Sunrise over Fallujah
by Walter Dean Myers
Got a little more homework; this time I got to pick my book, and oh man, did I ever pick wrong.
Sunrise over Fallujah by Walter Dean Myers
How far should one go, to offer the benefit of the doubt? At what point does that generosity, that trust in another's basic capability despite evidence to the contrary, become a sign of foolishness on the part of the giver, the one offering the trust? When does trust become a mistake?
I want to offer Walter Dean Myers the benefit of the doubt. The man has won multiple awards, writing successful and beloved young adult fiction for better than three decades; I want to believe that his most recent novel, Sunrise over Fallujah, is actually more than what it seems. I want to believe that it is a poignant depiction of the meaninglessness of war, that it is an attempt to show, through a realistic account of the experiences and interactions of a confused and shallow group of young soldiers during the 2003 invasion of Iraq, that the men and women of the US military are brave but gullible, and have been deceived, as has the nation, by an avaricious and intemperate leadership. I want to think that the book is intentionally bad, so that it could make an elegantly subtle point about a bad war fought for bad reasons by generally good people. I want to believe that, but I think if I did, it would cross the line into foolishness.
No, sadly, I think this is just a bad book. I think Mr. Myers, who has two children in the US military, wanted to show that American soldiers truly are heroes despite the fact that so little has been actually achieved in this pointless Rube Goldberg-meets-Machiavelli debacle that has sapped our nation's strength, and he couldn't do it. I think he wanted to make these soldiers seem to be doing the right thing, but since the reality -- which he certainly has an intimate awareness of; I have no doubt that this novel is realistic in its broad strokes and in its military aspects -- is just the opposite, he was forced to bend over too far backwards, and the work suffered for it. He went too far in giving the US military the benefit of the doubt, in other words. And here's what happened.
The soldiers never actually do anything of import; there is no clear plan of attack, no apparent goals, and only the briefest nod toward a larger meaning to their actions. The characters comprise a Civil Affairs unit, soldiers whose mission is to win the "hearts and minds" of the conquered Iraqis; thus they are not generally involved in combat, but are supposed to make connections, to show the Iraqi people the human face of the US military. However, since the novel was set (rather short-sightedly, I think) during the actual invasion and subjugation of Iraq in the spring of 2003, there was really very little this unit could be shown doing in pursuit of their mission; thus the characters are forced to observe that they are being ill-used by their commanders, as this non-aggressive unit is asked, again and again, to take part in actual combat situations. When they are not involved in these, or in rather pointless attempts to win hearts and minds (a phrase that is grotesquely overused in the novel, and which I want to believe was intended sardonically, but don't, as it wasn't) that cannot escape the 800-pound gorilla in the room -- if these American soldiers are playing soccer with villagers, while those American soldiers are slaughtering Iraqis with airstrikes a few hundred miles away, could there really be any progress toward trust and goodwill? -- the characters are forced to spend much of their time watching television or puttering around the base. The characters are sadly one-dimensional, and often confusing; Mr. Myers was limited by his obvious pro-military bias, and his attempts to keep the book clean for young adult consumption, and so none of the soldiers are particularly violent or aggressive or hateful towards either the Iraqis or their commanders, and none of them curse or drink or smoke or leer after women. These, then, are not like any soldiers I have ever known or read about. Worst of all, the book was simply boring to read: the characters are dull and unbelievable, the action is too quick and sporadic, the intended symbolism is both too vague and too heavy-handed to make any meaningful points. Even the writing is poor: the dialogue sounds like an over-the-hill hack trying to sound young and hip for the WB, with occasional uses of slang such as "gangsta lean" and the ubiquitous interjection "yo," but the jokes aren't funny, the conversations are stilted, unrealistic, and overly abrupt, and the inner thoughts of the narrator are as confused as the author obviously was, trying to make a bad war sound like a good one, trying to make a foolish young man sound wise, trying to make a confused and chaotic situation sound controlled and meaningful.
It just can't be done. Mr. Myers shouldn't have tried. F.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Book #35
The Drawing of the Three
by Stephen King
This is a great book. It's one of my favorite series, because it is epic fantasy told by a master of supernatural horror whose strongest talent as a writer is his ability to depict realism, particularly realistic people and human interaction. Stephen King's books feel real, which is why his monsters and things are so very creepy, because they seem like they're actually happening -- and his other great talent is in picking monsters and evil events that, if they were to actually happen, it would be the worst thing imaginable: we'd have to confront some really nasty things about ourselves and our world. Take Storm of the Century, for instance. The worst thing about that isn't Legion (Though he's extremely cool in his badness -- another King talent is how well he understands cool), the worst thing about that is that, if it happened, that is exactly what people would do. That is what most of the people reading the book would do. And we know it. Most of us would be paralyzed with fear by It, most of us would either join Flagg or fail to live up to the requirements of being a hero in The Stand. Most of us would be completely sucked in by Needful Things -- hell, if you take it as an analogy for Wal*Mart, most of us have been completely sucked in by Needful Things. There's another couple of books I need to re-read, by the way.
