old movie, dancing her heart out for the camera. And he can’t find her in the present day.

What is going on? That’s the next scene, and it’s an original. Not a remake.

Permanent link to this article: https://www.thefrumiousconsortium.net/2015/10/29/remake-by-connie-willis/

Shah of Shahs by Ryszard Kapuscinski

Between the time when Ryszard Kapuściński saw the revolution in Iran in 1979 and when Shah of Shahs, his book on the subject, was published in 1982, his home country of Poland lived through its own revolution, one that started with strikes at a shipyard in the northern port of Gdańsk but collapsed as the Communist government declared martial law and fought back against its own people more effectively than the Shah’s forces had done, some two years previously and some three thousand kilometers to the southeast.

Kapuściński tells of the Iranian revolution mostly through a series of stories inspired by photographs he looks at while locked in a hotel room in Tehran, interspersed with accounts gleaned from his own daytime reporting in the city, before he again locks his hotel door against the armed bands that rule the night. The photos allow him to sketch the recent history of Iran, while the stories from his notes cover how the revolution came to pass, and what it meant to people he encountered.

The oldest photo he has acquired shows, according to its caption, the grandfather of the last Shah as a soldier holding another man — the assassin of Shah Nasr-ed-Din — prisoner at the end of a heavy chain. The two had made their way across the countryside from the site of the assassination to the Persian capital where the prisoner was to be executed. Thus began the ascent of the Pahlavis to the height of power in their country.

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The Clasp by Sloane Crosley

The weird thing for me with this book is how little I care for the story that inspired it, Guy de Maupassant’s The Necklace. That famous tale is essentially an account of vapid people doing stupid things, to their own detriment, exactly the kind of thing I have little patience for (looking at you, Fates And Furies.) But Sloane Crosley’s The Clasp is hilarious and heartfelt, and while her characters are far from perfect, they are also, at least, struggling towards the self-awareness that is markedly different from the self-absorption that seems to be the hallmark of too many fictional protagonists nowadays.

Essentially, you have three people who became friends while in college: Victor, who’s in love with Kezia, who’s in love with Nathaniel, who’s in love with himself (and is also good friends with Victor.) Though they try to stay close, their paths diverge with adult jobs and responsibilities. The wedding of a college friend brings them back together as they approach their thirties. Victor’s chance encounter with the groom’s mother soon has them haring off across France, Victor in search of the necklace from the de Maupassant story, and Kezia in pursuit of Victor, with Nathaniel along for the ride. It’s a terrific tale of adult friendships and of how time shapes love and emotions, couched in humorous observations of a certain (privileged) cross-section of American society.

And that perfect, perfect ending! While I would love to read what our trio make of the rest of their lives, I also reveled in the deliciousness of the way and the where Ms Crosley chose to end her book. Very well done.

Permanent link to this article: https://www.thefrumiousconsortium.net/2015/10/28/the-clasp-by-sloane-crosley/

Chicken With Plums by Marjane Satrapi

Crushed this book in a single sitting today (tho it’s a graphic novel, so that’s not at all difficult) and was just devastated by that ending. Ostensibly the story of a musician who gives up on life after he cannot find a suitable replacement for his broken instrument, it’s a heart-rending tale of… well, I can’t say much more without giving it away. But, as usual, Marjane Satrapi plumbs her personal history for an exquisitely moving tale, that in this case examines what gives our lives meaning, and the little slights that can turn into fatal wounds, and all the different ways we cling to this world. It was also refreshing to read a book so firmly and lovingly set in Iranian culture and history. Ms Satrapi is a genius and a treasure.

Permanent link to this article: https://www.thefrumiousconsortium.net/2015/10/28/chicken-with-plums-by-marjane-satrapi/

Witches Abroad by Terry Pratchett

Teresa Nielsen Hayden has observed that while plot is a literary convention, story is a force of nature. In Witches Abroad, Terry Pratchett explores some of the things that can happen when these forces of nature latch on to people in his most unnatural of settings.

People think that stories are shaped by people. In fact, it’s the other way around.
Stories exist independently of their players. If you know that, the knowledge is power.
Stories, great flapping ribbons of shaped space-time, have been blowing and uncoiling around the universe since the beginning of time. And they have evolved. The weakest have died and the strongest have survived and they have grown fat on the retelling … stories, twisting and blowing through the darkness.
And their very existence overlays a faint but insistent pattern on the chaos that is history. Stories etch grooves deep enough for people to follow in the same way that water follows certain paths down a mountainside. And every time fresh actors tread the path of the story, the groove runs deeper. …
This is why history keeps on repeating all the time.
So a thousand heroes have stolen fire from the gods. A thousand wolves have eaten grandmother, a thousand princesses have been kissed. A million unknowing actors have moved, unknowing, through the pathways of story.

Once upon a time, a witch knew that her time was coming to an end. The witches of Discworld, like the wizards, know precisely how long they will live. Desiderata Hollow had lived a long and full life, but she had never been much of a planner, and now she had to pass along one of her most important responsibilities — fairy godmothering — to a successor with no time for explanations, only a wand and an envelope sent to a young witch.

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Permanent link to this article: https://www.thefrumiousconsortium.net/2015/10/27/witches-abroad-by-terry-pratchett/