Anyway, this book might just be my favorite in the series, though I need to do my second reading of the last three books, all of which I've only read once. I know I think Eddie's a good character, and I really love Roland in this one; I absolutely can't stand Detta, which is as it should be. I realized this reading that I really don't care for Odetta, either; she's way too prissy and privileged, way too soft. People should have that softness, but it shouldn't be all they have; they should have the strength, too. Like the fact that she had to stay in jail after their civil rights protest until she peed herself; she should have either peed on the floor, just to irritate the guards, or she should have recognized it as something totally beyond her control and been angered, not shamed. Detta would have peed on the guard, of course.
The lobstrosities are an incredible monster, and Jack Mort is a great bad guy; the scene where Roland uses Mort to get what he needs and then leaves him in front of a train, is one of my all-time favorites. This is a great action book with some wonderful characterization, and I loved it. Again.
by Stephen King
This is a great book. It's one of my favorite series, because it is epic fantasy told by a master of supernatural horror whose strongest talent as a writer is his ability to depict realism, particularly realistic people and human interaction. Stephen King's books feel real, which is why his monsters and things are so very creepy, because they seem like they're actually happening -- and his other great talent is in picking monsters and evil events that, if they were to actually happen, it would be the worst thing imaginable: we'd have to confront some really nasty things about ourselves and our world. Take Storm of the Century, for instance. The worst thing about that isn't Legion (Though he's extremely cool in his badness -- another King talent is how well he understands cool), the worst thing about that is that, if it happened, that is exactly what people would do. That is what most of the people reading the book would do. And we know it. Most of us would be paralyzed with fear by It, most of us would either join Flagg or fail to live up to the requirements of being a hero in The Stand. Most of us would be completely sucked in by Needful Things -- hell, if you take it as an analogy for Wal*Mart, most of us have been completely sucked in by Needful Things. There's another couple of books I need to re-read, by the way.
Anyway, this book might just be my favorite in the series, though I need to do my second reading of the last three books, all of which I've only read once. I know I think Eddie's a good character, and I really love Roland in this one; I absolutely can't stand Detta, which is as it should be. I realized this reading that I really don't care for Odetta, either; she's way too prissy and privileged, way too soft. People should have that softness, but it shouldn't be all they have; they should have the strength, too. Like the fact that she had to stay in jail after their civil rights protest until she peed herself; she should have either peed on the floor, just to irritate the guards, or she should have recognized it as something totally beyond her control and been angered, not shamed. Detta would have peed on the guard, of course.
The lobstrosities are an incredible monster, and Jack Mort is a great bad guy; the scene where Roland uses Mort to get what he needs and then leaves him in front of a train, is one of my all-time favorites. This is a great action book with some wonderful characterization, and I loved it. Again.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Book #34
Achilles' Choice
by Larry Niven and Steven Barnes
Definitely something lighter, since the ending of that book was pretty depressing, and maybe something faster. Less real, less poetic. Hmm. Maybe Kitty Takes a Holiday? No -- let's go with a little science fiction, since I rarely read that any more. Ah, here we go: Achilles's Choice, by Larry Niven and Steven Barnes. One of the better collaborative teams, though not as good as Niven and Jerry Pournelle; Niven and Pournelle complement each other perfectly, whereas Steven Barnes is actually a good writer all by himself, and thus doesn't mesh as well with Niven. And -- oh, it's illustrated by Boris Vallejo! Well, alright then: let's read about muscly women in skimpy outifts.
And that's much of the book. The premise is fairly interesting: the Olympics of the future has become a testing ground for the best and the brightest; athletes now have to participate in academic and artistic events along with their athletic events. As the world has moved toward a one-world, corporate-run society, the Olympics is less about national pride. But now there's a twist: athletes can opt to undergo a surgical procedure, called the Boost, that increases their nerve output and makes them quicker, stronger, more coordinated, and also able to think faster and heal better. But it kills them within eight or nine years, and so they only get two Olympics to try for the ultimate prize before they become too damaged to compete -- though if they win, they become Linked, one of the elite members of the ruling class, and they are given a means of managing their screwed-up bodies that gives them back their lifespan. So it's all or nothing: win enough gold medals and get chosen to survive, or fail and die. Since most of the athletes choose to Boost, there is no other option -- an unBoosted person simply can't compete with the Boosted ones.
So it fits in well with our modern version of sports, what with steroids and manic over-training to maintain a competitive edge, and I like that. I love the idea that the athletes have to be complete, rather than one-trick monkeys like our modern overpaid mindless amoral hulks. I like the heroine, to some extent, though there are some annoying things about her, too. But the message of the book is too focused on competition as a means of fixing everything. Too capitalistic for my tastes. I mean, the world has become a single peaceful society, and war is a thing of the past; however, the oligarchy in charge of the world has intentionally kept society from becoming a utopia, because they, like so many other futuristic societies I have read or seen in movies, have realized that a perfect world is self-defeating, that elementary chaos theory as well as a simple reading of human nature shows that people, given paradise, will find a way to fuck it up. Okay, I got that; I may even agree, though I think we could find a new concept of what "fuck it up" means that would lead to a utopia that we would see as perfection -- like, they live in peace and harmony but they all dress really badly, or something. But the underlying idea is that the heroine is the savior of this society, that she will be the one who fixes all of the problems and makes it better -- and they had to find her through the Olympics. She had to win an athletic contest, after Boosting, to prove herself worthy. They tried to construe it as evidence that she'd never give up, that she was willing to do anything to be the best, but come on. The character from Pursuit of Happyness is a far better example of that than someone who is willing to kill themselves in order to win a goddamn sports event.
Anyway, it was a one-day read, and the Vallejo pictures were actually quite nice; since this was about hyper-athletic people, his usual depiction of perfect human musculature was appropriate here. It was good enough.
by Larry Niven and Steven Barnes
Definitely something lighter, since the ending of that book was pretty depressing, and maybe something faster. Less real, less poetic. Hmm. Maybe Kitty Takes a Holiday? No -- let's go with a little science fiction, since I rarely read that any more. Ah, here we go: Achilles's Choice, by Larry Niven and Steven Barnes. One of the better collaborative teams, though not as good as Niven and Jerry Pournelle; Niven and Pournelle complement each other perfectly, whereas Steven Barnes is actually a good writer all by himself, and thus doesn't mesh as well with Niven. And -- oh, it's illustrated by Boris Vallejo! Well, alright then: let's read about muscly women in skimpy outifts.
And that's much of the book. The premise is fairly interesting: the Olympics of the future has become a testing ground for the best and the brightest; athletes now have to participate in academic and artistic events along with their athletic events. As the world has moved toward a one-world, corporate-run society, the Olympics is less about national pride. But now there's a twist: athletes can opt to undergo a surgical procedure, called the Boost, that increases their nerve output and makes them quicker, stronger, more coordinated, and also able to think faster and heal better. But it kills them within eight or nine years, and so they only get two Olympics to try for the ultimate prize before they become too damaged to compete -- though if they win, they become Linked, one of the elite members of the ruling class, and they are given a means of managing their screwed-up bodies that gives them back their lifespan. So it's all or nothing: win enough gold medals and get chosen to survive, or fail and die. Since most of the athletes choose to Boost, there is no other option -- an unBoosted person simply can't compete with the Boosted ones.
So it fits in well with our modern version of sports, what with steroids and manic over-training to maintain a competitive edge, and I like that. I love the idea that the athletes have to be complete, rather than one-trick monkeys like our modern overpaid mindless amoral hulks. I like the heroine, to some extent, though there are some annoying things about her, too. But the message of the book is too focused on competition as a means of fixing everything. Too capitalistic for my tastes. I mean, the world has become a single peaceful society, and war is a thing of the past; however, the oligarchy in charge of the world has intentionally kept society from becoming a utopia, because they, like so many other futuristic societies I have read or seen in movies, have realized that a perfect world is self-defeating, that elementary chaos theory as well as a simple reading of human nature shows that people, given paradise, will find a way to fuck it up. Okay, I got that; I may even agree, though I think we could find a new concept of what "fuck it up" means that would lead to a utopia that we would see as perfection -- like, they live in peace and harmony but they all dress really badly, or something. But the underlying idea is that the heroine is the savior of this society, that she will be the one who fixes all of the problems and makes it better -- and they had to find her through the Olympics. She had to win an athletic contest, after Boosting, to prove herself worthy. They tried to construe it as evidence that she'd never give up, that she was willing to do anything to be the best, but come on. The character from Pursuit of Happyness is a far better example of that than someone who is willing to kill themselves in order to win a goddamn sports event.
Anyway, it was a one-day read, and the Vallejo pictures were actually quite nice; since this was about hyper-athletic people, his usual depiction of perfect human musculature was appropriate here. It was good enough.
Book #33
Resistance
by Owen Sheers
Another recommendation from school, this one, once again, from my friendly neighborhood librarian. Third time's the charm.
Resistance by Owen Sheers
From the blurb aback the cover:
The subsequent statement is true. The preceding statement is false. The novel is beautifully written, with some of the finest descriptions of a particularly lovely place I can recall reading; it has, as well, some rather horrid elements, both naturally occurring and imagined by the author -- thus making the work both realistic and creative, and an excellent piece of writing. Grace and power, as the blurb states; the grace is in the paeans to the land, and to the people who farm it, and to the buried treasure revealed near the end, while the power is in the savage way the war destroys all of those things, spiritually, physically, or both. However: to call this a debut novel is deceptive, though accurate; Owen Sheers has published award-winning poetry and popular non-fiction in the past, and so this poetic, realistic novel is not too much of a stretch for him. To say that it unfolds with the pace and intensity of a thriller is simply not true: this book is not a thriller. It is a poem about the beauty of a place, about the wonder of calling that place "home" and the honor of working hard to make it so, and it is an indictment of those who would destroy our homes in war.
This book would now become one of my chief recommendations, were it not for the time and place that I live. Oh, it is appropriate in many ways: I live in a small and rural community that borders a large and thriving metropolis which feels like a separate world because the members of this community create a mental difference disproportionate to the physical one; yet there is great and sometimes terrible beauty here. This country is, at least ostensibly, at war (Our president recently made reference to the novel's war, in fact, albeit in his own inimitably moronic and offensive fashion), and I am sure there are plans set and waiting for the formation of a militia in defense of this country should it be invaded; the war has gone on too long and the soldiers surely feel as do the German soldiers in this book. But my fellow Americans would not accept, I think, the harsh and unbending criticism of war that is Resistance, particularly its hard-to-swallow, but no less true, indictment of those who leave their homes and abandon their families in a futile attempt to protect them from invaders. The hardest part of this novel is the end (To which, I admit, I am not yet fully reconciled), when the reader realizes that the true villains of the piece are not the Nazis, despite their remarkable ability to serve as the most heinous villains of all history and all popular culture for the last seventy years; the villains of this novel are the men who join the Resistance.
An excellent and challenging work. A
by Owen Sheers
Another recommendation from school, this one, once again, from my friendly neighborhood librarian. Third time's the charm.
Resistance by Owen Sheers
From the blurb aback the cover:
Imbued with immense imaginative breadth and confidence, Owen Sheers's debut novel unfolds with the pace and intensity of a thriller. A hymn to the glorious landscape of the Welsh border territories and a portrait of a community under siege, Resistance is a first novel of considerable grace and power.
The subsequent statement is true. The preceding statement is false. The novel is beautifully written, with some of the finest descriptions of a particularly lovely place I can recall reading; it has, as well, some rather horrid elements, both naturally occurring and imagined by the author -- thus making the work both realistic and creative, and an excellent piece of writing. Grace and power, as the blurb states; the grace is in the paeans to the land, and to the people who farm it, and to the buried treasure revealed near the end, while the power is in the savage way the war destroys all of those things, spiritually, physically, or both. However: to call this a debut novel is deceptive, though accurate; Owen Sheers has published award-winning poetry and popular non-fiction in the past, and so this poetic, realistic novel is not too much of a stretch for him. To say that it unfolds with the pace and intensity of a thriller is simply not true: this book is not a thriller. It is a poem about the beauty of a place, about the wonder of calling that place "home" and the honor of working hard to make it so, and it is an indictment of those who would destroy our homes in war.
This book would now become one of my chief recommendations, were it not for the time and place that I live. Oh, it is appropriate in many ways: I live in a small and rural community that borders a large and thriving metropolis which feels like a separate world because the members of this community create a mental difference disproportionate to the physical one; yet there is great and sometimes terrible beauty here. This country is, at least ostensibly, at war (Our president recently made reference to the novel's war, in fact, albeit in his own inimitably moronic and offensive fashion), and I am sure there are plans set and waiting for the formation of a militia in defense of this country should it be invaded; the war has gone on too long and the soldiers surely feel as do the German soldiers in this book. But my fellow Americans would not accept, I think, the harsh and unbending criticism of war that is Resistance, particularly its hard-to-swallow, but no less true, indictment of those who leave their homes and abandon their families in a futile attempt to protect them from invaders. The hardest part of this novel is the end (To which, I admit, I am not yet fully reconciled), when the reader realizes that the true villains of the piece are not the Nazis, despite their remarkable ability to serve as the most heinous villains of all history and all popular culture for the last seventy years; the villains of this novel are the men who join the Resistance.
An excellent and challenging work. A
Book #32
The House of the Scorpion
by Nancy Farmer
This was a nice one, a fast, easy, interesting read after all of these slow books I've been through. When it's taken me a week to read each of the last two books, I really need a one-day read as a pick-me-up, and that's what this was. The House of the Scorpion is a very interesting little dystopia: the drug lords of Mexico, led by one Matteo Alacran, managed to swing a deal with the US and Mexico whereby they were given the area around the border between the two countries as their own sovereign territory; in exchange, they agreed to stop completely the flow of illegal immigrants, and also promised not to sell their drugs in either nation, but go to Europe, Asia, and Africa with their product. So now, 100 years later, Matteo Alacran is still alive, owing to the fact that he keeps growing new clones of himself in order to harvest their organs. He's not unique in this, the other drug lords do the same, but what is unique is that Alacran allows his clones to retain their minds, to learn and experience life until he needs to cut them open and take their still-beating heart, so to speak. The novel is the story of the last of these clones, who goes by Matt.
The author does a nice job of portraying life as the complete outsider. She also created excellent characters for El Patron, who is the original Alacran, and Tam Lin, the IRA terrorist-cum-bodyguard who befriends little Matt. It's a nice little idea that Alacran gets his security personnel from other countries, since, as he tells Matt, that means it's harder for them to plot against him; his most recent hiring was a group of English soccer hooligans. There's also a nice idea of how the country turns the captured illegal immigrants into mindless slaves to work the fields, and I love the depiction of the Alacran family and its infighting and scandal and hatred of themselves and pretty much everyone else.
The problem, if there was any, was in Matt's escape into Mexico, now called Aztlan. Once there he gets picked up by a Communist orphanage, where the boys are taught to revere the welfare of the state at the cost of their individuality; it's a nice little story, actually, as the Keepers (the commies) are amusingly over the top with their propaganda, just as actual Communists are, and it has a good resolution when the Keepers are busted for their part in distributing illegal drugs as well as abusing the orphans in their care. The only problem with it is that there's no point to it: the book is not about Communist oppression, nor even about government corruption, other than the central idea that El Patron rules his country absolutely, likened to an Egyptian Pharaoh. I also found the ending a bit improbable, as El Patron finally dies and his empire goes into lockdown soon afterwards -- and stays there for three months. And nobody takes over. Since this is supposed to be the richest man in the world, being the number one drug lord, I refuse to accept the idea that his wealth could sit around that long, that his customers would wait that long for his product without going in, whatever security system was in place, and taking it over. It's just too long.
But these are minor complaints. It was a good book, and I'm going to thank the student who recommended it to me.
by Nancy Farmer
This was a nice one, a fast, easy, interesting read after all of these slow books I've been through. When it's taken me a week to read each of the last two books, I really need a one-day read as a pick-me-up, and that's what this was. The House of the Scorpion is a very interesting little dystopia: the drug lords of Mexico, led by one Matteo Alacran, managed to swing a deal with the US and Mexico whereby they were given the area around the border between the two countries as their own sovereign territory; in exchange, they agreed to stop completely the flow of illegal immigrants, and also promised not to sell their drugs in either nation, but go to Europe, Asia, and Africa with their product. So now, 100 years later, Matteo Alacran is still alive, owing to the fact that he keeps growing new clones of himself in order to harvest their organs. He's not unique in this, the other drug lords do the same, but what is unique is that Alacran allows his clones to retain their minds, to learn and experience life until he needs to cut them open and take their still-beating heart, so to speak. The novel is the story of the last of these clones, who goes by Matt.
The author does a nice job of portraying life as the complete outsider. She also created excellent characters for El Patron, who is the original Alacran, and Tam Lin, the IRA terrorist-cum-bodyguard who befriends little Matt. It's a nice little idea that Alacran gets his security personnel from other countries, since, as he tells Matt, that means it's harder for them to plot against him; his most recent hiring was a group of English soccer hooligans. There's also a nice idea of how the country turns the captured illegal immigrants into mindless slaves to work the fields, and I love the depiction of the Alacran family and its infighting and scandal and hatred of themselves and pretty much everyone else.
The problem, if there was any, was in Matt's escape into Mexico, now called Aztlan. Once there he gets picked up by a Communist orphanage, where the boys are taught to revere the welfare of the state at the cost of their individuality; it's a nice little story, actually, as the Keepers (the commies) are amusingly over the top with their propaganda, just as actual Communists are, and it has a good resolution when the Keepers are busted for their part in distributing illegal drugs as well as abusing the orphans in their care. The only problem with it is that there's no point to it: the book is not about Communist oppression, nor even about government corruption, other than the central idea that El Patron rules his country absolutely, likened to an Egyptian Pharaoh. I also found the ending a bit improbable, as El Patron finally dies and his empire goes into lockdown soon afterwards -- and stays there for three months. And nobody takes over. Since this is supposed to be the richest man in the world, being the number one drug lord, I refuse to accept the idea that his wealth could sit around that long, that his customers would wait that long for his product without going in, whatever security system was in place, and taking it over. It's just too long.
But these are minor complaints. It was a good book, and I'm going to thank the student who recommended it to me.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Book #31
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
by Ken Kesey
"One flew east, one flew west, one flew over the cuckoo's nest."
I had to read this one for school, since I'm teaching it to my juniors, and it has been a tough read -- not only have I been tired and overworked, between school and my PSU class, but this book is incredibly moving to me, and incredibly sad. Especially now that I am mature enough and aware enough as a reader to really understand it and get the characters, and can really connect to McMurphy. Because, on some very small scale (it's only a school, after all, not a mental institution) I have to be McMurphy -- or I have to be Nurse Ratched. Some students want one thing, some want another, and the end of the book, when Bromden recognizes McMurphy's real feelings and how he is being used by the other patients on the ward, really hit home with me. It's a terrible thing, what people do to each other in order to save themselves. It's an even more terrible thing that we have built a society that puts people in so much danger of losing themselves that they need saving. I am lucky in that I have a way out, that I am not locked in a ward with these people and they are not locked in a ward with me; I can let them go their own way and find their own savior; I don't have to be their strength all by me one-sy, savvy? But reading this, after watching the movie, I have to say: the ending is SO much better in the book than in the movie. In the movie it's this one little moment, nice after this whole ordeal, but it means so much less. But in the book Bromden has struggled so much, and lost so much -- as much as any other guy on the ward, if not more -- that it brought me one of those incredible moments of peace, a feeling that as fucked up as the world is, somehow all is still right with it, when people like him can be free.
I have to be careful of my Ratched tendencies -- namely my sharp tongue. I don't think I use it to harm my students, but I can, and I often feel like I should, or at least that I can let myself. I can't let myself. And I also need to get out of the Combine one of these days. Though I don't feel too much like a finished Product, and I especially don't feel that I install components like a good little technician; the Combine owns me, but they don't control me. I don't feel that they manage to put much pressure on me, honestly; I feel like I have put quite a lot on myself in the past. But I am not a rabbit, no matter how much I try to be. I need to remember that, too. I am not a rabbit.
No offense, Lola. You're not really a rabbit, either, at least not how Harding meant it.
by Ken Kesey
"One flew east, one flew west, one flew over the cuckoo's nest."
I had to read this one for school, since I'm teaching it to my juniors, and it has been a tough read -- not only have I been tired and overworked, between school and my PSU class, but this book is incredibly moving to me, and incredibly sad. Especially now that I am mature enough and aware enough as a reader to really understand it and get the characters, and can really connect to McMurphy. Because, on some very small scale (it's only a school, after all, not a mental institution) I have to be McMurphy -- or I have to be Nurse Ratched. Some students want one thing, some want another, and the end of the book, when Bromden recognizes McMurphy's real feelings and how he is being used by the other patients on the ward, really hit home with me. It's a terrible thing, what people do to each other in order to save themselves. It's an even more terrible thing that we have built a society that puts people in so much danger of losing themselves that they need saving. I am lucky in that I have a way out, that I am not locked in a ward with these people and they are not locked in a ward with me; I can let them go their own way and find their own savior; I don't have to be their strength all by me one-sy, savvy? But reading this, after watching the movie, I have to say: the ending is SO much better in the book than in the movie. In the movie it's this one little moment, nice after this whole ordeal, but it means so much less. But in the book Bromden has struggled so much, and lost so much -- as much as any other guy on the ward, if not more -- that it brought me one of those incredible moments of peace, a feeling that as fucked up as the world is, somehow all is still right with it, when people like him can be free.
I have to be careful of my Ratched tendencies -- namely my sharp tongue. I don't think I use it to harm my students, but I can, and I often feel like I should, or at least that I can let myself. I can't let myself. And I also need to get out of the Combine one of these days. Though I don't feel too much like a finished Product, and I especially don't feel that I install components like a good little technician; the Combine owns me, but they don't control me. I don't feel that they manage to put much pressure on me, honestly; I feel like I have put quite a lot on myself in the past. But I am not a rabbit, no matter how much I try to be. I need to remember that, too. I am not a rabbit.
No offense, Lola. You're not really a rabbit, either, at least not how Harding meant it.
Book #30
The Outlaw Demon Wails
by Kim Harrison
So after that horrid piece of crud, I went with one I knew I was going to like: The Outlaw Demon Wails, the sixth book in the Rachel Morgan series. I like this series enormously, because I love the main character and I especially love the demons: no little foot-stamping fire-breathing horned homunculi, these; no, these are immortal, intelligent, horridly efficient beings that have very specific goals and go about trying to accomplish them -- and god help you if you get in their way. The nice thing about this series is that's exactly how Rachel is, and it makes for great conflict whenever she gets into it with the demons -- which is pretty much every book, except the first one and the one with the werewolves.
In this one, Rachel just goes right ahead and becomes a demon. Well, not really, but she realizes that she has more in common with demons, in some ways, than with witches, and the full secret of her parentage and the magical inheritance, and the future consequences of her inheritance and what Trent's father did to her, finally come out. It's a great reveal, made even better by how badly Trent deals with it and with Rachel. I've had trouble with Trent in the past, because I've always felt that Rachel's hatred of him was unreasoning in some way; sure, he is a murderer and a drug dealer -- but come on. She lives with, and is in love with, a living vampire who was scion to the most evil being in these books -- and I include the demons in that statement. Nobody compares to Piscary, and Ivy did horrible things when she was in his thrall; certainly worse than what Trent has done building his criminal empire. And Trent's crimes are offset by the amount of good he does -- Ivy's crimes are only offset by her protection of Rachel. So I can see the personal attachment to the murderer who keeps you alive and loves you, no problem there -- but why so much bile for the murderer who kept you alive in the past? Anyway, in this book, Trent not only acts like a complete doofus, but he pulls an incredibly shitty move, selling Rachel out to the demons for a minor consideration, only because he's too stupid to recognize the consequences of what he says. And this guy has the gall to shy away from both Rachel and Ceri because of the demon smut on their souls. Bah.
Jenks is still the best character, and I love Bis, the new gargoyle, who I hope will play a much bigger role in the next one. This one was great as always -- and a really nice resolution to the demon issue, though there is still more to tell, of course. And please, please, let the whole Ivy-bloodsucking-sex thing be done with. Pretty please.
by Kim Harrison
So after that horrid piece of crud, I went with one I knew I was going to like: The Outlaw Demon Wails, the sixth book in the Rachel Morgan series. I like this series enormously, because I love the main character and I especially love the demons: no little foot-stamping fire-breathing horned homunculi, these; no, these are immortal, intelligent, horridly efficient beings that have very specific goals and go about trying to accomplish them -- and god help you if you get in their way. The nice thing about this series is that's exactly how Rachel is, and it makes for great conflict whenever she gets into it with the demons -- which is pretty much every book, except the first one and the one with the werewolves.
In this one, Rachel just goes right ahead and becomes a demon. Well, not really, but she realizes that she has more in common with demons, in some ways, than with witches, and the full secret of her parentage and the magical inheritance, and the future consequences of her inheritance and what Trent's father did to her, finally come out. It's a great reveal, made even better by how badly Trent deals with it and with Rachel. I've had trouble with Trent in the past, because I've always felt that Rachel's hatred of him was unreasoning in some way; sure, he is a murderer and a drug dealer -- but come on. She lives with, and is in love with, a living vampire who was scion to the most evil being in these books -- and I include the demons in that statement. Nobody compares to Piscary, and Ivy did horrible things when she was in his thrall; certainly worse than what Trent has done building his criminal empire. And Trent's crimes are offset by the amount of good he does -- Ivy's crimes are only offset by her protection of Rachel. So I can see the personal attachment to the murderer who keeps you alive and loves you, no problem there -- but why so much bile for the murderer who kept you alive in the past? Anyway, in this book, Trent not only acts like a complete doofus, but he pulls an incredibly shitty move, selling Rachel out to the demons for a minor consideration, only because he's too stupid to recognize the consequences of what he says. And this guy has the gall to shy away from both Rachel and Ceri because of the demon smut on their souls. Bah.
Jenks is still the best character, and I love Bis, the new gargoyle, who I hope will play a much bigger role in the next one. This one was great as always -- and a really nice resolution to the demon issue, though there is still more to tell, of course. And please, please, let the whole Ivy-bloodsucking-sex thing be done with. Pretty please.
Book #29
Gargoyle
by Andrew Davidson
Another one for the librarian; this is starting to get ugly.
The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson
After reading Andrew Davidson's debut novel, I am reminded of the famous quote, "Seldom have so few given so much to so many." Except in this case, it should be: never has any one been given so much, and made of it so little. This should be a good book; it is a brilliant idea, it has powerful themes and fascinating characters who are tangible and genuine despite their particular glitter, and Mr. Davidson is a good writer. But it is not a good book.
The concept is a story of redemption through love, and of the glorification of the spirit through the mortification of the flesh. The narrator begins the story as a magnificent physical specimen who is spiritually dead; within the first five pages, he has put himself through a horrific car crash and subsequently been burned over most of his body. Davidson's descriptive powers are, somewhat sadly, never more evident than in his explication of life in a burn ward. I have been a Stephen King fan for decades, and I cannot recall the last time I cringed away from a page -- until now. The narrator, having lost all his ersatz self-worth along with his skin, is surviving his treatment with the sole purpose of being released from the hospital so he can commit suicide -- another description, by the way, which is almost poetic in its grotesque verisimilitude -- until a mysterious and mystical woman walks into his life. She is Marianne Engel, a mentally unbalanced sculptor who carves gargoyles, and she tells the narrator that they were in love in a previous life, in Medieval Germany, when he was a wounded mercenary and she was a former nun.
There is a wonderful love story here, but it is ruined by Davidson's abuse of cliches: the climactic confession of love read something like a junior high school girl's diary ("I love you, I really really love you, and I know that you love me and our love is pure, the kind of love that will go on forever loving and being loved in pure love forever and ever." Et cetera.). There is a story of art transcending the artist, but it is ruined by the depictions of the artist's distasteful personality unleavened by descriptions of the wonderful art she is creating, for descriptions of her art there are none. There is a fascinating parallel between two worlds, both of which hold the same eternal romance -- ruined by the author's penchant for bad cliffhangers at chapter breaks (I.e., "I recognized the man. I gasped his name in a whisper as the bag fell from my hand." And on to the next chapter.) There is a heartbreaking descent into loss and loneliness, ruined by the simple fact that it takes too long: Marianne determines that she has a limited number of statues left to carve, and we know she will die with the last one -- but for some reason, Davidson chose 27 as her countdown's starting point. Begging the question, "What's wrong with 10?"
The book made me wish that these two lovers had simply died in the 1300's and left the rest of us in peace. I give it a D.
by Andrew Davidson
Another one for the librarian; this is starting to get ugly.
The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson
After reading Andrew Davidson's debut novel, I am reminded of the famous quote, "Seldom have so few given so much to so many." Except in this case, it should be: never has any one been given so much, and made of it so little. This should be a good book; it is a brilliant idea, it has powerful themes and fascinating characters who are tangible and genuine despite their particular glitter, and Mr. Davidson is a good writer. But it is not a good book.
The concept is a story of redemption through love, and of the glorification of the spirit through the mortification of the flesh. The narrator begins the story as a magnificent physical specimen who is spiritually dead; within the first five pages, he has put himself through a horrific car crash and subsequently been burned over most of his body. Davidson's descriptive powers are, somewhat sadly, never more evident than in his explication of life in a burn ward. I have been a Stephen King fan for decades, and I cannot recall the last time I cringed away from a page -- until now. The narrator, having lost all his ersatz self-worth along with his skin, is surviving his treatment with the sole purpose of being released from the hospital so he can commit suicide -- another description, by the way, which is almost poetic in its grotesque verisimilitude -- until a mysterious and mystical woman walks into his life. She is Marianne Engel, a mentally unbalanced sculptor who carves gargoyles, and she tells the narrator that they were in love in a previous life, in Medieval Germany, when he was a wounded mercenary and she was a former nun.
There is a wonderful love story here, but it is ruined by Davidson's abuse of cliches: the climactic confession of love read something like a junior high school girl's diary ("I love you, I really really love you, and I know that you love me and our love is pure, the kind of love that will go on forever loving and being loved in pure love forever and ever." Et cetera.). There is a story of art transcending the artist, but it is ruined by the depictions of the artist's distasteful personality unleavened by descriptions of the wonderful art she is creating, for descriptions of her art there are none. There is a fascinating parallel between two worlds, both of which hold the same eternal romance -- ruined by the author's penchant for bad cliffhangers at chapter breaks (I.e., "I recognized the man. I gasped his name in a whisper as the bag fell from my hand." And on to the next chapter.) There is a heartbreaking descent into loss and loneliness, ruined by the simple fact that it takes too long: Marianne determines that she has a limited number of statues left to carve, and we know she will die with the last one -- but for some reason, Davidson chose 27 as her countdown's starting point. Begging the question, "What's wrong with 10?"
The book made me wish that these two lovers had simply died in the 1300's and left the rest of us in peace. I give it a D.
Book #28
White Knight
by Jim Butcher
Looking for something I knew I would enjoy more than the last one, I went for White Knight, the -- ninth? tenth? -- book in the Harry Dresden series. This one was not the best in the series, though it was worlds better than Ink Exchange, as one would expect. I liked seeing the different strains of White Court vamps, especially when we got to see all of their powers in full bloom, so to speak, when Harry and Ramirez had to confront them all at the gathering. I liked how capable Lara Raith is at manipulation, though of course I appreciate that Harry is always able to find a way through her tangled web. I thought their final escape from the cave was great -- though I didn't think a whole lot of the super-ghouls that were the ultimate bad guy; smacked of Buffy and the Neander-Vamps. Especially the whole big-showdown-in-a-cave, with a gate to the underworld that they all come through -- you get the picture. And this book didn't have nearly enough Bob in it.
I did, however, love the resolution of the Lasciel/Denarian subplot that's been running through the last five books. I liked the way it worked, and I loved the message it gave: that everyone has a choice, and the simple fact of that choice makes us better people -- when we recognize and acknowledge the choice, that is. I feel like it makes me a better teacher when I realize that I'm not actually trapped into teaching, nor am I trapped into specific lesson plans or class structures or anything like that. Hey, maybe I should keep that in mind with my online class, the giant crock o' crap; maybe I should be willing to experiment and put my own spin on my assignments, rather than looking for exactly what the professor wants to see. I'd like to know my grade first, though.
Anyway (Sorry about the rant -- I was just working on my project for this week, so I'm a little preoccupied) I liked Thomas's part in this, and I loved Mouse, of course -- I dig his super-bark -- and Elaine was fine, though not a terribly interesting character. I liked her resolution, too, how she's going to become a champion of all the lesser magic-users who aren't good enough for the White Council; you just know that's going to come back and slap them right in their elitist faces. Workers unite! I also liked the insight into Gentleman Johnny Marcone and his relationship with Dresden -- though I'm not really sure I buy the gangster-with-a-heart; can you really be ruthless and run all of Chicago's rackets without hurting innocents? Well, maybe; we are talking about a book about wizards here, so maybe I shouldn't complain about suspending my disbelief.
by Jim Butcher
Looking for something I knew I would enjoy more than the last one, I went for White Knight, the -- ninth? tenth? -- book in the Harry Dresden series. This one was not the best in the series, though it was worlds better than Ink Exchange, as one would expect. I liked seeing the different strains of White Court vamps, especially when we got to see all of their powers in full bloom, so to speak, when Harry and Ramirez had to confront them all at the gathering. I liked how capable Lara Raith is at manipulation, though of course I appreciate that Harry is always able to find a way through her tangled web. I thought their final escape from the cave was great -- though I didn't think a whole lot of the super-ghouls that were the ultimate bad guy; smacked of Buffy and the Neander-Vamps. Especially the whole big-showdown-in-a-cave, with a gate to the underworld that they all come through -- you get the picture. And this book didn't have nearly enough Bob in it.
I did, however, love the resolution of the Lasciel/Denarian subplot that's been running through the last five books. I liked the way it worked, and I loved the message it gave: that everyone has a choice, and the simple fact of that choice makes us better people -- when we recognize and acknowledge the choice, that is. I feel like it makes me a better teacher when I realize that I'm not actually trapped into teaching, nor am I trapped into specific lesson plans or class structures or anything like that. Hey, maybe I should keep that in mind with my online class, the giant crock o' crap; maybe I should be willing to experiment and put my own spin on my assignments, rather than looking for exactly what the professor wants to see. I'd like to know my grade first, though.
Anyway (Sorry about the rant -- I was just working on my project for this week, so I'm a little preoccupied) I liked Thomas's part in this, and I loved Mouse, of course -- I dig his super-bark -- and Elaine was fine, though not a terribly interesting character. I liked her resolution, too, how she's going to become a champion of all the lesser magic-users who aren't good enough for the White Council; you just know that's going to come back and slap them right in their elitist faces. Workers unite! I also liked the insight into Gentleman Johnny Marcone and his relationship with Dresden -- though I'm not really sure I buy the gangster-with-a-heart; can you really be ruthless and run all of Chicago's rackets without hurting innocents? Well, maybe; we are talking about a book about wizards here, so maybe I shouldn't complain about suspending my disbelief.
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